The Other Mrs.(65)

I step quickly away from the coatrack. I fold the keys into my fist.

“Where were we?” she asks, and I remind her. I leave her a name and a number and ask that the superintendent call me when she has time. Neither the name nor the number belongs to me.

“Thanks for all your help,” I say, turning to leave.

It isn’t with forethought that I let myself into the Jeep. The thought didn’t cross my mind until I was standing beside the car with the keys in my hand. But it would be ludicrous not to act on this. Because what this is is destiny. A series of events outside of my control.

I unlock the driver’s door; I get into the car.

I search quickly, looking for nothing in particular, but rather insight into the woman’s life. She listens to country music, stockpiles McDonald’s napkins, reads Good Housekeeping magazine. The latest copy is there on the passenger’s seat, mixed up in a pile of mail.

To my great disappointment, there’s no evidence of a murderer here.

I put the keys into the ignition. I start the car.

There’s a navigation panel on the dashboard. I press the menu button and, when it prompts me to, I direct the system to Home.

Not my home, but Courtney Baines’s home.

And just like that I have an address on Brackett Street, less than three miles away.

I have no choice but to go.



MOUSE


What Mouse came to learn about Fake Mom was that there were two sides to her, like a coin.

When Mouse’s father was around, Fake Mom took an hour in the morning to get dressed, to curl her hair. She wore a pretty hot-pink lipstick and perfume. She made breakfast for Mouse and her father before he went to work. Fake Mom didn’t make cereal like Mouse was used to eating, but something else like pancakes, crepes, eggs Benedict. Mouse had never had crepes or eggs Benedict before. The only breakfast her father ever made her was cereal.

When Mouse’s father was around, Fake Mom spoke with a voice that was soft, sweet and warm. She called Mouse things like Sweetie and Darling and Doll.

You want powdered sugar on your crepes, Doll? Fake Mom would ask, holding the shaker of it in her hand, ready to douse the crepes with a heap of delicious powdered sugar, the kind that melted in Mouse’s mouth. Mouse would shake her head, though she really did want that powdered sugar. But even at six years old, Mouse knew that nice things came with a price sometimes, one she didn’t want to pay. She started missing her father’s cold cereal, because that never came with a price, only milk and a spoon.

When Mouse’s father was around, Fake Mom was kind. But Mouse’s father wasn’t always around. He had the kind of job where he traveled a lot. When he left on one of his business trips, he was gone for days.

Until that first time he left her with Fake Mom, Mouse had never been alone with her for long. Mouse didn’t want to be left alone with her. But she didn’t tell her father this because she knew how much her father loved Fake Mom. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Instead she held on to his arm as he said his goodbyes. She thought that if she held on real tight, he wouldn’t go. Or if he did, that he’d bring her with him. She was small. She could fit in his suitcase. She wouldn’t make a peep.

But he didn’t do either.

I’ll be back in a few days, her father promised her. He didn’t tell her exactly how many was a few. He pulled his arm gently away, kissed Mouse on the forehead before he left.

You and I are going to get along just fine, Fake Mom said, stroking Mouse’s brown hair with her hand. Mouse stood in the doorway, trying not to cry as Fake Mom’s tacky hand tugged on her hairs from her head. She didn’t think Fake Mom meant to pull her hair, but maybe she did. And either way, it made Mouse wince. She took a step forward, trying to stop her father before he could leave.

Fake Mom’s hand went to Mouse’s shoulder and she squeezed real tight, not letting go.

That, Mouse knew, she meant to do.

Mouse carefully raised her eyes to Fake Mom, not sure what she would find when she did. Slanted eyes, an angry stare. That was what she thought she’d see. It was neither, but rather a frightening smile, the kind that made her insides hurt. If you know what’s good for you, you will stop where you are and say goodbye to your father, Fake Mom ordered. Mouse complied.

They watched as her father’s car pulled out of the drive. They stood in the doorway as the car rounded a bend down the street. It disappeared somewhere Mouse couldn’t see. Only then did Fake Mom’s grip on Mouse’s shoulder lessen slightly.

As soon as he was gone from sight, Fake Mom turned mean.

In the blink of an eye, that soft, sweet, warm voice went cold.

Fake Mom turned away from the door. She slammed it closed with the bottom of her foot. She hollered at Mouse to stop looking for her father, that her father was gone.

He isn’t coming back, not anytime soon. You better just deal with it, she said, before telling her to get away from the door.

Fake Mom’s eyes moved around the room, looking for some transgression she could get angry about. Any transgression. She found it in Mr. Bear, Mouse’s beloved brown bear who sat perched in the corner of the sofa, positioned with the remote control under his tiny furry hand. Mr. Bear was watching TV, just the same as he did every day, all the same shows that Mouse liked to watch.

But Fake Mom didn’t want the bear to watch TV. She didn’t want the bear anywhere she could see him. She snatched it from the corner of the sofa by a single arm, telling Mouse that she needed to put her stupid toys away before she threw them in the trash. She shook the living daylights out of the bear before hurling him to the ground.