Daisy helps her husband into bed after picking him up at the VGH ER. Her emotions are a churning quagmire of relief and anxiety. She’d been so worried when Jon was not home by 1:00 a.m. that she phoned one of the colleagues Jon was supposed to have been out with, entertaining the Chinese clients. But the colleague said they all left the supper club around 10:00 p.m. He thought Jon was headed straight home.
Daisy was about to call the police when her phone rang. It was Jon. He was at VGH. He’d experienced a blackout on his way back to his car after dinner. Someone found him passed out on the sidewalk and called for an ambulance. Jon said the ER doctor believed he’d experienced a minor stroke. He was okay, but he needed to return for a follow-up, and he should make an appointment to see a specialist.
“Thank God for the Good Samaritan who found you,” Daisy whispers as she seats herself on the side of the bed, holding his hand. “This could have ended up so differently.”
He closes his eyes, nods. She strokes his hair. He looks awful. Pale as a ghost. His eyes are dark hollows. He smells of vomit.
“We can clean you up in the morning,” she whispers and kisses his cheek. “I am so thankful to have you home.”
He nods again with his eyes closed and squeezes her hand.
Daisy turns the lights way down, but not off completely. And she goes downstairs to make some tea.
As she puts the kettle on, she says a silent thank-you to whoever runs the universe. When it comes right down to the wire, as with this close call tonight, Daisy realizes she doesn’t want to be a single mother. Ever. She wants her husband at her side when their son is born. She needs Jon. She needs him to be a good and faithful man in sickness and in health until death do them part. Tears fill her eyes. She’s always needed that. From the day she met him at school. It’s why she was so damaged when he made stupid mistakes. It’s why she tried desperately to clean up after him. Daisy needs to believe she married the right man. She needs to believe he is good. And that he will be a wonderful father. And that he loves her. Because what is the alternative?
Daisy refuses to accept the alternative.
People might call it cognitive dissonance. Psychologists might point out to her that humans are perfectly capable of believing two opposing ideas at the same time, or engaging in behaviors that contradict their core beliefs. They might tell her that humans are highly adept at inventing thoughts and narratives to support the dissonance within. Daisy knows this is true. She’s able to bury dark things deep in her subconscious and to look the other way. It’s a survival tool. All she wants is to survive.
Daisy wipes her tears. She hopes her son will grow up good. There’s so much pressure on guys to “man up,” to “be a man,” to “take it like a man.” Jon had that pressure but no male mentor to help him navigate this world. His own father abandoned him. He was raised by a single mom. He was a lost boy who constantly sought to prove himself. Perhaps it was always about winning the attention of his absent dad. Perhaps little Jon was permanently struggling to make his missing father proud, to make him come home. Perhaps Jon blamed his little self for his dad’s leaving. And then teenage Jon got lost.
Daisy swipes away more tears. Her hands shake. She refuses to think about the stink of alcohol on her husband. The smell of vomit unexplained. The fact she never saw the ER doc with her own eyes. She tells herself this minor stroke—or whatever Jon says the doctor called it—is a blessing in disguise, because she doesn’t doubt the fear she saw in his eyes. Jon is scared by what happened.
Perhaps she and Jon can both be more thankful now. More fierce in protecting each other and in safeguarding what it means to be starting a little family.
MAL
November 2, 2019. Saturday.
Tamara Adler shows Mal into her sumptuous office. The woman is a partner in the exclusive law firm Kane, Adler, Singh, and Salinger.
“Please take a seat,” she says to Mal. The view from Adler’s office must be breathtaking, Mal thinks, but right now it’s bleak and smothered with low clouds. Rain streaks the windows. Mal sits on a sofa near the window. Benoit is at the ADMAC construction site, awaiting the arrival of the police dive team and ident units.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” Adler is poised and impeccably attired in a cream suit. Her perfectly coiffed red hair swings neatly at her jawline. Her nails are manicured. Expensive is the word that comes to Mal’s mind. And controlled. Tamara Adler certainly does not exhibit the signs of a woman who witnessed an atrocity from her car parked under a bridge at a construction site in the very dark hours of the morning. But Mal knows that people are seldom what they seem.
She cuts straight to the chase. After opening a file, Mal extracts several images printed from the CCTV footage. She spreads them out over the coffee table in front of Adler.
“These images were captured by security cameras on the ADMAC construction site near the old silos and dockyard in North Vancouver. As you can see from the time and date stamps, they were taken in the very early hours of Friday, November 1. The Mercedes-Maybach in these images is registered to you, Mrs. Adler.” Mal meets the lawyer’s gaze. “Can you tell me who was driving your car in these photos? If you look closely at this enhanced image here”—she points—“the person in the driver’s seat appears to be you.”
Tamara Adler regards the photos. Not a muscle moves in her body, but Mal can feel her tension. The wheels in this woman’s head are turning, seeking explanation, escape. Mal notices the exact moment the lawyer decides to face this head-on. Adler looks up. Her eyes lock onto Mal’s.
“Can we keep this out of the press?”
“I can’t promise anything. But the more cooperation we have right out of the gate, the easier it might be for you and whoever else was in your car to remain beneath media radar.”
Adler inhales deeply and returns her attention to the photos. She studies them, as if calculating her odds on whether law enforcement will figure out for themselves who the person in the passenger seat is.
“Who is he, Mrs. Adler? And it does appear to be a male. We’ll eventually identify him without your assistance. Especially if we post these images and put out a call for information via social media. We get a lot of tips crowdsourcing this way.”
Adler moistens her lips, reaches for the water jug on the table, and pours herself a glass. She holds the jug out to Mal.
“I’m fine,” Mal says.
The lawyer takes a delicate sip. A faint sheen has developed on her brow. Tamara Adler is finding this distressing.
“I was with Frank Horvath,” she says finally. “And I cannot stress enough how damaging this will be to his—our—reputations if this gets out. It will scuttle a court case that—”
“What did you and the Honorable Mr. Horvath witness at the ADMAC site that morning, Mrs. Adler? Judging by the location of your vehicle, you must have seen something.”
The lawyer glances out the windows.
“Was there anyone else present? Any other vehicles?”
Adler does not meet Mal’s gaze. She continues to stare out the window.
“A young woman is missing. We have reason to believe you and the passenger in your car can help us figure out what happened to her.” Mal taps her finger firmly on an image secured from the jumpers cam. Adler turns to look. “See how your vehicle arrives here, then exits facing east? Your vehicle at one point was directly pointed toward the old dock.”