Page 19 of Remember Me

“We’re losing her!”

“Code blue emergency!”

Then, a white light.

CHAPTER 14

Finn

Seven a.m. I’m in the kitchen, making coffee. Hoping the caffeine will pour some life into me. Another sleepless night in my empty bed, I feel like a zombie. Only my heartbeat lets me know I’m alive. The timer dings, and almost simultaneously, the doorbell rings.

I hate the doorbell. All week along it’s been constantly ringing, neighbors bringing over food and flowers. The bell rings again. It must be yet another neighbor, checking in on me or bringing me a fricking fruitcake or some other do-gooder crap to cheer me up. Don’t these people know that I just want to be left alone, mourn the loss of my wife, and take care of my child? Sweets can’t sugarcoat my aching soul. Or bring back my Skye.

Maddie’s still in her crib, sound asleep. I hope the doorbell doesn’t wake her. She used to wake up with a gleeful coo. Now, she wakes up crying. She misses her mother. I know it. I do too.

The bell rings again, but this time it’s followed by a fierce rap. Dressed in sweats and a ratty old T-shirt, I take a quick sip of my coffee and hurry to the front door, hoping to get to it before the fracas gets to be too much. I unlock the deadbolt, expecting to see another neighborhood matron with cheap store-bought flowers or a Saran-wrapped platter of home-baked cookies. Wanting to come in to offer their condolences and make small talk about my wife when I know they’re here to ogle me.

Grief is still burning in my chest like a bonfire. I’m in no mood for people. No mood for conversation. Ready with my brief gratitude speech filled with trite platitudes, I swing thefront door open and am caught off guard by my visitors. The muscles in my forehead lift as I take them in. One is a medium–height stocky man with a head of thick jet black hair that defies his fifty or so years and clad in a shabby trench coat; the other a taller, younger, crew-cut male wearing an ill-fitting blue suit that hangs on his lanky physique, chewing a wad of gum. Before I can say a word, the older, heavier one reaches into the pocket of his rumpled coat.

“Detective Pete Billings from the Los Angeles Police Department.” His voice laced with an unmistakable Jersey accent, he shows me his shiny badge and introduces his companion. “And my partner, Lieutenant Mancuso.” The scrawny officer likewise shows me his badge.

“Can we come in?” asks the detective.

Puzzled, I agree to let the two cops in and lead them to the living room. Billings settles into an armchair, making himself at home, while his partner heads to the chair next to him. I take a seat on the couch facing them.

The detective’s dark eagle-sharp eyes survey the room, stopping on my abstract paintings scattered on the walls. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, wondering what the point of their visit is.

“Mind if I have a piece of this?” he asks, already helping himself to a slice of the fruitcake that’s sitting on the coffee table.

“Sure, go ahead,” I say as he stuffs his mouth, crumbs falling onto his lapels.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, his mouth full of the candied cake.

“What can I do for you?” I ask as his partner withdraws a small yellow-lined pad from his breast pocket along with a pen.

“We have a couple of questions to ask you.”

“Okay.” My voice is tenuous.

“What kind of marriage did you and your wife have?”

I’m somewhat taken aback, but I answer. “We had a good one. We loved each other very much.”

The detective nods. “I see. But after seven years together, you must have had some little problems. Me and the missus always get into squabbles.”

I twist my wedding band. I haven’t been able to bring myself to take it off.

“We had a hard time conceiving a baby. We went through years of fertility treatments.”

“They’re very expensive, aren’t they?”

“Skye’s health insurance paid for most of them. It was more the emotional toll they took on us. A lot of years of trying with no results.”

“But you have a kid.”

“We got lucky one night.”

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