The Last Thing She Ever Did(14)

“We’re not having this conversation, Mom.”

Her mother fussed with the white meringue tulle of Esther’s wedding dress, still on the hanger. “You didn’t ask me. So what? It is my job to tell you what I think.”

Esther didn’t even bother with a response. She hated her mom for ruining her special day, but that was her mother, a negative soul who made a point of slicing the joy from any possible moment with her razor of a tongue.

As she drove past the Thai place on the way to see about a missing child, she was long past denying her mother had been right. When the brewery ultimately failed, Drew’s charm and outgoing nature turned inward and sullen. He lashed out at the world. Drank more. Found a hundred reasons to stay away from home. Glib turned into sarcastic. Caustic mutated into mean. When they separated, she knew it was not going to be temporary but the only—the final—solution for their situation.

“We were wrong for each other,” she told Drew when she’d finally had enough and conceded that her mother had not cursed her marriage but simply predicted its dismal outcome.

“I’m wrong for anyone,” Drew said.

Esther didn’t argue. She didn’t allow herself to fall into a trap. No more traps. No more fighting. No more feeling sorry about what might have been—and never would be.

Esther parked the cruiser in front of the Franklins’ residence. The house was one of those dark fortresses with slits for windows on the street side and splashes of lime-colored evergreens jammed into position to brighten up a space that seldom saw sunlight. A fringe of zebra grass edged the walkway, and a basalt water feature that was all angles and dark spires burbled adjacent to the driveway.

“Some place,” Jake said, looking up at the house.

“Something else,” she said. An amalgamation of taste, style, money, and the good sense to let professionals do the heavy lifting while allowing the homeowners to think they’d done it all on their own. Esther’s mother would love this house, and the people who lived here would be her heroes.

Esther thought that the house, with its perfection, its slavish attention to detail, said new money. People born rich don’t try so hard. They know they don’t need to. They already have everything they want, and they never have to break a sweat to show it off. Showing it off is for those at risk of ending up back where they started.

They got out of the car. With Jake trailing, Esther turned the corner to walk up to the door as Carole Franklin heaved open the front door and lurched toward them. She was tall—five nine or ten. Her hair was a silvery blond that fell in soft curls to her shoulders. She was trim, with the body of a swimmer or yoga enthusiast. Probably both.

In other circumstances, Mrs. Franklin would have made a stunning, if not imposing, figure. But this morning she looked crumpled. She wore the kind of terrified look that Esther had seen in the eyes of other mothers.

“He was out of my sight for a minute,” she said, valiantly fighting to keep any tears from falling from her watery blue eyes.

Esther put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I know you’re scared, Mrs. Franklin. I’m Detective Esther Nguyen, and this is Officer Alioto. I need you to tell me what happened. Take your time.”

“There isn’t any time,” Carole said. “Charlie could be anywhere. Anything could have happened to him.”

“I understand,” Esther said. “I know it might be hard to believe, but I’ve been around long enough to know that kids just wander away.”

Mrs. Franklin’s lips tightened. “Charlie never leaves my sight,” she said, forcing the words from her mouth.

“Right. But this time he did, right? We’re here to help. Let’s go inside. Tell me what happened.”

Mrs. Franklin led them to a living room with floor-to-ceiling views of the river and repeated her story about being on the phone for “only a minute or two” with the adjuster from the insurance company. “We had a leak in the basement. I don’t even care about it. I should never have taken the stupid call.”

“It’s not your fault,” Esther said.

Mrs. Franklin fiddled with a stray thread that had come undone from the gray velvet pillow she clutched as she sat on the sofa. The light from the river, now full of paddlers and inner-tubers, flickered in her eyes. A sound system played an incongruently soothing interlude in the background.

“But it is our fault. Living here at all. We live on a river, for God’s sake,” she went on. “I never should have turned my back for even a second. I know better. I do. This is my fault,” she repeated, still trying to keep her voice from shattering.

“You need to take a breath,” Esther said. Her tone was kind, not condescending. She’d interviewed hundreds of witnesses and knew how rapidly a person could go from being able to help a case to being utterly useless. Sometimes even a distraction. She needed Carole Franklin to be the kind of person who fit her tasteful surroundings. Thoughtful. Organized. Self-aware.

“You didn’t see any sign that he went into the river, did you?” Esther asked.

Mrs. Franklin watched as police officers gathered by the riverbank. “No,” she said. “I called over to a man canoeing with his dog. I saw a tuber on a red Riparian tube go by. My neighbor across the river—he was there. No. No one saw him go in. But, really, where else could he be?”