It was late before I made it home. I drove through the town in the darkness, wondering about Ashley Wittman and where she could be. I had finished my report on the murder of Bryan Henderson, and I couldn’t—for the life of me—figure out what his connection was to Cassandra or Emma. Tom had done a great deal of work, and we could strike out several leads. Bryan Henderson didn’t work with anyone in connection to the girls; he had no relation to the Perez family or Marissa; he had never stepped foot at Cassandra’s school; and he had no links to the area where they lived, or where Cassandra’s body was found. Nothing seemed to connect them. A neighbor had called in and told us that she had seen a man come and go regularly from Marissa’s house, and I couldn’t help wondering if Marissa had a boyfriend she hadn’t told us about.
In a moment of exhaustion Tom suggested that our guy was just a random murderer who killed for the fun of it, toying with us, by choosing victims that were very different and had no connection. Then he once again questioned whether or not Emma even existed.
That’s when I decided it was time for us all to go home. We were tired and nothing good came of that. We needed rest.
I had driven up my street and into my driveway, when I realized my mother’s car was in my spot.
What’s she doing here?
I wasn’t exactly in the mood for company and especially not hers.
I exhaled and braced myself, then walked inside. I spotted Joe sitting at the dining room table, a beer in front of him. My mom was in the kitchen doing the dishes. The house smelled like food, and I saw that there was a meatloaf on the counter.
“Mom?” I said, putting down my keys. “What are you doing here?”
“Joe asked me to come.”
She smiled. It came off as very forced and uncomfortable. I knew that smile. She wanted to talk. She had that look in her eyes—of compassion, but also like she was about to tell me the hard truth about something.
“Come sit.”
I felt like a child in trouble. I opened a bottle of white wine, poured myself a glass, and then sat down at the table with Joe and took a long sip. I knew my mother well enough to know that the conversation she was about to have would be a heavy one.
“Did the kids eat?” I asked.
Joe nodded. “Your mom cooked. They’re in their rooms.”
“Good.”
“Sweetie, we need to talk,” my mother said, sitting down at the table across from me. Her voice was soft, but I could hear the edge of worry in it. She looked at my wineglass with concern, and it made me feel guilty.
I sat up straight, bracing myself for whatever was coming. “Okay, it’s been a long day, so I’m really tired. You know, with trying to solve a double homicide and all that. But by all means. Let’s talk now. No time like the present, right? What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.
Joe looked up at me, his eyes sympathetic. I didn’t want his pity.
“What’s going on?” I repeated.
My mother exhaled. “Honey. Joe has told me everything.”
I frowned. “Everything? What do you mean?”
I sipped my wine.
My mom’s lips shivered nervously. “He’s told me… he’s said that you and he are… um…” She paused, unable to get the words out. I knew she was against divorce and thought people today didn’t do enough to fight for their marriages, like she had done with my father. I knew this was going to be a blow for her, and that was probably why I hadn’t been able to tell her yet. I needed to deal with my own emotions first.
“Separating, yes,” I said. “I was going to tell you but haven’t gotten around to it yet. We haven’t exactly seen each other in a while.”
She looked at me like she felt sorry for me, her shoulders slumping, her head tilted, eyes concerned. Like I had just told her I had been fired or lost someone dear to me. It almost seemed condescending, and it infuriated me. Why did she have to worry? Couldn’t she just be proud of me for once? If for nothing else, then for the hard work I’m doing? Trying to stop a murderer?
“Yes,” she said, bobbing her head. “He told me that.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can understand why you’re upset, but in all fairness, I was going to tell you eventually. I just wanted to do it face-to-face. And I wanted to tell you so myself, but apparently Joe thought he could just blurt it out—”
She placed a hand on my arm. “He told me everything, Billie Ann. And I’m grateful he did.”
Everything? As in everything?
My eyes grew wide. I stared at her, then at Joe, then back at her, baffled at this news.
“Excuse me?”
She nodded again. “Joe told me the reason why you are splitting up. And I want you to think about this carefully, Billie Ann. Do you hear me? These things are not something you play around with.”
“These things? What things, Mom?” I asked, feeling myself getting worked up. I wasn’t surprised at her reaction, but it still angered me. I wanted her support. She was my mother, and I craved it. Of course, I did. I think anyone in my situation would want that.
“Now there is no reason to take a tone with me,” she said, her lips growing tight. “I’m only here to help.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Help? Help with what?”
“Help you to not destroy your family over something so silly, Billie Ann,” she said with a light snort.
“Did you just call the fact that I’m gay silly?” I asked. It was so ridiculous I almost laughed. Maybe I would have if it wasn’t my own mother talking to me. The very woman whose acceptance I really wanted.
“It is silly, Billie Ann. You’re not a lesbian. Look around you. You have a husband and three lovely children.”
“I do have that, but I’m still a lesbian, Mom. Besides, you aren’t much better yourself. I know your secrets, Mom—you think you successfully kept things from me and Andrew?”
My mom winced. She didn’t like anyone speaking about my little brother.
