This Story Might Save Your Life(67)
I restore my head to its natural position, understanding anew the expression on her face when I arrived. She bites her lip and waits for my reaction. I know how I look. How this looks.
“Oh” is all I say.
“And I know I’m just a stranger to you, but … um…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap, and immediately hate myself. “I’m sorry, I just … don’t.”
She nods several times, clearly disappointed. And even though I barely have the energy to speak, I find myself asking, penitently, “Is this your first time here?”
She ducks her head slightly. “Third.” She can’t be more than twenty-five. I learn that her name is Mitali. She doesn’t have any children, but she hopes for a gaggle one day. “I just have to figure out a few things first.” She says this with resolve that doesn’t reach her eyes. “There are moms here with three, four young ones. I don’t want to end up like them. I don’t want my children to see this place.”
A question forms on my lips that I have no right to ask. Because it’s true—she’s a stranger to me. But we do share one thing, the same terrible thing that brought us here. And for some reason I need to know. “You want children … with your husband?”
She blinks several times. More quietly, she says, “I do.”
Sadness permeates my entire person. I do my best not to react. “How did you meet him?”
Her shoulders relax; a slight smile plays at her lips. “My parents wanted me to marry someone else. A man who was twenty years older than me. We were strangers, but he was rich. My mother said, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you a house.’”
This I know to be true. “And?”
“And I said no. I moved to Los Angeles, and I met Arturo, who was not old enough to be my father, or rich, or even Indian. He is, some might say, nothing special. But he fills something inside of me.” She touches her chest. “And I am aware of how it sounds, me being here and saying these things. But he’s a good man. He just needs to grow up.”
“Does it help, you being here?”
She lets out a sad laugh. “You must think I’m a fool.”
I shake my head, wondering if anyone else has clued in to their secret. If they have the type of relationship people envy on social media. If she believes she’s happy. “I don’t think that.”
“I come to the shelter to give him a break from himself. When I return, he’s much better.” Averting her eyes, she adds quietly, “We’re much better.”
My queasiness has returned, and I don’t want her to have to explain herself further, so I say, simply, “Thank you. For your honesty.”
Nodding, she stands and stretches her back; it cracks twice. “I should go. It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Don’t forget to clear your data before you leave.”
The computer hums in the quiet room. Alone, my thoughts turn to Benny. He’ll have read the memoir by now. He knows the secrets I’ve been too ashamed to share. I’m not ready to talk, not yet, and I need to sleep. But there is one thing I can do to let him know I’m all right. I pull up our website and click through to the submissions page, then type in a few words.
A tingly rush of nerves floods through me as I press send. I stare at the screen, fingertips pressed to my lips. On impulse, I pull up another tab and type in my name. The loading icon spins and spins. I’m ready to give up when the page fills with words.
I am instantly lightheaded.
Famous podcaster Joy Moore still missing after husband found dead in Angeles National Forest …
Search continues for podcaster Joy Moore after producer husband found dead …
LAPD searching for missing podcaster Joy Moore; foul play suspected in husband’s recent death …
The words come at me in waves. Missing. Dead. Foul play. I’m trembling so violently I can barely click the first link. Blinking spots out of my eyes, I skim the article and close out of the browser. I barely make it to my private bathroom before I’m sick.
Benny Abbott
Day Four
It’s nearly noon when I exit my bedroom, though I’ve only managed a few hours of fitful sleep. In the living room, I head straight for the front windows.
“Still there,” Sarah says as I peek through the curtains.
The reporters have multiplied. There are now at least a dozen parked outside. We tried shooing them away this morning, but that only revved them up.
Sarah hands me a mug of coffee. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip and press a palm to my forehead where a migraine is forming. “Any word?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you think the cameras are at Joy’s house too?”
“Mallory says no.”
At the mention of Mallory my muscles tense. “You talked to her?”
Sarah searches my face. “I’m sure there’s more to the story, Benny.”
I haven’t been able to get Keller out of my head since I left the station. Is this out of context? I keep trying to remember it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a suspect. In a way that doesn’t make me feel guilty. Does Joy love you back? As much as you love her? I need Mallory to tell me everything she said.