A Mother Would Know (22)
“The woman who lived there,” the man says impatiently, like the answer should be obvious.
I search my brain for her name. “Molly?” I croak.
The woman beside him nods, confirming my suspicion. “Apparently, her friend came to pick her up for some fitness class and found her.”
“Oh, my god.” My hand flies to my mouth, acid rising up in my throat. “How did she die?”
“No idea.” The man shakes his head.
“I saw her with some guy yesterday, though,” the woman says. “Some young guy with a big beard.”
My stomach knots. Hudson.
“I’m sure she talks to lots of people. Best to leave the investigation up to the police,” I say quickly. It might not have even been foul play, I think, and then shudder that my mind went there so fast. It could’ve been an accident. An undiagnosed heart condition. An illness. Suicide. These things happen.
No one knows that better than me.
“It’s true,” the man interjects, his frown changing ever so slightly, transforming his look of concern into one of judgment. “Lots of guys in and out of there.” His tone, a mixture of jealousy and disgust, is one I’m familiar with.
It’s the same one people used to use when talking about me.
“She’s gone a lot. Playing at clubs at all hours.”
“Must be interesting being in a band with all guys. I’m not sure my husband could deal with that.”
It makes me feel bad for my earlier statement. Who cares if she talked to a lot of guys? I never should’ve added to the gossip. Years ago, after my friendship with Leslie ended, I swore to myself I’d never again get sucked into unhealthy conversations behind people’s backs. It wasn’t fair, and it never ended well.
Without another word, I tug on Bowie’s leash, guiding him back the way we came.
When I reach my house, I notice Leslie sitting on her front porch, cup of tea in hand.
I slow down but my heart is racing, my breath shallow. She’s the last person I want to see right now. Her intense stare burns a hole in my head.
Swallowing, I turn away from her and make my way up to the front door.
Hudson is still asleep, his door closed the way I left it. The sound of his deep breathing, along with the occasional snore, follow me into my bedroom. I think about the text, the bruising and the scratch.
He hadn’t gotten in until 3:00 a.m.
“I’m scared, Mom. I think I might be in big trouble.”
What time had Molly died?
Shaking my head, I force the thoughts away. He’d gone out with his friends last night. Not with a girl. He’d met Molly one time, with the rest of us. Unless the young man the woman was referring to really was Hudson. Then again, she was older. Forgetful like me.
Why am I even thinking like this? I blame Leslie. All that stalking and staring is getting to me.
What happened to Molly is a tragedy, yes, but Hudson wasn’t involved. It’s nothing like what happened with Heather.
9
“Wanna go get dinner? I’m starving,” I say Sunday evening when I find Hudson in the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge. He’d slept most of the day. Even after he’d woken up, he mostly stayed in his room. I heard the TV going.
I’d worked on some of my succulent planters outside, played with Bowie and then showered. My hair is damp at the edges.
“Yeah, me, too,” Hudson says, unscrewing the top of the bottle. “Let me just go change real quick.”
He’s still wearing his flannel pajama bottoms under his T-shirt, and as he lifts the bottle to his lips, the bruise on his arm is fully visible. Under the harsh kitchen light, the scratch on his face looks even worse than before.
“What happened?” I ask, blocking his path and pointing to his arm.
“Oh.” He rolls his eyes. “Just got into it with some guy at the bar last night.”
“You got into a fight?” I’m taken aback by how nonchalant he’s being about this.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It happens.” Then he moves around me to get past.
While he makes his way back to his room, Bowie’s ears perk from where he was lying on the ground. Barking, he shoots up, suddenly wide-awake, and races to the front window.
“What is it, bud?” I follow him.
Outside, Leslie stands on her front lawn, two other people talking with her. Squinting, I get a better look and recognize Beth and Alex, the couple who live to the right of her. They’re newer to the neighborhood. Been here about three years or so. They’ve got small kids, and my guess is that they’re in their early thirties, although I’ve only had a handful of shallow conversations with them. Leslie got her claws into them early on, and then their initial friendliness turned sour.
From this vantage point, I can tell Leslie is doing most of the talking, which isn’t surprising. Her hands fly through the air, punctuating each syllable, as if she’s miming. Her hand suddenly stills, her index finger pointed straight at me. All three heads swing in my direction. I feel like I’m on display, my window a stage, the lamp in the corner a spotlight. Face flushing, I turn away.
“Come on, Bowie,” I say, my tone wavering slightly.
The policeman’s eyes bore into mine, accusation thick in his gaze.