Sustained(61)

“Nooo. Noooo . . .”

It comes from Regan’s baby monitor. Chelsea jerks, opens her eyes, and starts to drag herself out of bed. Without thinking, I kiss her temple. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get her.”

I slip on my pants and a T-shirt and pad barefoot up the stairs.

Regan is sitting up in her miniature toddler bed, eyes bleary, hair a mess, her room illuminated by a Cinderella nightlight. She raises her arms up as soon as she sees me.

And my mother’s words, from decades ago, come out of my mouth.

“What’s the trouble, bubble?”

I lift her up, her warm little body instantly clinging. I rub her back and smooth her hair. Regan’s lower lip trembles as she points to the long drapery in the shadowed corner of her room. “Nooo.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

I move the drapes, showing her there’s nothing hidden, nothing to be afraid of. She squeezes my shoulders with tiny arms and lays her head down against me. I sit in the rocking chair beside her bed, patting her back and whispering softly.

“There’re no monsters, Regan.”

In real life there are, but not in this house. Not while I’m breathing.

“I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re safe. Shhh . . . go to sleep.”

I kiss the back of her head and rub her back, rocking her until she relaxes in my arms and falls back into a peaceful slumber.





18


A few days later, Rosaleen scares about ten years off of Chelsea’s life when she disappears. I’m working late, Chelsea is helping Riley with her homework, and the rest of the kids are scattered around the house . . . doing what kids do. When it’s time to start getting ready for bed, that’s when Chelsea notices the little blonde is missing. They call her name, comb through the bedrooms, the closet, the playhouse in the backyard, the fucking swimming pool and garden. Chelsea calls the neighbors and they check their backyards too.

By the time she stops searching to call me, she’s a mess of frantic tears, ready to call the police and the national guard. In the car, driving to the house, I’m the one who asks if they checked the third floor—Robert and Rachel’s room.

In a breathless rush, Chelsea says they didn’t—and she bolts up the stairs. There, curled up on the floor of the walk-in closet, wrapped in her mother’s robe, is Rosaleen, fast asleep. I get to the house a few minutes after the discovery, when Chelsea is still teary-eyed and shaking. Rosaleen feels bad but says she likes to go into her mother’s closet sometimes. To remember what she smelled like.

The explanation makes Chelsea cry more. And just about breaks my fucking heart too.

After an unusually long bedtime, when Chelsea can’t seem to pry herself away from her niece’s doorway, I broach the subject of the bedroom. It’s been months since Robert and Rachel died, and the room stands exactly as it did before.

I don’t know much about grieving—I know even less about kids—but it doesn’t seem . . . healthy to me. Chelsea is adamant—she claims the kids aren’t ready for the change, to have their parents’ most personal things boxed up and relocated. Or worse, given away. But I don’t think it’s the kids who aren’t ready.

I think it’s her.

She shoots the topic down, refuses to discuss it. And when those gorgeous eyes turn icy, I let it drop. Because it isn’t really any of my business, so it isn’t worth an argument.

• • •

Late on the Wednesday afternoon after Rosaleen’s Houdini imitation, Chelsea calls me at the office. “Are you free?”

“Depends. What do you have in mind?” I say, my tone weighted with suggestion about what’s exactly in my mind. It’s right along the lines of what’s in my pants.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Chelsea sighs. “I’m on my way to pick up Raymond at school.”

I check my watch. “Shouldn’t he be home already?”

“He should be, but they kept him after. Apparently he got into a fight.”

A smile slides onto my lips. “Did he win?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Ah . . . the only one that matters?”

She chuckles. “I don’t know if he won. Principal Janovich would like to see me in his office to discuss it. Do you want to meet me there? I have a feeling your lawyering may come in handy.”

And I have a feeling she’s right.

“I’m packing up now—I’ll meet you there.”

By the time I arrive at the ivy-covered grounds of Raymond’s private school, the meeting is already under way. A secretary ushers me into a large office, where a dignified, gray-haired man sits behind a presidential desk—awards and accolades line the walls, and dark wood bookshelves are filled with important-looking, gold-leafed, thick leather volumes.