Page 42 of She Didn’t See It Coming

Saturday morning dawns, gray and drizzly.

Lizzie’s parents hover around her, cramping her style.

They have nowhere to go. She’s afraid to close herself in her bedroom on the computer in case her mother barges in and sees what she’s doing.

There’s no lock on her door. She’s restless, frustrated.

She lounges in the living room and checks the news about Bryden’s case on her phone constantly, but there’s nothing new.

Lizzie craves information. Information she can share. This stasis, this boredom, is awful.

“What are you up to today?” Lizzie asks her parents, hoping this will prod them into doing something.

They look blankly back at her. “Nothing,” her mother says listlessly.

She realizes her parents are just waiting. Waiting for the funeral so that they can lay Bryden to rest. Waiting for someone to be arrested. Waiting for the truth. For closure. It seems impossible that Bryden went missing just four days ago, that they will bury her in four more.

Lizzie wants the funeral to be done and over with so that her parents will go home. They can’t be planning on staying in town indefinitely, as long as the investigation lasts. If so, they can’t stay here. She’ll go out of her mind. It could be weeks, months. “I think I’ll go out,” Lizzie says.

“Where?” her mother asks.

She hesitates, but then decides to tell the truth.

“To Sam’s.” Her mother looks back at her, her face set, but before she can say anything Lizzie preempts her.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t think he killed her.

And I know you don’t want me to see him, but I want to see Clara. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Her mother nods, chastened.

“Can you bring her over here? For a visit?” Jim asks.

“If he’ll let me. He might not.”

It’s as if suddenly they all realize how it might be.

The grandparents might never see their only grandchild again.

Sam knows they suspect him of murder—he’s not going to let his little girl come over here and have her head filled with poison.

As if any of them would do that, Lizzie thinks.

Her mother wouldn’t say anything to a three-year-old against her father, would she? Suddenly she’s not sure.

“What are we going to do about Clara?” Lizzie asks her parents. The ensuing silence tells her how loaded this question is.

Donna says, a little stridently, “We’re not losing Clara too.”

Lizzie chooses her words carefully. “Sam is her father. If you persist in acting like you believe he killed Bryden, he’s not going to let you see her. You must know that.”

Jim speaks up calmly. “She has a point, Donna.”

Donna replies, “If he did kill her, they’ll arrest him. They’ll convict him. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. And we’ll apply for custody.”

“You want to raise her? Are you sure?” Lizzie asks. She’s not sure how she feels about that. But she’s not prepared to raise Clara herself.

“Of course we want to raise her. Unless you want to do it.”

But Lizzie doesn’t want to do it, and her parents seem to know that. “I still think you’re wrong about Sam,” Lizzie says evasively.

“Maybe,” her mother says. “I hope so. Maybe it was that man she was seeing. I hope they find out who did it, and, for Clara’s sake, that it wasn’t her father.” She breaks down and begins to weep. Her husband stands watching her, his hands twitching helplessly and his lower lip trembling.

Lizzie speaks quietly. “Look, Sam still trusts me. He’ll let me see her whenever I want, I’m sure. I’ll let you know how she is, how she’s doing. But if I don’t see Sam, then we might lose Clara altogether.”

Her mother nods miserably through her tears.

Lizzie wonders if he’s got Paige over there helping him with her. She thinks to herself, her favorite babysitter .

···

Sam looks at the text message from Lizzie. Can I come over?

He would like to see her—he needs a friendly face.

He’s going crazy in the condo on Saturday morning, trying to entertain Clara by himself.

There are reporters outside the building; he can see them from the windows.

He feels trapped. At least Lizzie doesn’t think he’s a murderer.

He’d considered asking Paige to come over but had second thoughts.

And Angela has gone out. He texts Lizzie back gratefully.

Yes, come over. Clara and I would love to see you.

Lizzie had texted him the day before that her parents had gone out looking at funeral homes, and that they wanted a very small, private funeral, as soon as possible.

They hadn’t asked him what he wanted for the funeral, or to come along.

He’d been relieved, although it spoke volumes about what they think of him.

He suspects they can’t bear to be around him anymore.

He tells Clara in a bright voice that her Aunt Lizzie is coming over, and the little girl perks up a little.

He feels guilty that he doesn’t want to take her to the park, not with all those vultures out there, ready to shout at him and call him a murderer.

Not after last time. Maybe Lizzie could take her to the park for him.

He thinks about Lizzie, remembers what she was like last time he saw her, that weird intensity, what she said about knowing people. What was that all about? Maybe he’ll ask her.

Lizzie arrives, and Clara holds up her arms to be picked up.

Lizzie carries her into the kitchen, following him.

He puts on a fresh pot of coffee. They can’t really talk with Clara there.

They interact with Clara for a while, have a snack with her, then settle her in another room with a puzzle so they can speak privately in the kitchen.

“Have you spoken to the detectives lately?” Lizzie asks.

“Not since Thursday evening, at the police station,” he says.

He’s afraid, and he needs someone on his side. Everyone will think he killed her. He can’t bear the thought of prison. He clutches her arm across the kitchen table.

“Lizzie, you must believe me. I didn’t kill her.” He tries to read her eyes, but he can’t be sure she believes him. “I didn’t know she was cheating,” he says. “You must believe me, Lizzie. I didn’t kill her.”

“I know,” she says, after a long moment. “I believe you.” He sags in relief. “But I can’t say the same about my parents.”

He’s not surprised. He shrugs.

She looks at him with those intense eyes of hers. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else the police might find out?” she asks.

He shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “No. Nothing. I swear.”