“What am I supposed to tell people?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Gwen, you’re not being any help.” Barb turns, hands on her hips. “This helpless little girl act will not get you very far. With your permission, I’d like to contact the police myself. Someone has to take charge here. Did you find Anton’s life insurance? Have you filed a claim yet?”
“I can’t, Mom. I don’t have the death certificate yet.” She had forgotten about the life insurance. A two-million-dollar policy her parents insisted he take out when the boys were born.
“Well, why not?”
And around and around they go, discussing the logistics of death as Barb cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks them. Gwen feels herself fading. She wants it all to be over. Not just this conversation, but this whole section of her life. She wants to fast-forward to the next part, whatever it may be. Whether it is here in this cul-de-sac in Bethesda, Maryland, or in an entirely different state. She doesn’t know how she’ll get through these next few days, weeks, months. The last time she felt this way wasafter the boys were born. The dense, timeless haze of postpartum depression. She went on Zoloft and stayed on it for more than a year, until the good it was doing was outweighed by the twenty pounds she had packed on. Should she see a doctor? Ask for some pills to get through this?
At least she has Aimee. She thinks of how Aimee tended to her last night, even in her barefoot, drunken state. Aimee is more of a sister to her than her own sister, whose only contact since Anton’s death has been a text, followed by a stock image of a wreath of flowers withSorry for your losswritten in script. It took Gwen five seconds to pull up the same GIF on her phone. Unbelievable.
Through the kitchen window she spots Detective Salazar leave Aimee’s house. She adjusts the curtains so she can watch him.
“What is it?” Barb asks. “What are you looking at?”
Gwen doesn’t answer. She expects him to get into his car, but to her dismay, he begins to walk up her path. When the doorbell rings, Gwen jumps.
“Someone is at the door,” Barb says. “I’ll handle it.”
Gwen stops at the entrance of the dining room and hides behind the wall so she can overhear the conversation.
“Detective Salazar, ma’am. From the Montgomery County Police. I was wondering if Mrs. Khoury was home.”
“Gwen? She’s my daughter. And yes, she’s in the kitchen. Please come in, Detective,” Barb says. “Have a seat and I’ll get her. May I bring you some coffee? Tea?”
“Just a water, please.”
“Certainly.” Barb has gone into full hostess mode. Her voice always turns melodious when talking to men. Gwen stiffens when she hears her mother’s footsteps approaching.
“There you are,” Barb says, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen. “There’s a detective here to see you. I’m getting him some water. Why don’t you go out, and I’ll bring you a glass, too.”
Gwen feels like her limbs are made of lead as she drags herself into the living room. Nothing good can come of this visit. She takes a seat across from Salazar, giving him a little nod. Today his tie is a deep forest green, his dress shirt steel gray. She can see him in the morning, carefully choosing his clothing. He must think it reinforces his image as detail-oriented and meticulous. And he’s right. So few men are like that these days. Anton could go days in sweatpants or ill-fitting jeans, T-shirts with the names of his favorite bands, looking more like an overgrown teenager than an esteemed author. Gwen picks a golden hair of Sababa’s off her pants.
The detective jerks his head toward the dining room, where her mother has been hard at work organizing all of Anton’s things. What was chaos is now organized into neat piles and half-filled cardboard boxes.
“Looks like you’ve been busy, Mrs. Khoury,” he says.
“Yes, well, I’m not sleeping. I sort of don’t know what to do with myself.”
“So you’re packing up all your husband’s things?”
“Not exactly,” she says, more sharply than she means to. But that is what she is doing. She wants every trace of that man out of her house. Out of her life. She glances at the detective’s face. What must he think of a widow who empties the house of her husband’s belongings only a few days after he is murdered? “I’m sorry, but why did you come here? Do you have any news?” she asks. “Any suspects?”
“Were you aware that your husband was having an affair?”
The question is so abrupt and unexpected that Gwen recoils. Before she can answer, Barb bustles in with a tray and puts it on the table. “Here we go, two waters. I brought some of these little hazelnut cookies, too, in case you two were hungry. If you need anything else, I’m happy to get it.” She takes a seat next to Gwen.
“Mrs. Khoury?” the detective asks.
Gwen sputters, unable to find the words to respond. “Yes. I mean, no.”
“Which is it, yes or no?”
“I didn’t know before he died. But since his death I have learned that Anton was seeing someone.”
Barb reaches out and squeezes Gwen’s hand. “Is this an entirely necessary line of questioning?” her mother asks.