She wanted me to believe it was in mine as well. The uncomfortable feeling like wearing clothes one size too small that I got every time I thought about giving it up made me worry she might be right.
10
My mom’s car was too conspicuous for a tail in the Fair Haven area, so I borrowed Mark’s truck on Thursday to drive to Dad’s Hardware Store, and I let my mom drive mine.
Becky wasn’t waiting for me out front, but I was also five minutes early, so I headed inside.
Dad’s Hardware Store always struck me as a holdout—not just against the tourist-focused names of many of the other shops but also against the big chain hardware stores. A sign in the window advertised window and screen repairs, and inside, instead of shelves full of blenders and frying pans, they had barrels full of screws and nails that they sold by the pound. Russ insisted that if something broke and the staff at Dad’s couldn’t tell you how to fix it and provide you with the supplies, you might as well throw it out because it couldn’t be salvaged. Even though the store looked clean inside, it smelled like sandpaper and grease.
I asked the first staff member I saw where to find Becky, and he pointed me back toward the desk where they cut keys. The walls on either side were covered with hammers, screw drivers, and wrenches.
Becky stood out in her surroundings, like an orchid growing in the middle of train tracks.
She looked up from locking the display case. “It’s the family business.”
She must have caught my bemused expression. “That obvious I was wondering?”
“Everyone who’s not a by-birth local wonders.” She tucked a bloated key ring into her purse and shrugged. “It wasn’t my first choice, but we don’t always get the life we wanted.”
My experience was that only the lucky few got the life they wanted. And, even then, I wondered if those people really had the life they wanted or if they only hoped everyone thought they did. I’d seen a lot more of people trying to make the best of their situations than I had of people living the charmed life of their childhood dreams.
But to say any of that would have sounded condescending. Instead, I settled on, “No, we don’t.”
Becky smiled a smile that spoke louder than words could that she thought I understood. My incident in the bedroom of The Sunburnt Arms must have earned her confidence in a way that I never could have otherwise.
I shouldn’t feel guilty since I’d done it unintentionally, but I still did. Hopefully she’d had nothing to do with Vilsack’s murder. Then she’d never need to know I’d come into this with ulterior motives hiding behind the genuine ones.
My mom kept enough following distance between us as we headed out that I wouldn’t have thought it was suspicious had I not known she was following us. I’d given her the address for the church in the next town over where the meeting was held in case she needed to deflect suspicion at any point by taking an alternate route and converging with us later.
“You don’t need to share tonight if you’re not ready,” Becky said once we were out on the highway. Her long pendant earrings swung as she turned her head to glance at me. “Everyone understands that it can sometimes take time to feel comfortable enough, and the last thing we want to do is add more stress to each other.”
I got the feeling from the way her lips twitched that was a bit of an inside joke.
“But this is a good night if you do feel ready. I was getting texts all day from people who were too sick to make it. We’ll probably be at half strength. Julia, our co-founder, is even stuck in bed.”
The more she talked, the more the pinched feeling in my stomach grew into an ache.
You’re a professional, Nicole. You have to do this.
I wasn’t here to make a new friend. If she turned out not to be the one we were looking for, then I could think about friendship. Until that point, I had to keep in mind this was also a job. I’d already turned one friend over to the police. I didn’t want to have to do it again.
I also didn’t want to be someone who used her only for her information. At the least, I could be genuine while probing her for information.
“I haven’t been able to sleep well since I learned there’d been a murder.” She didn’t need to know I’d already been struggling before that as well. I hugged my purse into my abdomen. “How are you doing? It’s probably worse for you since you worked with the victim.”
I didn’t see her move, but her earrings swung again like they were caught in an invisible breeze. “I’m managing.”
Given that we were headed to a support group where, ostensibly, everyone shared about what they were going through and what caused it, I’d expected her to open up a bit more. My mom would say it supported my theory about her guilt. Shouldn’t she have been more frightened if she had nothing to do with the murder? Shouldn’t it have affected her more?
But what she’d said earlier about how it took people time to feel safe to share in the group stuck in my mind. She could share in the group because it’d become a safe space for her. She’d invited me because she saw my fear, but she didn’t trust me fully yet.
And, honestly, she shouldn’t. Because if it turned out she’d had something to do with the murder, I’d turn on her. Or, at least, I’d turn her in, and if it’d been an accident, I’d then try to help her however I could.
The problem right now was that, if I pushed too hard, she’d never open up. I let the silence stretch instead to see if she’d naturally fill it.
“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for the group,” Becky said. Her tone suggested that she thought she might have offended me by essentially saying she was fine when I’d admitted I was struggling. “Julia and Penny started the group because they believe no one should have to go through recovering from a trauma alone. We can help each other. We understand in a way that other people can’t. You’ll see.”
She shifted the conversation to me, wanting “the scoop” on how I’d ended up dating Mark Cavanaugh and whether I missed living in the city. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the conversation back onto her. The woman was good at deflection.
Almost too good.
Whatever she’d suffered that resulted in her PTSD had also taught her how to keep a conversation focused on someone else and how to avoid questions about herself.
She was the kind of witness for the prosecution that my parents hated because she might look sweet and unassuming, but underneath she was smart and controlled. In this case, she wasn’t working for us, and it might take me longer than a single night to get any useful information from her.
We pulled into the church parking lot, and Becky parked. My mom drove on by. She’d turn back after we’d gone inside and park near enough to easily see us when we left but far enough away that Becky wouldn’t notice a woman sitting in a car, waiting and watching.
Becky led me down a set of stairs into what I assumed was a Sunday School classroom. Twelve chairs sat around a table. Pitchers of water and plates of date and lemon squares rested in the center.
Becky hadn’t been exaggerating when she said their group would be a skeleton crew tonight. Of the twelve chairs, only three were filled.
On the far side of the table was a man with a Spiderman graphic t-shirt that looked like he might have slept in it last night. He had at least two days’ worth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. He lifted a hand in greeting as we came in.
Three seats away from him sat a woman whose bag screamed mom of young children. A package of baby wipes poked out the top.
The final member sat at the end of the table as if she might be the one to lead the meeting in place of the missing Julia. She scrubbed at her glasses with a ratty tissue, with a focus intense enough that I wasn’t sure she noticed us come in.
T-Shirt Man greeted Becky by name, and the woman with the mom bag nodded at us both.
