A month or so after I moved back into my own house, a police car crawled up the driveway and stopped in front of our door.
I told myself: This means nothing.
Two plainclothes cops got out and rang the doorbell.
The woman extended her hand first. "I'm Detective Meany," she said. "And this is my partner, Detective Fortas."
I said, "I'm Emily Nelson."
"Yes, we know," said Detective Meany.
"Would you like to come in?" I said. I had nothing to hide.
They came in and sat on the new couch I'd bought to replace the one Stephanie sat on.
"I don't think we ever officially met," said Detective Fortas. "But we worked on your case. We met your husband—"
"My about-to-be-former husband is in the UK at the moment."
"I see," said Detective Meany. "That probably shouldn't have happened. Someone will probably need to interview him at some point . . ."
I was curious to know at what "point" that would be. But I kept my curiosity in check. I assumed I would find out, sooner rather than later.
"Look," I said, "I want to say . . . I'm so sorry I put you to all that trouble. It wasn't entirely my fault. My husband worked himself into a frenzy, pushed the panic button when I went off the radar. But all I needed was a little time off to mourn my sister's death. I really needed to unplug, to get way off the grid. It was a huge miscommunication that unfortunately intersected with an insurance policy I'd forgotten Sean had taken out." I smiled.
"I remember," said Detective Fortas. "We also interviewed a young woman, a friend, the mother of one of your son's friends . . ."
"Good memory," I said. "That would have been Stephanie. Not my least neurotic friend, if you know what I mean."
Detective Meany smiled. She'd met Stephanie. She knew what I meant. The two cops laughed mirthlessly, as if they weren't sure why they were laughing or if they should laugh at all.
I said, "I don't mean to be rude, but can I ask why you are here?"
"Just a conversation," said Detective Fortas. "A preliminary conversation. Over the last few days, someone found a wrecked and burned-out car not far from the interstate. Not that far from here. And in the car were the cremains of a man we believe to have been a Mr. Isaac Prager. This house was on the list of calls he made in the weeks before he disappeared. And naturally we connected this with your apparent disappearance, which, as we said, we investigated."
"How amazing!" I said. "What a coincidence!" I was flirting with both of them. I needed them to believe me.
Detective Meany said, "There wasn't much evidence left in the wreckage. Most likely, it was an accident. But there are some suspicious and . . . intriguing aspects here. And they did find a piece of jewelry at the scene that seems unlikely to have belonged to Mr. Prager."
She handed me a photograph. I knew exactly what I was going to see.
Of course, I was aware that I'd lost Sean's mother's ring. But because I'd gotten out of the habit of wearing it, several days had passed before I noticed it missing. And the funny thing was I didn't care. It had only belonged to my sister for . . . I didn't want to think how long. Before that, it had been mine for a while. And before that, it had belonged to Sean's mother. Now, when I thought about the ring, I heard Sean's mother's maddening voice, whining and complaining about her life as she did the dinner dishes in that smelly, beastly kitchen.
