Olivia cuts her eyes at Park. What the hell has he been saying to them?
“I don’t know her. Didn’t. Not well. We were in a book club together, years ago. I don’t know what happened to her. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Oh, we understand. That’s not why we’re here.” Osley glances at his partner. The woman is taller than he is, graceful in the way of ex–ballet dancers even in her street clothes, with a long, supple neck, hooded green eyes devoid of makeup and blond hair twisted into a thick no-nonsense bun worn low, brushing the collar of her shirt.
“Why are you here, exactly?” Olivia asks.
Park frowns at her tone. She’s come across too sharp, but my God, what she’s already handled this morning would break a lesser woman.
“It’s about our suspect in the Cooke case. Can we sit down?”
Olivia reigns in her self-loathing fury and turns on the charm. The consummate hostess act always works. Park has taught her that. “Oh, of course. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? We were making breakfast. Can we offer you some eggs, or a muffin? I have a fresh pan here—”
“No, ma’am, we’re fine,” Moore demurs. “Let’s sit down and have a chat.”
Olivia has a moment of sheer freak-out. Was it Park? Had he killed Beverly Cooke? Was that why they wanted to talk, because he was a suspect? If he was a suspect, would the police sit down with them casually in the kitchen? Wouldn’t they want something more official? Take him to the station? Did they need to call a lawyer? Her mind was going fifty thousand miles an hour, and Park was already convicted and in prison, and she was so alone in the big house, so lonely, before she reached a hand to pull out the chair.
She needs to knock off the true crime podcasts. Her husband is not a murderer. He is incapable of that kind of deceit.
Isn’t he?
Sometimes she wonders.
“Nice kitchen,” Osley says.
“Thank you.”
Olivia loves her kitchen. It is the model for all her signature looks. Airy, open, white cabinets with iron pulls, leathered white marble counters. A black granite–topped island just the right size for chopping and serving, light spilling in from the big bay window. A white oak French country table with elegant cane-backed chairs. It was the heart of her home, the heart of her life with Park.
Now, though, it is simply the site of his greatest betrayal. Forevermore, from this morning—with the burned eggs and the somber police and Park’s face whiter than bone—until the end of her tenure here, and even then, in remembrance, she would look at this precious place with fury and sadness for what could have been. The ghosts of the life they were supposed to have clung to her, suckled her spirit like a babe at her breast never would. Everywhere she looked were echoes of the shadow existence she was supposed to be living. Here, a frazzled mother, smiling despite her fatigue at the children she’d created. There, a loving father, always ready to lend a hand tossing a ball or helping with homework. And look, a trio of towheaded boys and a soft blonde princess girl, the teasing and laughter of their mealtimes. How the table would seem to grow smaller as the boys got older and took up more space. The girlfriends came, the boyfriends. The emptiness when it was just the two of them again, the children grown with their own lives, the table bursting at holidays only. The grandchildren, happiness and racket, the noise and the joy creeping out from the woodwork again.
She is alone. She will always be alone. She will not have this life. She will not have this dream.
Park made it so.
* * *
As the detectives continue to speak, softly, without rancor, and her world splinters, Olivia hardens, compresses, shrinks. She watches her husband and holds on to one small thought.
I have the power to destroy you, too. Dear God, give me the chance.
2
THE HUSBAND
“Mr. Bender, we have a problem,” the detective begins, and Park feels Olivia’s sable eyes rest on him. He ignores her. He has no idea what’s going on, why these detectives are sitting in his kitchen gravely preparing him for...something. Olivia is fairly vibrating with suppressed excitement. She will feel important that the police have come to them for information. She’s been obsessing about the woman’s disappearance, about her peripheral connection to Beverly Cooke. She will be on the phone the second they leave, sharing this news with Lindsey, her best friend, who also happens to be his sister, or her mother, Gwen, who retired down in Mexico with Olivia’s father last year. Maybe someone he doesn’t know. Whoever she can raise on a moment’s notice on an early Tuesday morning. His wife the extrovert. She complements him, he knows that. Opposites attract. Isn’t that what they say?
Park is quiet with those outside his family. He left the classroom because when it came right down to it, he hated having to get in front of a group and talk, especially to impressionable kids. He wants nothing more than a good cup of coffee and a quiet morning with his words. And a baby, of course, to break the silence in ways he can understand, to bring Olivia down to earth. An anchor: not a weight, but a lodestone for the two of them to create and share.
He needs to approach his agent about another deal. He is getting too short for comfort. They burned through all the money from his last advance on the fertility treatments. Olivia doesn’t know how precarious things have become. He’s sheltered her as much as possible, created a nest of warmth and finery for her, given her his attention, his money, his essence, anything so she will get and stay pregnant, and not look too closely at what they don’t have.
He feels her presence next to him, their presence, and his heart lightens. Those days are over. No more shots and pills and surgical interventions. No more Penthouse and jacking off into a cup to the Muzak-twisted strains of “Sweet Home Alabama.” The indignities he’s suffered. No one takes the men into account when the journey to artificially conceive is started. They have the easy part, after all. It’s only when the couple can’t conceive properly that things get interesting.
It isn’t him. This they know unequivocally. His swimmers are Olympic caliber.
Thank God it’s all over, thank God she’s held onto this one. Twelve weeks. Heartbeats heard and avuncular grins from the doctors. Her skin glowing like a pearl, the little smile she walks around with, gently touching her stomach when she doesn’t know he’s looking. He loves her more now than when he married her. His beautiful, mercurial Olivia. She is giving him everything he’s ever wanted.
But babies cost money, too. He needs to make the call to New York today.
“Mr. Bender,” the detective says again, clearing his throat as if the words he’s about to speak taste bad. “In the Cooke case, a small amount of alien DNA was found in her car.”
DNA.