The Other Mrs.(67)

I go to the pictures, nearly run my hands through the dust. But then, in the nick of time, I think of fingerprints, of evidence, and pull quickly back. I search my coat pockets for a pair of winter gloves and slip them on.

The photographs are of Jeffrey, Courtney and their little girl. This strikes me as odd. If Will and I had gone through with a divorce in the aftermath of his affair, I would have rid my home of photographs of him, so I wouldn’t be reminded of him every day.

Not only does Courtney keep family photographs in her home, but there are wedding photographs, too. Romantic scenes of Jeffrey and her kissing. I wonder what this means. If she still has feelings for him. Is she in denial about his affair, the divorce, his remarriage? Does she think there’s a chance they might get back together again, or is she only pining for the love they once had?

I wander the halls, looking in bedrooms, in bathrooms, in the kitchen. The home is three narrow floors tall, each room as Spartan as the next. In the child’s bedroom, the bed is covered with woodland creatures, deer and squirrels and such. There’s a rug on the floor.

Another room is an office with a desk inside. I go to the desk, pull the drawers out at random. I’m not looking for anything in particular. But there are things I see, like felt-tip pens and reams of paper and a box of stationery.

I return downstairs. I open and close the refrigerator door. I peel back a curtain and look outside to be sure no one is coming.

How long do I have until Courtney realizes that her keys are missing?

I sit lightly on the sofa, paying attention not to disturb the careful order of things. I thumb through the mail, keeping it in the same order that it is, in case there’s some method to the madness that I can’t see. It’s bills and junk mail mostly. But there are other things, too, like legal petitions. State of Maine is typed across the envelopes, and that’s what makes me peel the flaps back, slide the documents out with my gloved hands.

I was never very good with legalese, but words like child endangerment and immediate physical custody leap out at me. It takes but a minute to realize Jeffrey and Morgan Baines were attempting to gain full custody of his and Courtney’s child.

The thought of someone taking Otto or Tate from me makes me instantly upset. If someone tried to take my children from me, I don’t know what I’d do.

But if I know one thing, it’s that getting between a woman and her child will never end well.

I slide the documents back into their envelopes, but not before first snapping a photo of them on my phone. I put the mail back how it was. I rise from the sofa and slip back out the front door, done with my search for now. I’m not sure if what I found is enough to suspect Courtney of murder. But it is enough to raise questions.

I drop the keys into a zipped compartment in my bag. I’ll dispose of them later.

People lose their keys all the time, don’t they? It’s not such an unusual thing.

I’m halfway to my car parked on the other side of the street when my cell phone rings. I pull it from my bag and answer the call. “Mrs. Foust?” the caller asks. Not everyone knows that I’m a doctor.

“Yes,” I say. “This is she.”

The woman on the other end of the line informs me that she’s calling from the high school. My mind goes instinctively to Otto. I think of our short exchange as we drove to the dock this morning. Something was bothering him but he wouldn’t say what. Was he trying to tell me something?

“I tried calling your husband first,” the woman tells me, “but I got his voice mail.” I look at my watch. Will is in the middle of a lecture. “I wanted to check on Imogen. Her teachers marked her absent today. Did someone forget to call her in?” this woman asks, and—feeling relieved the call isn’t about Otto—I sigh and tell her no, that Imogen must be playing hooky. I won’t bother myself with making up lies for Imogen’s absence.

Her tone isn’t kind. She explains to me that Imogen is required to be in school and that she is quickly closing in on the number of unexcused absences allowed in a school year.

“It’s your responsibility, Mrs. Foust, to make sure Imogen is in school,” she says. A meeting will be scheduled with Will and me, Imogen, teachers and administrators. An intervention of sorts. If that fails, the school will be forced to follow legal protocol.

I end the call and climb into my car. Before I pull out, I send Imogen a text. Where are you? I ask. I don’t expect a reply. And yet one comes. Find me, it reads.

Imogen is playing games with me.

A series of photos comes next. Headstones, a bleak landscape, a bottle of prescription pills. They’re Alice’s old pills, used to manage fibromyalgia pain. An antidepressant that doubles as a nerve blocker. Her name is on the label.

I have to get to Imogen before she does something stupid with them, before she makes a careless decision she can’t take back. I speed away, forcing the legal documents I found in Courtney’s home out of my mind for now. Finding Morgan’s killer will have to wait.



MOUSE


Fake Mom didn’t give Mouse any dinner that night, but Mouse heard her down in the kitchen, making something for herself. She smelled the scent of it coming up to the second floor through the floor vents, slipping under the crack of Mouse’s bedroom door. Mouse didn’t know what it was, but the smell of it got her tummy rumbling in a good way. She wanted to eat. But she couldn’t because Fake Mom never offered to share.