Page 1 of Breathing Under Water

Prologue

Berry

April 2024

Leo is missing.

I’ve checked the house from top to bottom, the basement area where he keeps the aircraft models, the closet where he goes when he’s afraid, the roof outside his brother’s window, which he knows is off-limits. I’ve been screaming his name at top volume, probably waking the whole neighborhood. I know better, don’t I? My boy can’t tolerate loud noises, and here I am, wailing like a banshee.

I run back to his bedroom again. The bed is made. Not a single item looks out of place.

After hurrying back to my own room, I grab my phone from the vanity table where I left it when I first realized Leo wasn’t out of his room yet even though it was almost nine a.m. I thought he might be sick, or that he was still nursing his broken heart. Or, well, I thought it could be a lot of things. It didn’t for a second cross my mind that he might be gone.

I dial Phil, holding the phone to my ear as I barrel down the stairs to check the backyard. Thank heavens we decided against putting in a pool when we bought the house all those yearsago.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I call out as the phone continues ringing.

Even before I finish opening the glass slider, I can see the backyard is empty. The manicured grass is as neat and unbothered as if the landscapers only just left. From out on the deck, I have a clear view over the evergreens that border the yard, and I scan our neighbors’ properties on both sides. The Fausts’ goldendoodle is pacing circles in the grass, probably stalking an animal, and the O’Donnells’ yard is as empty as ours. Directly behind our house is a small bit of preserved land, densely wooded forest, one of the reasons Phil and I loved this property to begin with. Leo hates these woods and would never explore them. He’s always preferred a bird’s-eye view, where he can see what’s coming first.

When Phil doesn’t answer, I hang up and dial the police.

Fourteen Months Earlier

1

Berry

February 2023

I’m hustling down the hallway of Stillwell Elementary Academy with four different social studies textbooks stacked in my arms when Opal Carter steps out from her office and we nearly collide.

“Berry!” she says with delight as we both take steps back from each other. “You’re just the person I was on my way to see.” The wrinkles beneath her eyes deepen as she smiles at me.

As usual, Opal is dressed to the nines. She’s in a powder-blue pantsuit that contrasts fabulously with her dark skin. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pinned up in an elaborate braided bun. She’s a master at creating just the kind of elegant appearance the parent community at a school this prestigious expects from their longtime principal. I always feel like a mess next to her, with my pin-straight brown hair just hanging down from its middle part. On the days I remember to line my blue eyes with pencil, my pizzazz factor rises a little, but I’m usually too frazzled in the mornings. Today was no exception.

“Why don’t you come on in and sit down?” Opal says. The New Orleans accent she hasn’t lost despite all her time up north comes through with each syrupy word.

“Sure thing. Just let me dump this load of bricks on my desk.” I tilt my chin toward the texts I’m carrying. I’ve been trying to convince the third-grade teachers to choose the same textbook for all social studies lessons across the grade, but each teacher insists the edition they use is best. As vice principal, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, but I want to make an informed choice.

Opal follows behind me. “I’ll just come to yours then, if you don’t mind.”

We pass through an anteroom where support staff sit in neat cubicles, focused on their computers, and then we reach my office at the back.

“You sure do keep a spotless desk, don’t you?” Opal remarks rhetorically, as she does almost every time she pops in here. The desk is empty except for one family photo from my son Harrison’s bar mitzvah ten years earlier. It’s the last picture we took of the kids with all four of their grandparents before both my parents passed within months of each other. My eyes catch on Phil’s mom, Arlene, who stands with her arm around six-year-old Leo. It’s been almost a year since we lost her too. Breast cancer, just like my own mom. Phil’s still muddling through the grief, keeping too many of his feelings to himself.

With an unceremonious “oof,” I release the books onto the credenza behind my desk. Opal lowers herself onto an upholstered chair, and I plunk down into my swivel chair opposite.

“No sense sugarcoating things,” she says. “I’m here to tell you I’ll be retiring this spring.”

Despite Opal’s age, which she scrupulously refuses to reveal, I’m surprised. While she’s certainly north of sixty-five, she’s still energetic and vibrant, and an excellent school principal. It’sno secret I’ve been dreaming of stepping into her role after she leaves, but I assumed that would be several years in the future.

Before I can even protest, she adds, “I promised Bill. Years ago, I told him that come his seventieth birthday, I’d force myself to quit so he and I could travel before we grew too old to enjoy it.” She swallows audibly, as though she’s still coming to terms with the decision. “I’ve always wanted to see the Taj Mahal,” she adds, the regret in her voice making clear she’s not quite ready to leave the school. My thoughts veer toward the question of her replacement, and as much as I feel like a vulture circling, I’m dying to know what she’s planning.

“We’ll certainly miss you around here,” I say. “No one’ll be as good as you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she says, her tone turning mischievous.

“They already found someone to take over?” I straighten in my chair, worried I’ve already lost my shot.