Page 34 of Love Always

Laurel is sitting in the passenger side, a brown wool blanket over her shoulders, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s hunched, self-protecting. She’s talking with the detective, an older guy straight out of some black and white police show from the early ’60s. He’s got a crumpled hat, a large baggy overcoat that hits at the knee, worn loafers, and he’s taking notes, only stopping when she blows her nose. He hands her another tissue, fishing it out of a voluminous pocket.

She finally sees me and starts to stand up. “Mateus,” she says and coils her arms around me. Her body trembles in waves and I just hold her as tight as I can. The blanket slides to the ground.

“I don’t have any further questions,” says the detective, “but I do need that note. From the car.”

She lets go of me, but I keep my hands on her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, but I’m not sure she’s seeing or hearing him. She’s in shock.

“What?” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“The note from the car?”

“Oh, yes.” She reaches into her back pocket and retrieves something that looks like a receipt. The detective opens a small evidence bag and lets her drop it in. A radio goes off, crackling behind her from the dashboard and she flinches.

“Ready to transport if you’re done, Carlson.”

Laurel’s mouth opens and she turns her head away from the scene on the breakwater.

Jack Carlson glances at her. “Not yet. I’m coming down one more time.”

Digging out a business card from my wallet, I hand it to Carlson. “Her car is the blue Squareback up there. It’s registered to her sister, Chloe Russo.”

“We’ll tow it to the station and probably have a team go over it. Just routine,” he says.

A violent shaking wracks Laurel’s body.

“I have to sit down,” she says.

“One of her sisters will get the car. Can I borrow that?” I nod at the blanket on the ground and he bends down and hands it to me.

“I’ll have an officer call you when we’re done.”

After draping the blanket over her shoulders, I put my left arm around Laurel and let her lean on me for support. But she doesn’t need or doesn’t want it. She keeps wiping her hands on her pants, then wrings them together. Her color is bad.

We walk to the Lexus and I open the door for her. She sits down but starts shaking again. I slide the seatbelt across her lap. Her thighs quiver in waves.

“Hey,” I say. “Hey, Laurel, look at me.”

But she won’t.

The twenty-minute trip back to her apartment is silent. I would have preferred tears, or chatter, or some evidence that she was processing, even if chaotic. She allows me to help her out of the car and I notice the blanket has sand and grit on it from falling on the ground. I give it a few shakes and then wrap her up in it.

We ascend the narrow stairs slowly, with me right behind her, focusing on both of us not slipping. Stairs remain problematic for me. I trained hard for the no-limp walk down, but stairs are all different with different physics. When we get to the top, she fishes around in her purse for her keys, and then just holds them, bewildered. I take them from her and unlock the door.

“Thanks,” she says, as if we’re done.

But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve worked with people in shock. It’s one of the things I’m trained to do. I gently guide her through the door and shut it behind us. She doesn’t offer any resistance and just stands in the center of the small apartment as if she’s never seen it before.

“Laurel,” I put a finger to her jaw and guide her wide-eyed gaze to my face. “Listen, I’m going to run a bath okay? I want you sit here and I’m going to get you a glass of water. Drink the whole thing.”

I run the kitchen tap and fish a glass out of the cupboard. She takes one sip and sets it down on the floor by the chair. The shaking starts again.

Making sure the water is warm and not too hot, I run a bath and find some Epsom salts in a cupboard. They aren’t scented. Just plain Epsom salts. This lack of aromatics is either to Devon’s taste or Laurel’s. I decide it’s probably all the Russos. I turn the water off and watch as steam swirls from the surface.

When I go to fetch her, she’s just setting her phone down on an old traveling chest that’s doubling as a coffee table. “Claire’s bringing Cory over in half an hour. I’m fine though. You can go.” Her voice is monotone.

“I’ll wait ’til he gets here.”

She moves like a ghost down the hall and into the bathroom.