Page 13 of You Know Why

“Trey, sorry. Anyway, I didn’t mean to rock the boat. It’s been a long time. I knew him immediately, those eyes are unmistakable. But I don’t think he recognized me at all.”

Matheson’s getting fed up with our little reunion. “Ma’am. We need to move.”

Eden smiles winningly. “Really, it’s no trouble.” She gestures toward the cops, then leans close. I smell cloves, like the old cigarettes I used to smoke in the back alleys of Paris. “This is going to be a long afternoon. No need to get the kids too spooked,” she whispers.

I ignore the chill that parades through me. The kids are already plenty spooked. But being in the room while their mother is questioned about their father’s disappearance is going to scar them.

It’s going to scar me.

I make a snap decision. They didn’t hear Trey tell me he didn’t know Eden Barrow, or that she was creepy. All they heard was the comment about high school. They’ll feel comfortable, right? And it’s not like she’s going to be doing anything but sitting in the same room. I’ll be able to see them the whole time.

Damn it, Trey. Where the hell are you?

“All right. Okay. Thanks. Come on, babies. We have to go talk to these people some more, and Miss Eden is going to come with us.”

The children obey mutely. They already know something is very wrong.

I keep my shoulders back and chin high as we march past the gawkers. We’re going to make the damn news, be all over social media, but I don’t care. Maybe Trey will see it and come back.

Babe. Where are you?

What Are the Odds?

Eden

“Go fish.”

Andrew’s little boy—Four—wrestles with his cards while his daughter, Neve, yawns and watches the frosted-glass door. Babysitting was not on my bingo card today. But I am, happily, because it’s giving me time to think, to assess, to plan.

This isn’t just babysitting. It’s not just helping out. This is . . . destiny.

Never mind that my heart is racing; never mind that I’m struggling to keep my focus here instead of on that horrible Christmas Eve. The night everything changed. The night I lost my sister. The night she was murdered.

I’d come to her house to drop off a present from our parents. Our mother wasn’t feeling well and had decided not to infect everyone, so I was playing Santa, bringing the gifts to her friends and family. Christmas in our tiny town was always an event. Mornings with family, afternoons spent visiting friends, and for those who worshipped, going to church.

The scene I walked in on was horrifying. To this day, I get chills. The house, decorated; the wrapping paper, the bows, the music. The alarm blaring, Andrew on his knees, covered in Chloe’s blood. The scissors, on the floor, her blood dripping from their sharp blades. My screams . . .

I force the images away. I can’t go there. Not right now.

These children belong to him. I see him in their faces. It makes me want to collapse, to rend my hair at the injustice. But I don’t want to scare them. My mind is whirling, trying to run all the variables of what to do now that I’ve confronted him. Helping isn’t altruistic. It’s pure, unadulterated survival instinct.

Andrew killed Chloe when she challenged him. Chances are, given the opportunity or the impetus, he’ll eventually kill Brooklyn. Maybe he’ll come for me, too, now that he’s seen my face, now that he knows I have found him. And let’s not forget, there are children involved, living, breathing miniatures of what could have been. They must be constant reminders of what he could have had. They must be in danger as well.

All I want to do is keep them safe. I have to keep them safe.

“Go fish.”

To soothe myself, I start running numbers in my head. Numbers don’t ever lie. They can’t be faked. They can only be manipulated to represent specific outcomes. There is such comfort in the roteness of it all—the uniformity.

When people say “What are the odds?” they don’t actually want to know the numerical breakdown of such things. I, on the other hand, am very interested in these kinds of variables. It’s what I do, variables. I’ve made a career of them. My abilities to foresee budgetary impacts of travel loads are rewarded handsomely by my company. And because of that, I travel a lot. See many things. Some of the stories I could tell you . . .

“Do you have any fives?” Neve asks.

“Go fish.”

The parents are the real problem. They are apologetic, they are worried, they are exhausted. Or worse, flat-out arguing. Seeing a couple with kids, fighting, tense and furious with each other, angers me. They just don’t understand what they have. Don’t appreciate the gifts they’ve been given.

What I wouldn’t do for such a gift.