Page 74 of Dying to Meet You
I’m finishing up my shower when I hear Natalie wail. Before I can even process the sound, I’m slapping at the faucet and grabbing my towel. I trip over the bath mat and career out the door.
“Natalie?”
She crouches on her bed, curled around her laptop, tears streaming down her face.
“What’s happened?”
Face crumpling, she shows me her computer screen.Area Man Arrested in Connection with Mansion Murder. Bile creeps up my throat as I squint at the page to find his name.
She scrolls down, and Harrison’s mug shot appears.
Oh God.
Perching on the bed, I skim the article, trying to take in facts with a muddled brain. Harrison was arrested “on a warrant for a probation violation,” but they’re “questioning him in connection with the murder of Tim Kovak.”
If he’s innocent, I feel sick. If he did it, I’ll feel sicker.
“I’m not going,” my daughter sobs.
“What?”
“My last exam. Call me in sick.”
“Let me get dressed,” I say, trying to wrap my head around Harrison’s arrest.
Numbly, I move through the rituals of the day, pulling on socks and trying to figure out what you’re supposed to do when your daughter’s father is arrested. There’s no playbook for this.
I walk downstairs—out of earshot—and call the biology teacher. “Mr.Blinkman, I know the timing is terrible,” I say, my voice shaking. “But we’re having a family emergency. I need to keep Natalie at home today.”
One of the blessings of sending your child to an outrageously priced prep school is having the teacher’s phone number handy. The downside is the curious tone in his voice.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says. “I hope everything is going to be okay?”
“I sure hope so. Can she email you this weekend about a retake?”
“Of course she can. Please remind her that the honor code forbids her to talk to her friends about how the test went.”
“Absolutely. I’ll make sure of it.”
After hanging up, I towel off my hair and try to think. Could Harrison really have done this? Two days ago, I’d told Natalie that her father might be a dangerous man. But I didn’t want to be right. I feel no relief that he’s been arrested.
After another deep breath, I get off the couch and climb the stairs again. At the top, Natalie’s closed bedroom door feels like the Berlin wall.
I rap lightly with a knuckle. “Natalie? The bio teacher is giving you an extension.”
“Whocares.” The door suddenly flies open. “Didyoudo this? Did you tell the cops you think he’s guilty?”
“No.” But I’m quailing inside. “The detectives knew he was in town before I did.”
She squints at me with bloodshot eyes. “Did you tell them there’sno wayhe did this? Because there’s just no way!”
I’m not sure which one of us she’s trying to convince.
“He’ll get a lawyer,” I say quietly. “And if he didn’t do it, they won’t find him guilty.”
“God, Mom. That’s so naïve.” Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. “He needs agoodlawyer.”
“Sweetheart, this is not your problem to solve.”
