kidnapping, and shoved the diapers inside. They barely fit.
John glanced nervously out the window at the detectives. They stood talking at the end of the driveway, Forrester gesturing with his hands and Nolan looking down, scraping the sidewalk with one shoe, as if heâd stepped in something he wanted gone.
John looked back at his wife, the familiar set to her jaw that often preceded their fights as she verbally wrestled him to get her own way. He knew, as Carrie did, that something as simple as supplies in the closet could be construed as nothing or as somethingâlike the milk. He was seized with a sudden regret. Should he have asked Libby to follow Carrie home? Was it not enough for Libby to check in with him to tell him when Carrie leftâand his neighbor Ellen to tell him when she arrived home? It had worried him, in the beginning, that whoever took Ben had really been after Carrie, that Ben had been a pawn of some kind. His wife was beautiful, in her own simple, straightforward way. Heâd seen the way men looked at her; ever since college, heâd worried that someone would follow her home, take her. And yes, maybe John tagging after her in the dark on her girlsâ nights outâto make sure she was safeâmaybe that seemed possessive to some people. But the times Carrie had seen him, caught him? Theyâd had passionate, almost desperate sex immediately afterward, Carrie draping herself over him, insistent, forceful in a way that surprised them both. She liked being watched.
âCarrie, Iââ
âWhat, John? Are you surprised to find something your search and seizure missions didnât unearth?â
âYou know itâs not that.â
âThere is no crime in a mother holding on to mementos,â she said. âNone.â The word milk burned in her mind, the way Detective Nolan had spat it out. Like milk was evidence, a weapon!
John swallowed what he wanted to say. These werenât mementosâthey were groceries. It was like holding on to old wrapping paper because someone loved gifts!
Carrie went to the couch, leaned over, picked up Ben, and hoisted him onto her hip, where he still fit.
âWe need to be together on this,â she said.
âOf course,â he said automatically. But he wasnât sure he ever could be. She had always been different from him in the way that women are different from menâor so heâd thought. She was full of contradictions. She needed to talk more than he did but shushed him when a great song came on the radio. She loved movies but could only watch them once. She cleaned her house but was lazy about her car. Her closets were organized by color, but she couldnât be bothered to lock her doors. But now, remembering how she looked, standing by the closet, her face like a painting of a person, he found himself feeling like an art patron staring at the colors, squinting at the expression, the blurred background, because he didnât fully understand its meaning.
As Carrie walked, Benâs legs bounced against her side, in the exact same place, just as she remembered. No longer, no heavier. They would measure and weigh him, surely, at the hospital. Then it would all become clear, not only to John, but also to the police.
Outside, a pair of bees dive-bombed her as she stepped off the front stoop, and she waved them away with one hand.
She opened the rear car door, then hesitated. When was the last time sheâd opened that door? How long had it been? She stood frozen, the stale air from the car, wet leaves, oil. It suddenly smelled different from the front seat.
She looked back at John, who was battling the same bees, bobbing and weaving with his head and arm.
âThere must be a hive somewhere. Happened yesterday too.â
She nodded. It was late for bees, but it had been so warm, so lush. Only recently had the sun finally been muted and the clouds filled with gray, moving closer to
John glanced nervously out the window at the detectives. They stood talking at the end of the driveway, Forrester gesturing with his hands and Nolan looking down, scraping the sidewalk with one shoe, as if heâd stepped in something he wanted gone.
John looked back at his wife, the familiar set to her jaw that often preceded their fights as she verbally wrestled him to get her own way. He knew, as Carrie did, that something as simple as supplies in the closet could be construed as nothing or as somethingâlike the milk. He was seized with a sudden regret. Should he have asked Libby to follow Carrie home? Was it not enough for Libby to check in with him to tell him when Carrie leftâand his neighbor Ellen to tell him when she arrived home? It had worried him, in the beginning, that whoever took Ben had really been after Carrie, that Ben had been a pawn of some kind. His wife was beautiful, in her own simple, straightforward way. Heâd seen the way men looked at her; ever since college, heâd worried that someone would follow her home, take her. And yes, maybe John tagging after her in the dark on her girlsâ nights outâto make sure she was safeâmaybe that seemed possessive to some people. But the times Carrie had seen him, caught him? Theyâd had passionate, almost desperate sex immediately afterward, Carrie draping herself over him, insistent, forceful in a way that surprised them both. She liked being watched.
âCarrie, Iââ
âWhat, John? Are you surprised to find something your search and seizure missions didnât unearth?â
âYou know itâs not that.â
âThere is no crime in a mother holding on to mementos,â she said. âNone.â The word milk burned in her mind, the way Detective Nolan had spat it out. Like milk was evidence, a weapon!
John swallowed what he wanted to say. These werenât mementosâthey were groceries. It was like holding on to old wrapping paper because someone loved gifts!
Carrie went to the couch, leaned over, picked up Ben, and hoisted him onto her hip, where he still fit.
âWe need to be together on this,â she said.
âOf course,â he said automatically. But he wasnât sure he ever could be. She had always been different from him in the way that women are different from menâor so heâd thought. She was full of contradictions. She needed to talk more than he did but shushed him when a great song came on the radio. She loved movies but could only watch them once. She cleaned her house but was lazy about her car. Her closets were organized by color, but she couldnât be bothered to lock her doors. But now, remembering how she looked, standing by the closet, her face like a painting of a person, he found himself feeling like an art patron staring at the colors, squinting at the expression, the blurred background, because he didnât fully understand its meaning.
As Carrie walked, Benâs legs bounced against her side, in the exact same place, just as she remembered. No longer, no heavier. They would measure and weigh him, surely, at the hospital. Then it would all become clear, not only to John, but also to the police.
Outside, a pair of bees dive-bombed her as she stepped off the front stoop, and she waved them away with one hand.
She opened the rear car door, then hesitated. When was the last time sheâd opened that door? How long had it been? She stood frozen, the stale air from the car, wet leaves, oil. It suddenly smelled different from the front seat.
She looked back at John, who was battling the same bees, bobbing and weaving with his head and arm.
âThere must be a hive somewhere. Happened yesterday too.â
She nodded. It was late for bees, but it had been so warm, so lush. Only recently had the sun finally been muted and the clouds filled with gray, moving closer to
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