That day, Vera closes up an hour early, unable to bear the weight of her loneliness as it stretches on. Her steps, trudging up the rickety stairs to her living space, are so heavy. It’s not in her nature to be sad, but no matter how vigorous her morning walks, the loneliness catches up, always. Before she goes to bed, she sends Tilly a reminder to go to bed early because going to bed late causes prostate cancer, everyone knows that. She doesn’t wait for a reply. She knows there won’t be one coming. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of death and wishes it was finally her turn.
The next morning, her eyes snap open as usual, and thus begins a new day. No use lying around feeling sorry for herself; a whole twenty-four hours is here to be seized in a chokehold. Dressed in her usual morning gear, visor securely on her head, Vera marches down the stairs to her teahouse, where she finds herself, for once, shocked speechless.
For there, lying in the middle of Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse, is a dead man.
THREE
JULIA
The problem with having your husband walk out on you isn’t that you find yourself missing him the day after, but that you realize just how much you don’t know how to do. Bills. Driving a car. Maintaining the house. Julia hates Marshall for walking out on her—on them—but right now, the only person Julia hates more than anyone else is Julia.
Here she is, at eleven o’clock on a beautiful San Franciscan morning, her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter playing next to her, and she can’t even decide what to make for lunch. Because for the last ten years of her life, lunch was dictated by Marshall.
I want a tuna melt, babe, he’d say, and she’d prepare a tuna melt.
How about a meatball sub? And she’d get right to making it, with meatballs from scratch.
And on the days when he had to go on business trips, she’d just make his favorites because the truth is, Julia doesn’t know what her favorites are anymore. Her favorites are whatever Marshall loved. Over the years, she’s learned to love what Marshall loves because seeing him smile and tell her, This is delicious, babe, gave her so many endorphins that she decided she loved it too. Isn’t that what being married means? Loving what the other person loves?
But last night, after ten married years and fourteen altogether as a couple, Marshall told her unceremoniously that he’d “made it” and was finally leaving her “sorry ass.” Honestly, Julia thinks as she helps Emma push a particularly stubborn piece of Lego into place, there is nothing sorry about my ass. She keeps her ass in very good shape, damn it. And it’s this ridiculous thought that smacks into her with sudden ruthlessness and triggers hot tears rushing into her eyes. Who the hell cares about her ass right now? Although, a small voice pipes up as she stifles her sobs, it really is a very good one.
She checks her phone for the millionth time, but there are no calls, no messages. Julia has been waiting for the phone to ring for so long, checking it every few minutes to make sure that it’s still working, still has both Wi-Fi and cellular connection, that when the doorbell rings, she jumps and grabs her phone.
Emma looks up from the elaborate Lego palace she’s building. “Mommy, door is ringing.”
“Huh?” It takes a second for Julia to recognize the jangle as the doorbell and not her phone, and once she does, hope and dread bloom in equal measure, fighting for space in her tightening chest. She’s suddenly finding it challenging to breathe. She stands, forcing herself to take a deep inhale, pushing her constricting rib cage out. I can breathe. I’m okay. Everything will be okay.
Maybe life might even be better without Marshall?
Nope, that’s impossible. He took care of them. He took care of everything.
By the time she reaches the door, she still has no idea what she’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter. People seem to know that Julia doesn’t have much to say. They either talk over her or ignore her entirely. She’s used to it. Anyway, it’s probably just Linda from next door pretending to drop by with cookies, wanting to know what the shouting last night was all about. Julia has to walk around the huge trash bags lined up behind the front door. She’ll have to take care of them at some point.
But when she opens the door, what she finds is very much not Linda. Two officers stand before her—a Black woman and an Asian man, both of them wearing very strange expressions. They’re sort of smiling, but the smiles are heavy and apologetic. Julia’s stomach knots painfully; those aren’t the kinds of smiles you give when you have good news to share. They’re the kinds of smiles that know they’re about to ruin someone’s life. For a fleeting moment, Julia is tempted to slam the door in their faces and lock the dead bolt. But of course, she does no such thing. Julia is nothing if not agreeable and compliant. Julia is nothing if not helpful and pliant. Julia is nothing, Marshall’s voice whispers in her head. Marshall’s voice in Julia’s head is so much meaner than the real version.
“Morning, ma’am,” the Asian officer says. “I’m Officer Ha and this is my partner, Officer Gray. Are you Julia Chen?”
Somehow, she manages to nod.
“Is it okay if we come in?” Officer Gray says.
No, she wants to shout. Nothing good is incoming from them, that much is clear. But her head nods again, bypassing her brain.
“Oh,” Officer Ha says as they walk inside and notice the trash bags. “Did a bit of spring cleaning?”
Julia’s stomach twists so violently that she almost gags. She can see Marshall’s PlayStation peeking out of the bag nearest to them. Practically brand-new. Spring cleaning. More like gathering all his things because she knows he’s not coming back.
“Something like that,” she mumbles. Quickly, she turns and almost knocks Emma over. She hasn’t even realized that Emma has attached herself to Julia’s right leg, clinging like a little koala. “Sorry, baby.” She bends down and scoops Emma up. Julia’s always surprised by how heavy her little girl has become. How tall and solid and full of possibilities. “It’s okay,” she whispers to Emma as she leads the officers into the living room. “It’s okay,” she repeats, more for her own sake than Emma’s, really.
Officer Gray smiles. “Hi, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
Julia doesn’t bother waiting for a response before answering on her daughter’s behalf. “It’s Emma.” Emma never talks to strangers. She barely even talks to their neighbors, and they’ve known the people living on this street for as long as she’s been alive. It’s one of the many things Marshall hated. Well, maybe “hate” is a strong word. Or maybe not, since he hadn’t even looked back at his daughter when he walked out last night.
“What a pretty name. It suits you,” Officer Gray says. “How old are you?”