Laura Caldwell - Claim of Innocence

I regretted it as soon as I saw the strange expression on his face.

“I don’t mean that in any critical kind of way,” I said quickly. “I guess I was just thinking about it because Mom and I were talking and…” I shrugged. “I’m just wondering how you’re doing.”

My father looked around his new apartment, then back at me. “I still feel invisible.”

I felt the weight of his words, and it nearly flattened me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m used to either blending into the background or starting over. But this is different. This feeling I have, it’s more about Chicago.”

I scrunched my face in confusion.

“Chicago is one of those towns,” he said. “One where you need to know people. More than any town I’ve ever seen, even in Italy. You Chicagoans are part of your city. Either you have family here or your friends become your family, and you all seem to move forward together.”

The statement was left unsaid—and I have neither friends nor family.

“Do you know the best thing about Chicago?” I asked.

He shook his head no, looked hungry for my response.

“The best thing is that people want more friends and more family. They want to grow. They want the city to grow. They’re not trying to keep people out.”

My father frowned. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is. For the most part. People want to know interesting people. They want others to be a part of their web. It’s not exclusive.”

He crossed his arms. “So what would I do to join a web?”

Was he asking me personally because he wanted to know my world and Charlie’s? Or was he just looking for advice about making it in the city? The answer to either, I figured, was the same. “It’s up to you to stick your foot out and stop a couple of people from walking by.”

“My whole life, I have tried very, very hard to blend. I kept myself closed off.”

I saw how uncomfortable his admission made him and I knew then we were talking about more than the move to Chicago.

I nodded. “I know. But other people have done that, too. Maybe not in the way you have, but they’ve closed themselves off just the same. And they’ve gotten past it. Maybe this is your challenge now. I’m sure it’s one you can handle.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“Oh, I’ve got tons of this stuff. I just need to apply it to myself now.”

I thought about asking him about Sam, but now that I knew my father was having his own struggles, it seemed somehow wrong.

He smiled with one corner of his mouth then. “I think you’re doing fine, Izzy.”

I shifted on the stiff couch while my father just sat there, looking contemplative and sad. I wished I could help him become less invisible.

And then I had an idea.

I reached for my bag and took out the notes that Detective Vaughn had made in Valerie’s case. “I have to cross-examine a detective on Monday. I’m helping Maggie on a murder trial…” My words died off when I saw recognition in his face. “You already know all of this.”

He gave a slight bow of his head.

“How do you know this? I didn’t even know I was trying this case until yesterday.”

He didn’t look sheepish or embarrassed. He said nothing.

I felt a flicker of anger. I thought about telling him that I no longer needed him to follow me around, to see if I was okay. I thought about telling him that he should be a normal person. But the anger fizzed when I realized he was looking after me in the only way he knew how. And really, when I thought about it, was it so bad to have someone looking over my shoulder?

When I was younger, zipping through the city on my Vespa, never bothering with a helmet, I felt I hadn’t needed protection. When I was in a relationship with Sam, I hadn’t felt any desire for that, either. But when I learned Sam was going strong with Alyssa, I had suddenly liked the idea of someone else keeping an eye on me.

Thinking of Sam, I lifted my current cell phone from my purse and glanced at it. Still nothing. A flash of annoyance lit up my brain. How could he walk back into my life and then not call or text me? It was true I’d walked out on him, but still…

My dad cleared his throat. I looked at him, at his woeful expression, and the urge to help him feel less invisible returned. “Would you review these records for me?” I held out the Chicago Police Department notes for the Amanda Miller murder. “They’re written by the detective I’m crossing on Monday.”

“Of course.” His expression turned hopeful. “What do you want me to look for?”

“Anything, basically. Any inconsistencies, anything lacking.”

“Of course.”

I handed him the records. “Thanks. I guess I can leave those with you, and I’ll get another copy from Maggie.”

He looked momentarily confused. “I just need a few minutes.”

“What do you mean? You only need a few minutes to analyze the records of a Chicago homicide detective?”

“Probably less than that.” His face was flat. He wasn’t trying to be funny or impressive.

“Oh. Okay.” I stood. “Can I use your restroom while you look those over?”

He nodded, waved at the hallway.

In the bathroom, I ran the water, wanting some kind of buffer in the quiet apartment. I used the toilet, then washed my hands. I couldn’t help it then. Trying to be silent, I opened the medicine cabinet. On a slightly rusted metal shelf was a can of shaving cream, an expensive-looking chrome razor, deodorant, a wood-handled brush and nail clippers. I had more toiletries in my purse than my father had in his whole apartment.

Back in the living room, my father was still in the chair, the notes in his hand. As I came into the room, he put them on his lap. He said nothing. Although I was somewhat used to his silences, I wondered if his quiet was because he knew I’d been snooping in the bathroom.

I decided I could be just as unreadable. I sat and pointed at the notes. “Got anything?”

He smiled, and nodded.

V alerie walked around her lifeless apartment. It felt that way, she supposed, because she herself had grown more and more like that, as if she were in a walking coma, getting ready for her mind to shut down. Because prison seemed real. Imminent. And the only way she could imagine surviving that was to become someone else and put away the person she was now.

She walked into the kitchen and turned on one small light. Although she had enjoyed wine before, in her other life, she had not had a glass of wine or a cocktail for months now. She had no taste for it, had little taste for anything. But now there was a pinprick of light in the flat existence in which she had been living. It was the light of possibility.

The reason for the slice of optimism was Izzy McNeil. She completely trusted the Bristols, but neither Martin nor Maggie had wanted the whole truth. She was fine not to give it. The whole truth would cause so many more problems. But still. But still, it cheered her somehow that Izzy wanted to know, wanted to understand. She had told Valerie again today—I want to believe you.

Valerie opened the door of the refrigerator, the light from inside making a bold entrance into the dimly lit kitchen. Although the sun still shone outside, it was always dark in her home these days. She had gotten used to closing all of the blinds and drapes to keep herself away from the curious eyes of her watching neighbors.

The refrigerator was old and mustard-colored. It had been here when she’d rented the West Side apartment after Brian died. Despite her hopes that she would come into some kind of salary stream, that she would find her calling and be able to replace the appliances, maybe even move back to the Gold Coast near Bridget and Amanda, such a bounty had never happened.