Look Closer

“Facebook, that’s how.” She pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket and hands it to me. A printout from a Facebook page—Lauren’s, I assume—well, actually, I know, because I remember reading it back then—from May 12, 2010:

So excited to return to Chicago next week to celebrate my parents’ 35th! I’ll be in through Memorial Day at the Drake!

I hand the sheet back to her, keep a blank face. Jane Burke is a very good detective. But if she’s here, it means she’s lost the battle.

She walks up to me. “Just so you know—I know. I know you did all of this. Your father, Lauren, and Nick Caracci. And you’re gonna walk from the whole damn thing.”

She brushes past me and heads for the door.

“Hey, Jane?”

She turns at the door.

“Grace Village has one damn smart detective on the force,” I say.

She gives me a deadpan expression. “Coming from anyone else on the face of the earth,” she says, “I’d consider that a compliment.”

102

Vicky

I can only make dinner last so long. The girls and I order some food for Adam and drive back to the house. I’ve tried to stay engaged with the kids during dinner, Macy being so excited about her pierced ears, but all I can do is rehearse my lines.

Not that there’s much to rehearse. Deny everything, and if they back you into a corner, refuse to answer.

Where was I on Halloween, Officer? Why, I was at my apartment I’m renting in Delavan, Wisconsin, answering the door to trick-or-treaters.

I left my cell phone there, per the plan. I didn’t stream a continuous series of episodes off Netflix like Simon did, but my phone was there, regardless. It would ping the nearest cell tower at least a few times, even if not doing much of anything besides refreshing.

Christian Newsome? Never heard of him. Nick Caracci? Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.

My car? I drive a beater 2007 Chevy Lumina. You want to check the plates to see if they were ever recorded by tollway cameras or local POD cameras in Chicago? Go ahead and check. They never were. That car hasn’t been over the Wisconsin border since I moved to Delavan almost a year ago.

Oh, I may have used a Jeep to travel back and forth to Chicago, but that vehicle’s long gone now, and the registration won’t come back to me or Simon, anyway.

Simon Dobias? Never met him, Officer. You mean the guy who let me talk to him for hours and hours after my first SOS meeting, who scraped me off the floor a week later, when I was about to follow my sister, Monica, into the world of overdosing—me on cocaine, not oxy?

You mean the guy who forced me into rehab, who paid for the whole thing, and who was waiting for me when I came out?

You mean the guy who convinced me to give life another shot?

No, I’ve never met that man. Never heard of him.

—

I drive back to the house, humoring the girls, laughing at their jokes, but inside, a dull ache fills me. I’m ready, though. I have no idea what you’re talking about, Officer. My answers will be confident but not too perfect.

When I turn onto the street, I see immediately that the police vehicle is gone. Relief floods through me. I park in the garage. The kids fly into the house.

“Daddy, I got my ears pierced!”

I walk in slowly, my pulse decelerating, the adrenaline draining from me. The M&Ms are bouncing around the house, heading upstairs to his bedroom and home office, opening the basement door.

“Where’s Daddy?”

I spot him outside, in the backyard, staring out. Something in his hand . . . a cigarette?

“Girls, put his dinner on the counter. He’s outside. I’m going to talk to him. Just me,” I say as Macy rushes for the door. “Give us a minute, please, Mace?”

—

“Hey.”

Adam is standing by a stone fountain in the backyard, empty this time of year. He is underdressed for the cold, just a light sweater on with blue jeans. A cigarette burns in his hand.

“Since when do you smoke?” I say.

“Since pretty much never.” He looks at the cigarette and tosses it in the grass, stamps it out with his foot. “Monica started smoking to get over the OxyContin. Always seemed dumb. But I’d have gone along with anything that made her stop those pills. I even smoked a few cigarettes with her. Now, every once in a while, when I think of her, I light one up. Isn’t that the dumbest thing?”

“You’re thinking about her,” I say.

He glances in my direction, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “The attorney general’s office was here. The people I complained to after Monica’s overdose? Remember I filed that complaint?”