“Mrs. Lavenza, this is the Auburn Police Department. This is our third attempt to contact you. Your—Mrs. Lavenza, your husband is missing, has been missing for weeks, and your children need you. Please call us—”
The first two attempts to contact Angela had been more formal. She hoped that this dispatcher, or cop, had been written up, or disciplined. Or fired. You don’t call someone two weeks after a man disappears and guilt her for not responding. Angela responded. She came back to cops, and two children staring at her like she was some strange animal.
Both cops offered Angela their badges for scrutiny. Each had a coffee from the airport kiosk, and one had donuts. The woman carefully applied cream cheese to her bagel like she needed to distance herself from the stereotype. The man, standing, seemed short. His partner didn’t rise when Angela arrived, but she thought the woman would be taller than him. Angela wondered whether that bothered him. Whether they ever thought about dating, or whether his height would be a problem, whether it would be worth it to flout the rules of fraternizing among coworkers to be together. Angela wanted to know if either of them was married and whether that would stop them.
“Officer Moritz, Portland police,” the man said. “We know this is a hard time for you, and your sons.” He gestured to them. Angela glanced at them, and then looked back at Moritz. The kids were still staring at her, had been since she walked up. They were silent while she nodded at the cops, while Moritz offered her a donut, while Moritz spoke like their father was already dead. Both kids were tall. One was a little shorter, with the white hair of blonde babies, while the other was a light brunette. They were—in their teens. Thirteen and fourteen? They were gangly and stretched. Their dark eyes, like ink, glimmered in the airport’s florescent lighting.
“I promise you,” Moritz said, “that the Auburn department is doing everything it can, but anything you can tell us will go far.” He glanced lizard-quick between Angela and the kids. The smile on his lips refused to settle into place, like it might be leaving quickly. He had a gun on his belt. So did she. They had the holsters snapped closed, but Angela could see the gleam of metal through the cloth. She tightened her grip on her suitcase.
“Unfortunately, Eric and I didn’t stay in contact,” she said. “I’d tell you anything I knew. Anything I hear from him, or I find out, I’ll tell you.” The cops nodded. The lady cop got to her feet; her partner’s forehead would be about even with her chin. Angela knew the kids were still staring at her, thought they were still staring at her, but one of them—either Matthew or Joseph—had to put his phone away when the group began walking.
These cops saw them fed and out of Portland. They watched Angela, like they thought she had something to do with Eric going missing. They measured each morsel of small talk like it would reveal details, holes in her alibi, and her plans to murder these kids. Moritz and his partner handed off the woman and children midway between Portland and Auburn to another cop—and a social worker.
Joanne Andersen, who insisted on being called by her first name, worked for the county. She wore a dark skirt suit that matched the bags under her eyes. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the leftover fish and chips and then began talking nonstop.
“I’m so glad they found you,” she told Angela. Joanne sat in the back seat to one side. The blonde—either Joseph or Matthew—sat squeezed between her and his brother. “I’ve been staying with the boys, with check-ins with the police as they investigated Mr. Lavenza’s things. I couldn’t dig up any closer family. I mean, family that was closer. I was so glad that the police found your number. I’m so glad you’re here.” She was so glad Angela was staying with the kids, so glad she, Joanne, was staying with them all for a few days, so glad, just so glad. When there was a break in the so-gladness, Angela asked the cop, driving to Eric’s house, whether there was any information on Eric. His short, empty answers suggested that he, like Moritz and his partner, thought Angela might have, or be, their information on Eric. Joanne chatted with the kids, who only spoke to each other. The quiet, sandy sound of their whispers scraped on Angela. She was grateful when the car pulled up to the house.
The kids and the social worker clambered out as soon as the car stopped moving. Angela stayed behind with the cop, staring at the shabby house, its shaggy yard, and the run-down world around them both. The brown paint on Eric’s house was peeling to reveal yellow paint underneath—also peeling. This wasn’t her car, and the cop was still waiting to leave. Angela opened the car door. Her reward: a whiff of humid air scented with too many people in too close an area for too long: sweat, sunbaked pavement, dogs, buckets filled with tepid rainwater and mosquito larva. Who could bear to leave this behind?
The first two attempts to contact Angela had been more formal. She hoped that this dispatcher, or cop, had been written up, or disciplined. Or fired. You don’t call someone two weeks after a man disappears and guilt her for not responding. Angela responded. She came back to cops, and two children staring at her like she was some strange animal.
Both cops offered Angela their badges for scrutiny. Each had a coffee from the airport kiosk, and one had donuts. The woman carefully applied cream cheese to her bagel like she needed to distance herself from the stereotype. The man, standing, seemed short. His partner didn’t rise when Angela arrived, but she thought the woman would be taller than him. Angela wondered whether that bothered him. Whether they ever thought about dating, or whether his height would be a problem, whether it would be worth it to flout the rules of fraternizing among coworkers to be together. Angela wanted to know if either of them was married and whether that would stop them.
“Officer Moritz, Portland police,” the man said. “We know this is a hard time for you, and your sons.” He gestured to them. Angela glanced at them, and then looked back at Moritz. The kids were still staring at her, had been since she walked up. They were silent while she nodded at the cops, while Moritz offered her a donut, while Moritz spoke like their father was already dead. Both kids were tall. One was a little shorter, with the white hair of blonde babies, while the other was a light brunette. They were—in their teens. Thirteen and fourteen? They were gangly and stretched. Their dark eyes, like ink, glimmered in the airport’s florescent lighting.
“I promise you,” Moritz said, “that the Auburn department is doing everything it can, but anything you can tell us will go far.” He glanced lizard-quick between Angela and the kids. The smile on his lips refused to settle into place, like it might be leaving quickly. He had a gun on his belt. So did she. They had the holsters snapped closed, but Angela could see the gleam of metal through the cloth. She tightened her grip on her suitcase.
“Unfortunately, Eric and I didn’t stay in contact,” she said. “I’d tell you anything I knew. Anything I hear from him, or I find out, I’ll tell you.” The cops nodded. The lady cop got to her feet; her partner’s forehead would be about even with her chin. Angela knew the kids were still staring at her, thought they were still staring at her, but one of them—either Matthew or Joseph—had to put his phone away when the group began walking.
These cops saw them fed and out of Portland. They watched Angela, like they thought she had something to do with Eric going missing. They measured each morsel of small talk like it would reveal details, holes in her alibi, and her plans to murder these kids. Moritz and his partner handed off the woman and children midway between Portland and Auburn to another cop—and a social worker.
Joanne Andersen, who insisted on being called by her first name, worked for the county. She wore a dark skirt suit that matched the bags under her eyes. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the leftover fish and chips and then began talking nonstop.
“I’m so glad they found you,” she told Angela. Joanne sat in the back seat to one side. The blonde—either Joseph or Matthew—sat squeezed between her and his brother. “I’ve been staying with the boys, with check-ins with the police as they investigated Mr. Lavenza’s things. I couldn’t dig up any closer family. I mean, family that was closer. I was so glad that the police found your number. I’m so glad you’re here.” She was so glad Angela was staying with the kids, so glad she, Joanne, was staying with them all for a few days, so glad, just so glad. When there was a break in the so-gladness, Angela asked the cop, driving to Eric’s house, whether there was any information on Eric. His short, empty answers suggested that he, like Moritz and his partner, thought Angela might have, or be, their information on Eric. Joanne chatted with the kids, who only spoke to each other. The quiet, sandy sound of their whispers scraped on Angela. She was grateful when the car pulled up to the house.
The kids and the social worker clambered out as soon as the car stopped moving. Angela stayed behind with the cop, staring at the shabby house, its shaggy yard, and the run-down world around them both. The brown paint on Eric’s house was peeling to reveal yellow paint underneath—also peeling. This wasn’t her car, and the cop was still waiting to leave. Angela opened the car door. Her reward: a whiff of humid air scented with too many people in too close an area for too long: sweat, sunbaked pavement, dogs, buckets filled with tepid rainwater and mosquito larva. Who could bear to leave this behind?
This is such a great start to this story. I love the little details that hint at the truth - the boys eyes, how little she knows about them, the sound of their voices - knowing what's coming, those little hints are so shudder-inducing =) .
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