A Mother Would Know (30)

“...rocked this quiet community with the news that police now believe Ms. Foster’s death to be a homicide.” I nearly stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, jerking Bowie’s leash by accident. “This morning, the Sacramento Police Department released a statement asking the public for help in learning more about the circumstances of her death. We will be sure to share more information with you on this developing story as we have it. This is Bethany Smith, reporting live...”

Her words become white noise as I hurry forward, head ducked, trailing after Bowie.

Homicide.

The word plays in my head like a refrain, punctuating each step I take.

Homicide.

Homicide.

Homicide.

It wasn’t an accident. Not suicide or a health crisis. Molly was murdered. My fingertips run along Bowie’s fur. His tail wags, and he scoots a little closer. The warmth of his body seeps into my thigh.

When Darren passed away, I was often afraid to be alone in my big house, especially at night. Then I’d remind myself that this neighborhood has always been relatively safe. We had the random robbery, car breakins, bikes taken from a driveway.

But murder?

This is the first one I’ve known of.

I’d only met Molly the one time. We weren’t friends or even acquaintances. And yet, it’s hard to believe that she’s gone. Unfathomable that a week ago I saw her alive and breathing, and now she isn’t. Death has always been hard for me to process. Most things in life aren’t so final.

There are always second chances.

Forgiveness.

The rising of the sun bringing a new day.

Most things can be righted.

Except for death.

Once someone is gone, that’s it. There are no more opportunities.

At this point in my life, I’m well-acquainted with death: my mother, Heather, Mac, Darren. Death and I are old friends. And yet, I never find it any less shocking when he shows up.

I hurry home with Bowie, where I pour myself some coffee and set an English muffin to toast.

I wonder how Molly was murdered. The reporter hadn’t said.

Gunshot?

Stabbing?

Strangulation?

The pads of my fingers run along the skin on my neck, tracing my trachea. Not being able to breathe has always been my biggest fear. Gasping for air to no avail. The helplessness, and terror. But worse, the knowing.

Panic sweeps over me at the thought. I shake my head. Clear my throat. Jump out of my skin when the toaster pops and, finding that I’m not so hungry after all, I feed the muffin to Bowie instead.

I hope it was more humane than that for her. Gunshot. Quick and painless. Would I have heard it? Would I have recognized the sound if I had? I wonder why the police are keeping it from us. Why tell us it was a homicide and then nothing more? A woman was killed so close to my home. A single woman like me. We have the right to know what happened.

My laptop is open on the kitchen table from when I’d been paying bills yesterday. A few folded papers and torn envelopes sit cluttered around it. Shoving them to the side, I plunk down into the kitchen chair. The screen before me is black, my own reflection appearing in it. I place my hands over the keys, but they don’t move. Oh, god. I can’t remember how to log on.

Mom sat on the couch, staring at the blank television.

“Mom?” I touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I wanna watch something,” she said.

“Okay.” I glanced down at the remote in her trembling hand. “Well, put something on.”

“I don’t remember how to.”

My chest tightens. No, this can’t be happening.

I just used the computer yesterday. I know what to do.

But still, my hands don’t move.

My mind is completely blank.

I’m about to call Hudson when my fingers finally start to work, touching the mouse pad and bringing me to the lock screen. It only takes me a few seconds to remember the password. But the panic lingers in my uneven heartbeat, the trembling in my bones.

Ignoring it, I type “Molly Foster” into my browser’s search bar. A dozen articles immediately populate. I click on the first one. Written by a local news station, it’s filled with everything I already know.

Her name.

Where she lives.

The friend finding her body.

The police suspecting foul play.

A number to call with any information.

I scroll down, clicking on the next few articles, but they’re identical. Biting my lip, I stare out the window, my hands lying idly on the keyboard. It’s Monday, already gorgeous out, and as usual, Leslie sits on her front porch, mug in hand. I have no doubt Beth or Shelly will mosey on over for a dose of morning gossip any minute. I’ve wanted nothing to do with the silly neighborhood gab sessions for the past ten years. But this morning, I feel a stab of envy. Does Leslie know something I don’t? Something I can’t find online?

No. How could she?

I know how she used to get her information. Back when we were friends. From James. He’d been a detective for Sacramento County. But after they split up, he transferred to a department in the Bay Area. And I doubt they talk anymore. Their divorce was anything but amicable.

I turn my attention back to the computer.

I must’ve inadvertently tapped something, because I’m not looking at the article. I’ve moved below it into the comment section. I scroll through some of them, and they’re pretty much what I expect.