10
Right after the press conference ends, Mom excuses herself to go to work and I meet up with her later around lunchtime.
Work is her sanctuary. It's her happy place, just like it is for me.
She likes being around books. She likes organizing them, handling them, getting new ones in, and cataloging them.
I park out front of the public library, where I have spent many happy hours of my life. The building is rather bureaucratic in its formality, no columns or fancy things like they have in some big city libraries, but more like an office building with a no-nonsense exterior and even less no-nonsense interior.
I find Mom in the back, walking around with a trolley, sorting. She only works here part time now, just because more hours are not available, but I have a sneaky suspicion that she would work here for free if she could.
I tell her about what happened with Natalie's brothers and she sighs loudly at the end.
"That's not her writing that email," she says quietly.
"No, I don't think so either, but we're going to confirm. Maybe it was her typing it out and she's somewhere and they left some sort of online ID."
"So, you'll be able to track the location of whomever wrote that?"
"Yeah, unless they took steps to cover up their cyber trail, which is not unheard of, of course."
"So, you're certain that the two of them are together?" Mom asks.
"I'm not certain of anything. This is probably the strangest case that I've ever worked." I shake my head and whisper, "I don't know what the connection is between them. I mean, they're friends. They go to the same school, but why take both of them? The thing that makes it particularly difficult is that it's a stranger or someone who is almost a stranger, which makes it very hard for investigators to track."
"What do you mean?" Mom sticks her hands into her pockets.
"Well, you know, if it's someone that Violet knows directly, that's one thing, though I'm not sure that either of them know this person. In most criminal cases, it's a close family member or friend, usually a male. It's in their circle of friends, so to speak, so it's easy to connect the dots or easier. DNA and all the other forensic evidence helps that along, but in this case, we don't have any forensic evidence. We don't have a body. We don't even have a circle of friends that this could be tied to or he could be tied to and that's what makes it quite difficult."
"It's still going to be solved, right?"
I nod and promise that it will, but she and I both know that I can't make that kind of promise.
In my line of work, I tend to make promises that I really shouldn't. But how do I say no though?
I always promise that I will find out the truth, but what I'm really promising is that I'll do my best and this case is no different.
I will do my best to find out what happened to Natalie and to my sister. I will do my best to try to find out the truth and I'll keep working this case for as long as possible, long after everyone else gives up.
A coworker walks by, looking back occasionally with a lot of nervousness in her body. Mom says hello to her, but their interaction is terse and quick.
"What was that?" I ask my mom.
She just shrugs and looks past her coworker. The tone of the afternoon seems to shift. She doesn't have to tell me because I already know.
When you're family to someone who's gone missing or a murder victim, people don't know what to say to you. People don't know how to act around you. After the initial condolences and asking for details about what's going on, a wall takes over.
* * *
To change the topic, Mom invites me out to lunch and we can't get there fast enough. We drive to one of our favorite restaurants in town. It's relatively modern and it has a serious LA vibe, lots of specialty cocktails as well as ahi tuna for appetizers. Mom insists that it's going to be her treat. As soon as we order a round of cocktails, I find out why.
"I hate to ask you, but I need to borrow some money," she says directly, without beating around the bush.
I'm actually a little bit surprised. She has always been very responsible and good with finances.
"I'm behind on the mortgage. I've had some unexpected expenses creep up. Violet's braces, things like that and I just don't get paid that much."
"Yes, I understand. Anything you need. How much?" I ask after a pause.
My grapefruit vodka cocktail arrives and I take a few big gulps to try to ease some of the anxiety of being here and having this conversation. I don't know if you know what it's like to have your parent ask you for money, but it doesn't feel good.
Despite my dad's illegal activities and all of their problems when I was growing up, Mom always made sure that the mortgage was paid and everything was taken care of.
I didn't live a lavish life, but I was also never worried about being evicted or thrown out onto the street. I actually had no idea that was what really happened until after I graduated.
"Is everything okay, Mom?" I ask, after she finishes one cocktail and orders another.
"I like that guy, Luke, the FBI agent, your friend."
"Yes, of course." I nod, taking a bite of the pita chip.
"He seemed like he'd be good for you."
"Yeah, I guess."
"What do you think?" she asks.
"I don't know. I mean, I enjoy spending time with him, but it's complicated."
"Doesn't sound like it's very complicated. I heard him say that he wants to be with you."
"Were you spying on us?"
"No, of course not, but the walls in the house are thin, as you know."
I nod thinking back to all the fights that I overheard her have with Dad and how loud Violet was when she cried as a baby.
"Why did you say no?" Mom asks. "He seems to be like the type of guy who would be appreciative of your line of work and wouldn't be scared by all the hours you put in."
"Yeah, I guess," I mumble, taking another bite.
"Tell me what you're thinking, Kaitlyn."
I swallow hard. It's hard for me to explain.
"I don't know. I wasn't really thinking anything. I'm not ready," I finally say.
"Are you not ready or are you scared? Those two things are not the same."
"Why are we talking about this? Why don't we talk about Violet?"
"There's nothing to say about Violet," Mom says. "Besides I need to talk about something else. I need to think about something else. Otherwise, I might lose my mind."
I reach over and grab the glass of water, bring it to my lips, and feel the chill of the ice cubes on my tongue.
"I just don't know if I can date like that. I mean, he wanted me to be his girlfriend. He wanted us to be exclusive, but I don't know what that means."
"That means you don't date anyone else. You see each other. You spend time with one another. You see if you can put up with one another long enough to spend a few years together. If that goes well, you get married," Mom says, tossing her hair from one side to another.
"That's so romantic." I laugh.
"Listen, I believe in love, you know? Real deep, all consuming love, but I also believe that this is what it requires. It requires you to take a chance to jump."
"I don't have a parachute," I say.
"You don't need one."
"You always need a parachute if you jump from a high place."
Our eyes meet and she shakes her head.
"Why do you think I was together with your father all of those years long after I knew that he was selling drugs and he was running one of the biggest operations in this part of California?"
It's the first time she's ever spoken to me about him like that.
"Why?" I ask.
"Despite all of it, despite that secret life, despite all the danger that he put himself in and he put our family in, I loved him and I wanted to be with him. I didn't need a parachute because I knew that it would be okay."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
"It wasn't okay, Mom," I say. "You needed a parachute because he was killed. You found him dead in your room with two gunshot wounds in the stomach. You needed a parachute to protect you from all of that pain and to protect us from all of that sadness."
"No, I didn't need one," Mom says. "Just because something bad happened at the end, doesn't mean that we didn't have a million beautiful, amazing moments together."
"Yes, it would mean that," I say after a long pause. "I mean, I love Dad, of course, but you were the one who was married to him."
"The thing about it, Kaitlyn, is that you don't not read a book just because it's going to end badly. You read it anyway. You read it despite that. If you think about it, everything in life ends badly, right? We all die. We all have to say goodbye."
"No," I say quickly. "I don't believe that. I mean, yes, we all die, but we don't all have to die like that. We don't have to be murdered."
"Don't say that," she hisses, putting her finger in my face. "He was not murdered. He killed himself."
"You don't know that."
She looks away from me, pursing her lips. She tries to hold back tears.
"I don't want to fight about this, Mom. Let's just agree to disagree, but no, not all deaths are a sign that everything ends badly. The majority of them are a sign of a life well lived. Besides, I tend to believe in another pearl of wisdom as they say that I think it's an Indian saying that goes something like everything is okay in the end and if it's not okay, it's not the end."
Our food arrives and we sit together silently after the waitress leaves, not looking at each other, but not diving right in as well. It's a moment of contemplation of thought.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps and dances on a twig. One car pulls out and another pulls in.
A group of girls walk by giggling and a young father carries his toddler on his shoulders licking an ice cream cone.
We spend the rest of lunch talking about things that don't really matter. She doesn't bring up Luke and I don't bring up my father.
Neither of us mention Violet. Sometimes you have to consciously avoid certain topics in order to just get through it.
Just as the check arrives, Mom insists, "I'm paying for it."
I'm quickly reminded of the fact that she just asked me to borrow money for the mortgage.
How many months behind is she? How much does she need?
What happens if I can't help her out in a few months?
As she signs and gives a generous tip, I notice how very put together she looks now in comparison to how she did before.