Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“Doesn’t matter. This is Massachusetts, where gay marriages are legal and in loco parentis matters more than biology for determining who should have custody of a child.”

“You think just because you know a little Latin, you understand the law better than I do, boy?”

“I think I recently wrote an article about a grandfather who tried to gain custody of his grandson because he disapproved of the child’s lesbian parents. The court ruled that the child should stay with the only parents he had ever known, even if they were not his biological mothers.”

“Interesting. Well, here’s another bit of Latin for you. Maybe you heard of this phrase, too, working on your little story and all: ex parte.”

Jason froze in the middle of the kitchen, his gaze going belatedly out the window. He saw the uniformed officer approaching his walkway, heading for his front door.

“Means ‘in an emergency,’” Max continued smoothly, low chuckle back in his throat. “As in, a grandfather can seek an ex parte motion in front of family court, and the court could grant an ex parte order regarding visitation, without you even being aware that such a hearing is going on. After all, you are the prime suspect in a missing person investigation. Surely staying with the prime suspect in her mother’s disappearance is not in the best interest of the child?”

“Son of a-” Jason hissed.

Front doorbell rang.

“Might as well answer it,” Max said. “I can see you, son. So can most of the free world.”

That’s when Jason spotted Max, too, standing over by the cluster of white news vans, cell phone held to his ear. The older man waved his hand, looking chipper in a fresh blue suit that set off his shock of silver hair. The phone call, why Max had chatted away so readily, keeping Jason in one place, all under the guise of making amends… Jason’s doorbell rang again.

“Got it, Daddy,” Ree sang out.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Jason had died once, nearly twenty-five years ago. This was worse than that. This was his entire world shattering. As Ree stood on tiptoe to undo the first lock, then the second.

As she pulled the door fully open to reveal the uniformed officer.

The man carried a folded piece of white paper. His gaze went over Ree’s head and found Jason standing in the entryway of the kitchen, still clutching the phone to his ear.

“Jason F. Jones.”

Jason finally set down the receiver. He moved on autopilot, stepping forward, holding out his hand.

“Consider yourself served,” the county officer said. Then, his mission complete, he pivoted sharply and returned back down the front steps. While across the street, the photographers began to snap away.

Jason unfolded the piece of paper. He read the official court order demanding that he produce his child tomorrow morning at eleven A.M. at the local playground, where she would have a one-hour visitation with her grandfather, the honorable Maxwell M. Black. A full hearing on visitation rights would follow in four weeks. Until then, Maxwell Black was permitted one hour every day with his granddaughter, Clarissa Jane Jones. So ordered the court.

Each day. Every single day. Max and Ree together. Max seeing Ree, talking to Ree, touching Ree. Jason, not allowed to supervise. Jason, forced to leave his daughter all alone with a man who’d participated in the abuse of his only child.

“What is it, Daddy?” Ree asked him anxiously. “Did you win something? What did that man bring you?”

Jason pulled himself together, folding up the paper, tucking it into his back pocket.

“It’s nothing,” he assured his daughter. “Nothing at all. Hey, let’s play some Candy Land.”

Ree won three times in a row. She kept producing the Princess Frostine card in four turns or less, a sure sign she was cheating. Jason was too distracted to call her on it, and she became even more disgruntled. She was looking for boundaries. The world had rules, those rules kept it safe.

Jason gave up on board games, and made them grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch. Ree sulked at the kitchen counter, dipping her sandwich into the soup. He mostly stirred his soup around and around, watched the croutons turn bloodred.

Court order was still folded up, tucked in his back pocket. As if reducing it down to a small scrap of paper could reduce the power it held over his and his daughter’s lives. He finally understood why Sandra had walked away so easily from her home and her father, and why she’d never been tempted to call, not even once, for the past five years.

Maxwell Black played for keeps. And the judge knew how to twist the law to get exactly what he wanted. Son of a bitch.

“I want to look for Mommy,” Ree announced.

“What?”

She stopped dipping her grilled cheese long enough to glare at him stubbornly. “You said police officers and friends were gonna meet at the school to help find Mommy. Well, I want to go to the school. I want to find Mommy.”

Jason stared at his daughter. He wondered what parenting book might have a chapter on this.

The doorbell rang. Jason got up immediately to answer it.

Sergeant D.D. Warren and Detective Miller stood on his front porch. Instinctively Jason looked behind them for more officers. Seeing only the two investigators, he guessed he wasn’t being arrested. He opened the door a little wider.

“Have you found my wife yet?” he inquired.

“Have you started looking for her yet?” D.D. replied evenly.

He still liked her better than Max.

He let the two detectives in, telling Ree that she could choose a second movie, as Daddy needed a moment to talk to the nice police officers. In response, she scowled at him, then bawled, “I’m gonna find Mommy and you can’t stop me!”

She stormed into the front room, clicking on the TV and powering up a DVD now that she’d had the last word.

“It’s been a long day,” Jason informed D.D. and Miller.

“It’s only eleven-thirty,” D.D. pointed out.

“Oh goody, I have ten more hours to look forward to.”

He moved BPD’s finest into the kitchen, as his child finally settled down to watch her favorite dinosaurs in The Land Before Time.

“Water? Coffee? Cold tomato soup?” he offered halfheartedly.

D.D. and Miller shook their heads. They each took a seat at the kitchen counter. He leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded over his chest. Grieving husband. Homicidal father. Grieving fucking husband.

“What happened to you?” D.D. asked.

“Walked into a wall.”

“With both sides of your face?”

“I hit it twice.”

She arched a brow at him. He remained steadfast. What were they gonna do, throw him in jail for being bruised and battered?

“I want it on the record we didn’t do that,” Miller said.

“Define we .”

“Boston PD. We haven’t even called your sorry ass down to the station yet, so definitely, whatever wall smacked your face, it wasn’t us.”

“I believe your wall prefers Tasers, so no, it wasn’t you.”

That retort didn’t win him any friendship with Miller, but then again, Jason was pretty sure Miller already thought he was the guilty party.

“When did it happen?” D.D. pressed, obviously the smarter of the two. “We saw you after Hastings’s attack. No way Ethan did that kind of damage.”

“Maybe I just take a while to bruise.”

She arched a brow again. He remained steadfast. He could do this dance all day long. Come to think of it, she probably could, too. They were soul mates that way. Destined to piss each other off.

He missed Sandy. He wanted to ask his wife if she was really pregnant with his child. He wanted to tell her he’d do whatever she asked, if only she’d give him a second chance to make her happy. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, especially for February. He had a lot to be sorry about in February.