“Until we can verify your alibi, we have to consider you a person of interest. The sooner we can speak to Jacob, the better. You can bring him here, or we can interview him at home. Up to you.”
“His mother just died. I don’t want to freak him out.”
“Of course. He’s not a suspect. We just need to verify some information with him.”
I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. This is crazy. I’ve spent ten years shielding my family from this sort of scenario.
“So we can come over now and talk to him?” Gersh looks at his watch, and I take that as my cue to do the same.
“I’ll have to see where he is. He wasn’t home when I went by there earlier.”
“Okay, but today. We’ll come by if I don’t hear from you.”
“Sure.” I don’t like the way he said that, with an edge to the words. He can talk to Jacob whenever he wants. I’m not afraid of anything that Jacob will say. I force myself to ignore the tone. Right now, I need to be the Perfect Grieving Husband, and that means helping the police is supposed to be my number-one goal.
“Let me give you Jacob’s cell. You can just coordinate directly with him. I’m assuming I have to be present during the interview, since he’s a minor?” I take the pen and piece of paper that he offers and write down Jacob’s cell, crossing one item off my list. Look at me, Mr.Helpful. Definitely not guilty, not in any way.
“California law allows us to interview him on his own. And like I said, he’s not under suspicion. We’re just trying to find out what happened to Lillian.”
Oh yes. Sweet, perfect Lillian. Let’s all stop everything to find out why she killed herself, or got herself killed. This is Los Angeles, for God’s sake. People get killed for going the wrong way down a street, much less for being a crazy white lady walking around by herself with a bottle in hand. “Are you looking at this as a suicide or as a murder?” It’s a question that I should have asked earlier, but my hands have been full, and right now, I’m just trying to not get my head cut off—literally, cut off—by the Mexican cartel.
“That’s still up in the air. There are suspicious circumstances around how she was found.”
“But she wasn’t raped, or anything like that?” I press. “And she didn’t have anything odd in her system?”
“There was no sign of sexual assault or violence,” he says, confirming half of my question and standing. I don’t press further because if I’m free to leave, I just need to keep myself from sprinting out the door.
He extends his hand and I shake it. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Great. Let me know any way that I can help.”
His grip tightens, and I squeeze right back and remind myself to smile.Helpful. Helpful Perfect Husband.
CHAPTER 62
LILLIAN
My son has been kidnapped.I’m repeating that phrase over and over to remind myself that I should be freaking out. Instead, I’m strangely calm, and maybe it’s because Jacob hasn’t been taken to a dark cell or a woodshed, or anyplace I’ve ever seen in the movies. Instead, he’s seated at a dining room table and being served steak empanadas dripping in queso. Every seat at the round table is full, with an extra folding chair to make up for his presence. He’s silent, but everyone else is talking, rapid Spanish bouncing back and forth across the table as food is passed in red bowls and yellow platters.
On one side of him is Aerosmith, the tank top on the other side. Also at the table is a girl Jacob’s age, then a pregnant woman, then a prepubescent boy, then a wrinkled older woman and an overweight bald man. A soccer game plays from the living room TV, and occasionally the men break into cheers or shouts, depending on what happens on the screen.
Jacob sits back in his chair, his hands in his lap, his gaze jerking nervously between the men on either side of him. He hasn’t touched the food on his plate, though the pregnant woman keeps prodding him to eat.
Who are you?I ask the question but no one can hear me.Who are you and what are you doing with my son?
A timer goes off on the stove, and the older woman rises and moves to the skillet, using a spatula to stir the browning meat, and a mouthwatering scent of onions and ground beef fills the room. As the conversation continues at the table, she tosses comments over her shoulder, then laughs at something that has been said. Dialogue ricochets, and I wish Mike were here. With his fluency in Spanish, at least he would understand what they are saying.
I look for a weapon for Jacob to grab, something he can use to protect himself. There are knives and heavy skillets everywhere, and no one seems concerned about the potential threats. Instead of giving me comfort, I feel even more alarmed. They aren’t afraid of Jacob running. Why? Why is everyone just going about their meal as if my child wasn’t taken at gunpoint from his bedroom?
I circle the table and crouch beside Jacob, watching as he tentatively cuts at the crust of the empanada. It falls open and steam breaks into the air, and I’m surprised to find that hunger exists even when I am dead. He stares at the food and I mentally urge him to eat, because who knows when or if he will be fed again.
My son has been kidnapped.This makes no sense. Are these the people who killed me? What do they need Jacob for?
“You should eat.” The girl two seats down is watching him. “It’s good. A little spicy, but they are my favorite.” She smiles shyly and the corner of his mouth crooks up. Poor Jacob. Three more sentences and he’ll be in love.
“Rosa!” The pregnant woman waves her fork in the air, at the girl.“¡Cállate la boca y ponte a comer! Él no está aquí para hablar contigo.”She glares at Jacob and points, and I don’t know what she is saying, but the girl rolls her eyes and scoops up a chunk of ground beef.
“She says I can’t talk to you.”