Page 81 of Love Always

“I’m not sure, but I took a quick picture of Carlson’s desk before I left today.”

He squints at the small picture on my phone before he begins blowing up different parts for a better look. It was when I noticed Portland Community College had its own file with yellow sticky notes and then blue ones, that I went ahead and broached the detective’s privacy.

“Who keeps a calendar blotter?”

“Carlson. He’s old fashioned.”

“And he’s going there tomorrow to talk to both of her profs and it looks like,” he pinches some more, “students?”

“Staff. And he didn’t share that part of the story.”

We ended up agreeing we wouldn’t tell Laurel that we’d have another pair of eyes on her—I didn’t want her to feel even more vulnerable and in the spotlight more than she already is. But I am worried. If the prep went for DNA evidence, it’s not just saliva, hair or skin. It can also be blood.

΅

The next day is gray. I had about four hours of sleep—up at six and then wandered over to work out at the gym in The Inn’s basement. Claire and Finn were out on their morning sea swim, which is impressive as the thermometer on the porch read thirty-eight degrees. I wondered if I’d ever get back to diving. I’d need a different leg for that.

The workout was great. I had to reapply silicone cream twice and adjust the sleeve but by the end, I realized it was the best thing to do. I felt loose, ready for anything. I showered quickly and spent a weirdly long time deciding what shirt to wear. I opted for a white button-down and black jeans. I pulled on a gray wool sweater, a coat, and made my way down and across the road with two to-go cups of coffee.

The morning is cold, blustery, with gray clouds knotting above the wide expanse of sea and islands in the distance blurred. I still don’t know the tide tables, but it is in right now, the waves lapping at the wharf and gulls, giving up on finding any food near the shore, are out with the boats. I am not like the gulls. I don’t search out meals. I still never know when I need to eat.

Just as I reach the door for leading up, it opens and there is Cory, his little zip down jacket crisscrossed with backpack straps, just like his mom. I smile and hand Laurel a cup of coffee.

Cory is in a great mood then, when the bus comes. He stands way back from the curb and makes both me and Laurel stand there too. “I don’t like the tires,” he says. “I don’t like the smell.” Nose wrinkle. “I don’t like Peter,” he adds.

“Why don’t you like Peter?” Laurel asks. Peter has CP and sits up in front.

“Peter makes me sad.”

Laurel glances at me and a flicker of a micro expression tugs at her mouth: grief.

“I’m sorry he makes you feel sad.”

“Momma, what does sad taste like?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean, tastes like?”

“I think sad tastes like French fries.” He rubs his nose.

Laurel is bewildered.

“Is it because sad tastes like salt?” I ask, realizing I wasn’t quite in the group yet that could ask questions. I hope this goes well.

Cory’s little blonde head bobs up and down. “That’s right.”

When the bus pulls up and the door slides open, he steps to the curb and clambers up the steps.

“Morning, Ms. Webber,” says Laurel. Ms. Webber is about forty, with warm, worried eyes and an apple on the dash. Her smile is sweet as she waves hello.

Cory settles into a window seat and waves frantically. There’s the sigh and hiss as the bus doors close. Webber performs a heroic “U” turn and just as the bus disappears around a corner, Laurel turns to me, confession-style.

“I got an email from Professor Cruz today. I need to come and have my morning conference. Apparently I missed it. It’s worth fifty points which is a whole grade. I was supposed to go Tuesday and now I have to go in. Like now.”

“Can’t you conference before class?”

“He’s got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon and he’s canceling class. I emailed my other prof and she said I could work from home. She’d send me the PowerPoint. She’s a mom too—she gets it.”

I text Bryce to let him know we’d be off and running in thirty minutes.