Page 73 of The Other Mother
“You paid someone to end a woman’s life,” I say, and my voice stays level. “They are calling it solicitation and conspiracy. You do not need to admit it. I am telling you what the world knows.”
His mouth opens and closes and opens again, and for a moment he looks less like this weaker version of himself and more like the boy I met at a fundraiser on a roof in Santa Monica who knew how to make a room say yes. He wants me to remember that boy. It is his last leverage. I put the receiver closer to the glass and let him hear my breath, even, not hurried.
“You chose money,” I say. “You chose control. You chose yourself over our life together. We could have been happy. We were for a while.”
He lifts his hand like he might touch the glass. I leave my hand on my lap. He blinks and a single tear traces the edge of his nose. He will call it love in his head because love is a story he understands. I put the receiver back in its cradle and stand. The guard touches his elbow. Adam says my name and it sounds like a requestand a promise and a warning all at once. But I just walk out.
Outside,the day is hot and white. Two women smoke under the no smoking sign and talk in the soft voices people use near churches and courthouses. I sit in my car and hold the steering wheel because I do not trust my hands to be empty. When I can breathe like a person again, I drive to the federal building across town where Agent Holt has asked me to sign one last stack of paperwork.
She meets me at the door with her hair pulled back and a folder that looks like a brick. The lobby smells like concrete dust and old coffee. We stand by a ficus that has suffered in this light and pretend that this is where people do ordinary things.
“We closed Pierce,” she says, and her voice is quiet enough that I have to lean in. “Not a suicide. The coroner put it in writing. Rodriguez took a deal. He is giving us three names we did not have.”
“And the hospitals?”
“Two administrators pled. A nurse flipped. The board chair is fighting and will lose. We will keep climbing.”
“And Maria?” The name still lands like a bruise.She was not what I thought. She was not the worst thing either. She was what a broken system made possible.
“Her daughter’s case is moving through the Swiss court,” Holt says. “It will take a long time. The parents didn’t know and they raised that baby for a while now. It’s an international case and it will take a long time, but it is moving.” She studies my face. “You did what you said you’d do. Thank you.”
I sign where she points. My hand does not shake. Afterward, we give each other a brief hug. In another life, we could have been friends. But with this case between us, I know that it would never work.
Back at home,I change into a comfy pair of sweats and sit down on the couch. The lemon smell from the morning dishes has faded. The sun coming through the slider is the color of school buses. I take the velvet pouch from my bag and thread the pacifier through a small brass ring I bought at a hardware store. I clip the ring to the inside of the diaper bag. It’s a keepsake I’ll keep forever.
I feel a tug at my jeans and look down. Eva is standing with one fist curled into the fabric, pulling me to follow her as she walks.
The doorbell rings and my heart jumps before my brain catches up. It is a delivery driver dropping offcopies of my new book. I unbox it and stare at the shiny cover ofBorrowed Time.
A diagonal band at the top says Advance Author Copy in black block letters. The name underneath is not mine. It is a name I chose with my editor and a lawyer in a small office where the blinds were permanently half-closed.
ROWAN HALE
I run my thumb over the raised letters as if I can feel the decision in them. The girl I used to be who wrote late at night on a couch that always had crumbs in it would have wanted my name on the cover. The woman I am prefers a name that lets me walk my daughter to a swing set without a stranger stopping me for a photo.
As Eva settles on the couch in front of an episode ofBluey, I sit down next to her and open to the first page. The line I added in blue pencil two weeks ago is there in clean black ink now.
Let me tell you about the blanket.
For a second I cannot see because my eyes fill with tears, and then I laugh because it’s not exactly something to cry about. I wipe my face and flip to the back the acknowledgments. There is a space between two paragraphs where I wrote something for the women who handed me pieces of my life back. It’s short but enough. It’s truth that fits onto the page without burning through it.
Later, after dinner, I take Eva outside to the backyard. The rosemary I planted last month has taken. The ghostplant from the desert surprised me and put out a new rosette by the edge of the bed. The wind carries the smell of someone else’s grill and the pool water twinkles in the twilight. My life is finally ordinary and I relish it.
I tell Eva about the coast. After this house sells, we will rent a small place with a patch of yard that stays green on its own. We will walk in fog that lasts half the day and enjoy the clouds. We will visit a bookstore that has a cat asleep in the window. If I am lucky, a copy of my book with a name that is not mine will sit on that table. I will buy it anyway. I will bring it home and put it on a shelf next to the copy in my kitchen and I will let that be a kind of peace.
When the sky darkens, we go back inside and check the lock on the slider and the deadbolt on the front door. Old habits bring with them their own gravity. I read to Eva and put her to bed. When she falls asleep, I listen for the soft beats of her breath. It is there, steady as a tide.
I take the velvet pouch from the diaper bag and carry it to my bedroom. The sock drawer is no longer a hiding place. I open the cedar box that holds the last things from my mother and nestle the pouch beside the packet of letters she wrote me when she knew she would not be able to speak them. On top of the letters is a photo of her hands at work with the needle on the rosebud blanket. I lay my fingers over her fingers and think of the way she would have loved both my girls.
Outside, a car door closes and a voice laughs and a dog barks and the world continues to spin with orwithout my permission. I make tea and I sit at the table with the book and a pen and I circle three commas that are not wrong but are not right either. I open my laptop, find the mistakes in the manuscript and write one last note to the copy editor to make the changes. I sign the email with the pseudonym and add my real name in parenthesis at the end.
In the morning, we will go to the park and I will lift Eva into a swing and she will lean back with her mouth open in a laugh that shows all four of her teeth. I will stand behind her and keep my hands close without touching. When she’s older, I will talk to her about a woman who tried to save her and about a baby who never came home and about the way love holds shape even after the worst things.
The house settles. The wind shifts. I close my eyes and, for the first time in a long time, the dark feels like a room I get to leave on my own when the morning comes.
I pick up a new journal and open it to the first page. I don’t know what I want to write about next, but I know it’s important to just press pen to paper and begin.
Thankyou for reading The Other Mother. I hope you enjoyed the book. Love psychological thrillers? Read The Neighborhood Watch Next!
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When Brooke Sullivan and her family move into the upscale community of Desert Oaks, the gates, the sunshine, and the smiles feel like a dream come true. The HOA president drops off a welcome basket. The “Neighborhood Watch” offers a home-insurance discount and a safety app that connects every Ring camera on the block. All Brooke has to do is turn on Sharing.
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To save her family, Brooke will have to turn the cameras back on the people who installed them. But in Desert Oaks, the lights never go out. And the Watch is always watching.
Perfect for fans of Freida McFadden and Lisa Jewell,The Neighborhood Watchis a razor-sharp suburban thriller about belonging, power, and the price of safety.