Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

“That’s sick,” D.D. said crossly, mostly annoyed that Alex was right, which meant she was wrong. Being horny was hard enough, but being horny and stupid would be too much to bear.

“That’s the point,” Alex was saying. “One killer for two entire families in a span of less than thirty-six hours is a long shot. That kind of bloodlust, combined with such high-level control…” His voice trailed off. “I can’t picture it. It doesn’t fit.”

“But two fathers independently deciding to kill their wife and kids, using the same three methods, within a day of each other-that makes sense?”

“Coincidences happen.”

“It’s not a coincidence!”

“Then, what?”

“We need more information. I know: We’ll investigate. What a great idea!”

Alex rolled his eyes at her. D.D. moved on to her lemon cake.

“I think we should have our auras cleansed,” she announced.

“Hey,” said Phil. “I’m a family man…”

“Then you can call child services and get everything you can on Oswald Harrington and the Laraquettes. Alex, you’re with me.”

“But I showered just this morning.”

“Not that kind of cleansing. We’re going to tend to our inner beauty.”

“You mean a spa?”

“No, it’s time we call upon Denise Harrington’s favorite shaman, Andrew Lightfoot.”

Evan walked into my room at 4:14 a.m. and demanded to go to the park. He asked again at 4:33, 4:39, 4:43, 4:58, 5:05, and 5:12.

It’s 5:26 now, and we’re walking to the park.

The morning’s beautiful. The rain the night before has washed away the worst of the humidity. The air is warm, but pleasant, like a kiss against our cheeks. We walk the half a dozen blocks, breakfast in hand, and watch the sun paint the horizon. Being at the easternmost edge of the time zone, Massachusetts has one of the first sunrises in the country. I like to think of the early daybreaks as an exclusive treat for people who will spend their lives dropping their “r’s.” Other states have better enunciation. We get this.

“I see purple,” Evan says excitedly, pointing to the horizon and running circles around me. “There’s yellow and orange and fuchsia!”

“Fuchsia” is one of his favorite words. I don’t know why.

The park comes into view. I expected the playground to be empty at this hour. Instead, a small boy waddles around the two swing sets and impressive climbing structure, his mother watching from a nearby bench.

I hesitate. Evan dashes ahead. “A friend! Mommy, Mommy, a new friend!”

By the time I make it to the playground, Evan has already run half a dozen exuberant circles around the toddler. The small boy doesn’t appear overwhelmed, but is grinning at Evan as if meeting a clown for the first time. Encouraged, Evan zips figure 8s all over the playground. The boy toddles after him.

I feel my usual sense of parenting pessimism. Maybe Evan will play nicely with the boy. Maybe they’ll enjoy each other’s company. Evan misses other children so much. Maybe that will give him the incentive to be gentle. Maybe.

I sit down on the bench next to the other mom. It seems the hospitable thing to do.

“Good morning,” she says brightly, a young girl, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with long brown hair held back in a ponytail. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else in the park this time of morning.”

“Neither did I,” I agree, trying to summon a smile energetic enough to match her own. Belatedly, I stick out a hand. “I’m Victoria. That’s my son, Evan.”

“Becki,” she says. “That’s Ronald. He’s three.”

“Evan’s eight.”

“Wow, he’s a morning person,” she laughs, watching Evan race up and down the slide. He’s already ditched his flip-flops and is in bare feet. I wonder how long before his dark blue gym shorts and red T-shirt follow suit.

“We just moved here,” Becki offers. “As in, the moving van unloaded yesterday afternoon. We still don’t have all the beds set up, nor the window air conditioners in. By five this morning, it seemed better to get outside. Ronald can run around while it’s still cool out, then maybe I can get him to nap through the heat.”

Next to the playground is a soccer field. Around the soccer field is a wooded fringe that separates the park from the neighboring houses. Evan has veered away from the little boy and is racing up and down the white lines of the soccer field. I allow myself to relax a fraction, take a sip of coffee.

“Where did you move from?” I ask Becki.

“ North Carolina.”

“That explains the lovely accent,” I murmur without thinking, and Becki beams at the compliment. It occurs to me that Evan isn’t the only one who misses his friends. I don’t belong to any social groups anymore. I don’t have clients, or coworkers, or close neighbors. I don’t attend playgroups, or hang out with the other moms after school. I see a respite worker twice a week and talk to my six-year-old daughter once a week. That’s the extent of my social life.

I’m pleased I can still make small talk. “What brought you to Massachusetts,” I ask now, warming to the moment. I hold out a ziplock bag containing banana muffins. Becki hesitates, then accepts one.

“My husband’s job. He’s a project engineer. They move him around every few years.”

“You’re lucky to land in Cambridge,” I tell her. “This is a great family area. You’ll love it here.”

“Thanks!” she says brightly. “In all honesty, I picked the town because of the universities. I’m kind of hoping that now Ronnie’s three, I can take some night courses.”

I check on Evan again. He’s made it to the far soccer goal and is climbing in the black netting. Ronald has spotted him and is working his way down the field on his shorter legs.

Becki calls him back and the toddler obediently swings around and returns to the jungle gym. “Sorry,” she says self-consciously. “Nervous mother. Sometimes he bolts on me, so I don’t like for him to get too far away. I know he’s only three but, wow, can he run!”

“I know what you mean,” I assure her. “I haven’t been able to keep up with Evan since he was two. Kids are all muscle and speed. We can’t compete.”

She nods, working on her muffin. “Evan’s an only child?” she asks at last.

“He has a sister,” I reply. “She’s with her father.”

Becki glances at me, but doesn’t pry. I put away the muffins. Get out a container of fresh strawberries.

“Will you have a second child?” I ask.

“I hope so. Once I finish up my degree at least. Ronnie was a bit of an oops. A happy oops,” Becki corrects hastily, coloring slightly. “But I’d hoped to finish college first.”

“Of course.” Evan’s still working the soccer field; Ronald’s back at the jungle gym. I get the lid off the strawberries, hold them out.

“That reminds me-I gotta get to the grocery store,” Becki comments, selecting a strawberry and taking a bite. “Actually, where is the grocery store?”

I give her directions, and that leads her to digging through her diaper bag for a notepad, and that leads me to sketching out several rough maps with the best local restaurants, a great bookstore, this absolutely wonderful bakery over on Huron Avenue. I feel like I’m drawing a map to the life I used to live. Here are places where you should shop, eat, and play. Here are things you, your husband, and your children would enjoy doing.

Cambridge is such a nice town, filled with historic grandeur mixed with the hip Harvard scene. Maybe I could bring Evan to the park more often. Maybe I could attempt the special-needs playgroup again. Or perhaps the local pool. Evan’s pretty good at pools. The swimming tires him out, keeps him distracted. I could bring a book, relax in the sun. I could mix us both fun, fruity drinks. Strawberry smoothies, virgin piña coladas. Michael and I went to Baja once, where we drank the best piña coladas, made with fresh fruit juice and rum. We’d drink them starting at sunrise, while lounging on the beach, digging our toes into the warm, white sand…