This Story Might Save Your Life(13)

“So you’re telling me…” Keller inhales noisily. “So you’re telling me there could be dozens of people who are angry with you?”

“We think the worst of it is over, but … yeah.” I swallow nervously. “Or more.”

Sucking her teeth, gaze held on me, Keller plucks the handheld from her belt. “And the narcolepsy? Have there been any alarming developments of late?”

“Not that we’re aware,” I say. “But it can be pretty unpredictable if not well managed. She never messes with her schedule. Not unless something is wrong.”

“All right.” Keller exchanges a glance with Price. “That’s enough for now. I’m calling in a team to process the scene.”

“Wait.” Mallory pushes off from the wall. “Really? You’re taking this seriously? You really think something happened to them?”

“We were never not taking this seriously.” Keller is already walking away. Over her shoulder, she says, “Go upstairs. I’ll have more questions for you in a bit.”



* * *



MALLORY AND I sit side by side on the green microsuede couch upstairs as we wait for our own personal episode of CSI to begin.

“This is bad,” Mallory keeps saying, rocking in place. “This is bad.”

I agree. This is bad. “We should’ve called the cops right away.”

Mallory straightens at the sound of Keller and Price ascending the stairs. They take the wing chairs to either side of the coffee table and, without ceremony, give us the lowdown: they’ll be putting out a BOLO, tracking credit cards, pinging cell phones. A team will be canvassing the neighborhood. The house will take anywhere from a few hours to a few days to process, depending on what evidence they find.

I stare at the Batchelder-tile fireplace, the one Joy mistakenly called a “bachelor” fireplace until Xander corrected her in his singsongy accent. All at once, it’s too real. I want to cover my ears. I want it to stop.

Keller releases a phlegmy cough into her elbow. Her amber eyes study us before she reaches for her phone. “I took a minute to check their socials while I was downstairs.”

She shows us the screen. On it is Joy, all teeth and chunky brown bangs, single dimple on full display, snuggling on this very couch with a golden-haired Xander. Caught mid-laugh, they look like models posing for a furniture ad. “Is this a good picture of them?”

My heart pangs as I nod.

Within an hour, technicians arrive in gloves and booties, hairnets and jumpsuits. My fingerprints are taken. Mallory’s fingerprints are taken. My headache fires up like an emergency roadside flare, and I start seeing dots; I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I want to leave, and I want to stay, and I can’t stay because the house is now being treated as a potential crime scene, and I can’t leave without doing one thing.

“I left my bag in the office,” I say when it’s time for us to go.

Keller tells Price to escort me, but I’m downstairs before he’s out of his chair. There are sounds coming from Joy’s bathroom, where at least two members of the tech team are working. My pulse thunders as I quickly grab what I need from the recording room. By the time Price joins me, I’m rubbing Fonzie’s shiny ducktail for good luck.

“Where do I know that guy from?” he asks.

I turn to him, heart still pumping with adrenaline. It’s an innocent enough question, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to explain.

Before Mallory and I leash the dogs, I catch Keller for one last question. “Should I make an announcement? On the podcast? In case our listeners have any information?”

“I can’t stop you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” Keller shakes her head for emphasis.

I thank her and promise to be in touch.

It’s dark outside when Mallory and I exit onto the street. In the most abstract sense, I’ve been aware of the light changing through the windows, but it still feels like a betrayal. The world shouldn’t be spinning on its stupid axis as if nothing has changed. My head pounds as we let the dogs into the back of Mallory’s Jeep. They’re excited; they think they’re going on an adventure. I take the passenger seat and wait for Mallory to get in. She buckles up, fixes the mirrors. The Jeep is quiet except for the dogs panting in the back, and I’m about to ask why we’re not moving when she slams her hands against the steering wheel. “Fuuuuck.”

I exhale all the air from my lungs. “I know.”

Eventually, she starts the car. Before putting it into drive, she turns to me. “What’s that?”

I look down at the swag bag cradled in my lap. “Just my things,” I lie.





Joy Moore


EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT

Twelve Years Ago

It came out of the blue. A heart attack at the gas station. Ronald set the pump and sat down in the driver’s seat of his pickup truck, and by the time someone noticed him slumped over the center console he was already gone. Benny went home to settle the estate and ended up staying for three months. Despite Helen’s early death evidencing the fragility of life, no one had accounted for the possibility of Ronald’s early death, and his affairs were a mess. My heart broke for my best friend. He was still coming to terms with the loss of his mother, and now, without any warning, he was an orphan. I offered to come visit, but he didn’t want me to travel alone. It was early days with a new cognition-enhancing drug, and I was suffering from vertigo and migraines.