“I guess so.” Actually, my parents and I haven’t discussed it. After I went to college, my parents moved into an elegant townhouse in the historic district. That place is not my home. My mother and father have never known how to make one, and the thought of staying with them makes me feel small and uncertain.
I slide into the front seat and keep my shoulder bag by my feet. Detective Davies shuts the door, and as he walks around the car, I think he must be a very, very good detective. I’ve known him for ten minutes, and he’s managed to make me feel like he’s on my side. But I’m not an idiot. I know his “Let me take care of you, little lady” routine could all be a calculated act.
He gets behind the wheel, and we pull away from the airport. We maneuver past the tangle of traffic quickly, too quickly, and approach downtown Arlington. I am afraid to reach the police station, but at the same time I wish we were there and it were all over. Waiting is almost as bad as fear.
I clench the strap of my shoulder bag like a tether to Texas. This is the bag I bring with me when playgroup goes to the zoo or when Andrew, Emma, and I take a family trip to the ice cream factory in Brenham. It holds up to four library books, plenty of snacks, and a change of clothes for Emma. Now it has my wallet, a cardigan, and Ava’s novel. And probably some leftover ziplock bags of stale cereal.
But it holds nothing that can slow the inevitable. Detective Davies has put on the turn signal to bring us into the parking lot of a municipal building.
We are at the police station, closer to my parents than I have been in three full years. Driving straight past the crowded rows of parked cars, Detective Davies pulls around the side of the building and parallel-parks the car, quickly and efficiently, between two identical sedans lined up by the concrete wall of the building.
“Have enough room to get out?” he asks.
I really want to run, but Detective Davies has shut the driver’s side door and is taking my suitcase out of the trunk. My door is bounded by the municipal building. And I have nowhere to go. There’s at least a foot and a half of space, so my door opens. I squeeze out and drag my shoulder bag after me.
Carrying my suitcase instead of rolling it, Detective Davies leads the way to a squat building, boxy and blank. Just like at the Fort Bend County Sheriff’s Office, the lobby has echoes of a waiting room, with chairs and magazines and an officer at the front desk behind glass.
This time we walk right past to the security door. Detective Davies offers the woman at the desk a cursory nod and waves his ID badge across the electronic lock. He holds the door open and waves me through. On the other side, he sets the suitcase down. “Remember to pick this up on your way out,” he tells me.
I guess he doesn’t intend to book and jail me yet, anyway.
Everything is glossy white, a nightmare corridor of doors. Anything could be behind them—a murder board with pictures of Ava’s dead body, an interrogation room where I’ll be handcuffed and dragged off to jail. And when Detective Davies opens the first door on the right, the nightmare is real. Because the three people getting to their feet are my mother, father, and my brother-in-law, Glenn.
I bump into Detective Davies and realize I’ve taken a step back. His hand lands on my shoulder, and I am steered through the door and into the room.
This isn’t an interrogation room, it’s more like a conference room. In addition to the table, big enough to seat eight, there are cushioned office chairs, and the walls are lined with cabinets all shut tight. I don’t want to look at the people in here with me.
“Let’s have a seat,” Detective Davies says. “We have a few things we’d like you all to know, before we ask Zoe some questions separately.”
Nobody sits down. My parents are side by side, holding on to the backs of the chairs in front of them. Glenn is coming toward us, his fists balled. He is still handsome, so handsome, like an action figure, all sharp, defined edges. But now his muscles aren’t sexy; they’re scary. He’s a big guy, way more built than Andrew, and he’s angry at me with all the force I once mistook for love.
“Ask your questions right now,” he insists through clenched teeth. “She’s obviously behind this.”
My heart hurts like he’s punched me in the chest. “Excuse me? I’ve been living my own life. You’re her husband. You probably did it. I haven’t even seen Ava for three years.”
“Whose fault is that?” Glenn’s looking at me with real hatred, something I’ve never seen on his face before, and it feels like I’m being sliced open.
My mouth was snapping out retorts, but my feelings have finally caught up with me, and I turn my back on him. I imagined our reunion so many times—him apologizing, desperately explaining, coming back to me. Never this. I can’t let him see how I care.
I turn toward my parents, their faces perfectly composed, ignoring all my drama. There’s no help here. I’m drowning all by myself.
Expressionless, my mother says, “You must feel overwhelmed. Do you need to sit down?”
My parents never have to worry that their faces will betray an emotion, as they clinically identify “anger” or “grief.” Now that I’m taking care of Emma, I use those techniques when she’s having a tantrum. I mirror her distress, affirm it, and distance myself from it. Because it’s never about the cookie she can’t have or the juice that spilled. The problem is too big for her to articulate. The problem is being a small, powerless thing in a world full of rules you didn’t make and don’t understand.
I feel like Emma now, like everyone is trying to blame me or pry me open or get me to confess and I don’t know what is going on or what the rules are. Like one of those dreams where everyone has been talking about you behind your back, except that in this case, they really have.
At the risk of seeming defeated, I do sit down in the chair Detective Davies has pulled out for me. He sits down right next to me. His techniques are transparent. We’re the only two people seated, right next to each other, on the same side of the table. But I’m not stupid. He’s not really on my side.
Ignoring everyone else, he looks at me. “Let me bring you up to speed. We’re monitoring the phone lines and Ava’s email, as well as going through all the correspondence she has received in the last few weeks.”
Email. Heat rises inside me. Did Detective Valdez tell him my email was hacked? Do my parents know? Does Glenn? The vicious words—words I didn’t write, but ones I could have. I have been that angry at Ava; I have wished her dead and gone.
As if he can see everything inside me, Glenn says, “This is a waste of time. We know Zoe was involved.”
“I wasn’t!” I protest, but there’s no point. Whatever he felt for me once has soured, and I feel that acid pain inside my own gut. Maybe the only way he can justify our affair is to blame it all on me. I have to ignore him. I don’t want anyone to see how much his words hurt, and not just because it might make me look even guiltier. Beside me, Detective Davies is watching, taking everything in. He’s a little closer to me than I find comfortable, but I don’t think I can scoot away without looking defensive.
I ask him, “What really happened? I only know what I heard on the news.”
Mom sinks into a chair opposite me. There’s a box of tissues on the table near her, but I know she won’t need one. “We must have been on the phone with Ava just before it happened,” Mom says. “She called and sounded quite distressed that we didn’t have time to talk. Your father and I were trying to get out the door to the annual JJJ Gala.”