Park takes a deep breath. Despite herself, she tenses. Here we go, she thinks, and mentally slaps herself. He’s lost something here, too.
“Olivia, I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mess of things. I didn’t tell you about donating before because I was a coward. I should have said something the moment you offered to let me donate. That was so magnanimous of you, and you were hurting, and… I just couldn’t admit what I’d done. Not right then. I felt like I’d be hurting you even more, kicking you when you were down. Please, honey. Please forgive me.”
She sighs. Her brows are drawn together so tightly she can sense the divot in the tender flesh above her eyes. She idiotically waits for the morning sickness to come so she can surge out of the bed, away from his strong arms, but it’s absent. She is empty. It’s the weirdest feeling. Breasts no longer sore. Womb no longer swelling. Stomach solid as a rock. Hungry. She’s actually hungry.
Life goes on, damn her.
Park is still talking. “We’re going to get through this. I know it’s going to be rough, but I swear, Liv, we’re going to get through this.”
Focus on your husband.
“I’m not sure what there is to get through, Park. This situation is terrible, but we’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, darling, we haven’t. You’re absolutely right. But there’s probably going to be more press. We’ve gotten lucky they aren’t swarming, but in case they do, we need to decide what we want to say.”
A tiny purl of panic flows through her. “We don’t have to say anything. I don’t want to talk to the media, Park. No one’s called the past few days. They won’t, I’m sure of it.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. I do. But when they put it all together…the suspect notwithstanding, Beverly was your friend.”
“No, she wasn’t. She was someone I knew, that’s all. An acquaintance at best. I’m certainly not going to talk to the media about her.”
Because I might tell them the truth, that I hated her to the marrow for what she had that I did not.
“Okay. Okay.” He holds her again in silence. She has a sudden realization. We are never going to be parents together. This is the end for us. It hurts, but not as deeply as it should. She should be searing with pain at the loss of her marriage, of her husband, of the man she loves, but instead she feels nothing. She has been desensitized by grief. These past few years, the horrors, the high and lows, the pain, the shots, the indignities…she can’t help it; she resents him. He can’t give her what she needs. He never has. Instead, he’s given it to God knows how many other women. Park Bender’s world-class sperm. The gift that keeps on giving.
She shifts restlessly and he releases her, leaning back against the pillows so he can see her face again. Has he sensed her thoughts? Does he know the moment they’ve just had? What feels like their last moment as a team? Does he know he’s killed them dead?
She thinks that yes, he does, especially when he clears his throat and stands.
“I have to call the police and talk to them about Winterborn. I’ve been doing some research. If I give my approval, Winterborn will be able to release the names of the women who received my donations over the years. They will be able to track down my…the children, do testing, and discover who killed Beverly. It’s pretty simple, actually. There can’t be that many of them. There were limits, ethical limits.”
My children, he’d started to say. Was there the tiniest bit of a boast in his tone?
She rolls away, facing the window, letting the sun pour onto her face. “Then call and let’s get it over with.”
This time, Olivia is prepared for the cops. She has dressed carefully, an oyster shell under a dark gray blazer, wide-legged gray pants with an alligator belt cinching her waist, gray suede pumps. She has done her hair and put on makeup. Her armor is on. She is ready for the stares, the questions, the insinuations.
There will be no tears. There will be no drama. She will sit quietly by as Park exposes his transgressions, and then she will go to work.
The doorbell rings. Park comes thundering down the stairs. He looks ragged, his hair uncombed, yesterday’s jeans. “Clean yourself up,” she snaps as she enters the kitchen. “I will get them settled.”
She is the general now. She is in control. She is the Martha fucking Stewart of this chaos.
The cops are much as she left them, though she notices Moore watches her closely as if waiting for her to crack. Not happening.
“Detective Osley. Detective Moore. Please come in.”
She ignores the stare of the gossipy neighbor across the street, a woman named Terrie Lavender, who despite seeing the police has shockingly not intruded on them yet. At least, as far as Olivia knows; she’s been avoiding everyone, so it’s possible Terrie did come over, looking for news to spread to the rest of their neighbors. The odds of not getting a knock today are slim to none.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bender,” Osley says with a tip of his hat. His boots today are brown ostrich. Moore wears the same tonal outfit as before. A capsule wardrobe, most likely. She seems the type. Olivia is especially glad she looks so very put together and stylish, she of the warrior wardrobe, not one of convenience and boredom.
Judgy judgy, Olivia. You know nothing about this woman. Stop making assumptions.
The kitchen is sparkling clean. She’s made an extra pot of coffee, laid out the cups and the special biscotti she gets from the bakery in Green Hills, brought out the dessert plates from their wedding china. The gold-rimmed edges glow in their tidy stack.
Park enters the kitchen from the back stairs. Hair combed, a freshly ironed shirt, lace-up brogues. They are put together. They are cool, calm, and collected. They are innocent.
“Officers,” he says, helping himself to a cup and biscotti. He, too, seems more in control, and Olivia can tell it puts the police on edge. Their show of strength and unity has not gone unnoticed.
Coffee all around this morning. The ballerina pulls out a notebook.
Olivia speaks first. “We have some information we’d like to share with you.”
“And we have some to share with you,” Moore says. “Maybe we should go first.”
“By all means,” Olivia says, scooting deeper in the chair. She doesn’t have any idea what is going on, but the ballerina and the cowboy both seem about to burst with some sort of news.
“We find ourselves in an interesting moment in time in criminal investigation. Many new resources have presented themselves in the past few years. Resources we didn’t have access to before. Databases are better linked, which is obviously how we were able to tie the DNA from the Cooke crime scene to you, Mr. Bender, from the case in Chapel Hill. But a few days ago, we received an interesting tip, and because of it, our lab has rerun the data. We’ve been waiting for confirmation because this is an extremely delicate matter.”
Park nods. “I assume you’re talking about Winterborn. That’s why we asked you to come over this morning.”
“Winterborn?” Osley asks, innocence personified.
Park sounds like he’s teaching in front of his class, not sitting in his kitchen. Smug. She’s never liked it when he does that, condescending to protect his fragile ego. “Yes. I was caught off guard when we first spoke, and with everything we’ve been going through…this is obviously a very personal line of questioning, but in the spirit of full disclosure, we’ve been struggling with infertility. Olivia’s lost several babies—”