A Mother Would Know (48)

“Are you not sleeping well?” I say to Mason now. He giggles in response.

Giggling back, I hurry into the kitchen to make him a bottle. After scooping in the formula, I turn on the faucet and wait for the water to warm. Glancing out the window, my mouth dries out.

Leslie is on her front porch, holding a coffee mug, just like every morning. Only this time, she’s not talking with a gaggle of gossipy neighbor women. She’s talking with a cop.

Mason begins to whimper.

The water pours out of the faucet, turning so hot it steams up toward my face.

But I can’t move. I’m frozen, transfixed, as Leslie points toward my house, the policeman’s gaze following her hand. It’s like déjà vu. Like we’ve traveled back in time ten years.

Mason’s crying intensifies, snapping me out of it.

“Grandma’s so sorry, honey,” I holler from the kitchen, turning the heat down on the faucet. “Just a minute. I’m almost done.” Once it’s mixed and shaken up, I hurry to him. After scooping him up, I carry him to the couch, then nestle him in my lap and pop the bottle’s nipple into his mouth.

He drinks greedily, his hand playing with the bottom edge of my sleeve.

My back is to the window, so I can’t see Leslie any longer. But it’s probably for the better. I try to focus on my sweet grandson. Up until a month ago, I used to watch him a lot. A few times a week, at least. Kendra swears she doesn’t need as much help now. But I know better. She’s worried about my memory lapses. I only have a few hours with Mason as it is, so I plan to savor it. Not let Leslie get in my head.

Breathing deeply, I settle into the couch cushions, readjusting my arm a tad. Mason has gotten a lot heavier lately.

It doesn’t take long for Mason to fall asleep, nipple falling out of his pursed mouth. A dribble of milk travels down his chin. I wipe it with my fingertip, having forgotten to grab one of his washcloths before sitting down. I don’t have the heart to move him. Plus, it’s not like I have anywhere to be. So I secure my hold on him, staring down at his sweet, sleeping face. His eyelids flutter as if his dreams course below them.

I gently touch his chubby cheeks with my knuckles, and he puckers his little lips, making me smile.

An authoritative knock at the door breaks the spell. I flinch. Mason stirs.

Twisting around, I look out the front window. Leslie is on her porch alone. And the cop car is still parked at the curb.

My stomach knots.

Pressing Mason close to my chest, I stand, watching his face. He continues to sleep in my arms as I walk steadily to the front door. Through the peephole, I see a man wearing a collared shirt.

Swallowing hard, I swing the door open with my free hand, clutching tightly to Mason with the other.

“Can I help you?” I speak quietly so as not to wake Mason.

“Yes, hi. Mrs. Jacobs, right?”

“Yes, but you can call me Valerie.” Mrs. Jacobs will forever be associated with Darren’s mom in my mind. When the kids were little, I always insisted their friends call me Valerie. The other moms preferred their children call me Mrs. Jacobs, thought calling me by my first name was disrespectful. I never understood that. My name was Valerie. Why couldn’t they call me that?

“Valerie, I’m Detective Daniels. I’ve been talking to some of your neighbors about Molly Foster’s case.” He flashes a badge.

I nod, relief flowing through me. He’s probably just talking to all the neighbors, same as the police did with her coworkers. I’d talked to both Kendra and Theo about his interview with the police, and the questions were all benign.

How well did he know her?

Did he know of anyone who’d want to hurt her?

Had she been acting strangely in the days before her death?

That kind of thing.

“Sure... I doubt I’ll be of much help, but I’m happy to answer any questions you might have,” I say.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m actually looking for your son, Hudson.”

All the relief I’d felt is sucked out of me. “Hudson? Why?”

“Just have some questions I need to ask him.”

“Well, he’s at work right now, but he wouldn’t be able to help you, anyway. He didn’t know Molly.”

“Really?” Detective Daniels’s eyebrows jump up. “A couple of your neighbors said they saw him talking to her in your front lawn, actually.”

I shift Mason’s position. “Oh.” Damn Leslie. She must’ve been spying on us again. “Um, yeah, the other night my daughter and her husband were over for dinner with me and Hudson. We were sitting on the porch having dessert when Molly jogged past. Apparently, she works with my son-in-law and he introduced her. To all of us.”

“Who is your son-in-law?”

“Theo Pritchett.”

He jots something down—Theo’s name, I assume—then looks back up at me. “Then why did you say Hudson didn’t know her?”

My skin flushes. God, now I sound like a liar. “’Cause he didn’t. I mean, we all met her that one time, but that’s it.”

Mason blinks his eyes, stirs, then nestles back in. I wish he’d wake up and wail so loud it’d force the detective to leave.

“And he never saw her after that?”

I open my mouth fully intending to say no, but then clamp it back shut, thinking better of it. If he’s asking the question, he may already know the answer. Lying will only make Hudson look guilty, and maybe even me by association. Besides, I know Hudson is innocent, right? I found no evidence of him at Molly’s. Maybe the truth will set us all free.