Homewrecker

17 - 𝓶𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭

The dinner after the funeral in the church basement had been catered through a restaurant selected by Amy and David a few nights ago, after they sent me an online link to their menu and complimented the buttery, roasted potatoes they had eaten there before, and I just nodded in response. Now, I was standing in the basement and staring at dishes of grilled herb-garlic chicken breasts and the supposedly delicious roasted potatoes sliced into cubes in tinfoil roaster pans on a fold-out table with a linen tablecloth covering the metal legs.

There were a few other homemade dishes wedged in between the tinfoil pans in glass casserole dishes, like baked macaroni and cheese beside the grilled asparagus or baked ziti in front of the fresh rolls. It became apparent to me, as a server behind the table spooned macaroni and cheese delicately around the grilled chicken, that baked pasta was a staple bereavement dish in my hometown. And grilled whatever was a staple for people like the Solidays.

The designer nametag on Taylor-Elise's dress itched against my shoulder as I brought my plate over to one of the tables that had been set up in the basement, carefully stabbing my fork through one of the noodles and bringing it to my mouth.

As I chewed, I looked over to the woman I had seen Amy and David speaking with earlier, who was now getting up for the third time from her table. First, she went to grab a napkin. Then refill her drink, lingering near the beverage table longer than she probably needed to just to pour some more lemon water. And now she was bringing her plate to a black tub on a cart filling with dirtied dishes, even though servers had been taking the plates off the tables for the most part. She kept looking around, eyes drifting around the room from the end of my table with the Solidays and the McKnights to the back of the room, where Kingston had been sitting before.

He looked like he was about to talk to me earlier in the afternoon, before dinner was served, and I might have let him if Indie left my side at all. The last time I saw him here, he was talking to Sandy from the gas station we sought shelter in during the tornado, nodding at something she was saying and then looking over to me out of the corner of his eye. I was still angry, but I kept tracing the words Apollo 13 with my finger against my thigh whenever I heard the same phrases repeating themselves from new lips. She'll be missed. It's horrible, I still can't believe it. You're strong, you'll pull through this.

No one seemed to wonder about the Solidays, however, or at least no one wondered about them out loud to me. But I heard the whispering, the suspicions floating in the air as people guessed as to why I would be sitting with a senator and his family at my mother's funeral.

A few of the girls from my school came over and gave me hugs, told me how sorry they were, then tentatively walked over to Andi and told her how much they loved her YouTube channel. I was biting down on my lip, listening to them ask her what she thought of a new collaboration, when Andi's head tilted just slightly in my direction. I met her gaze then took another careful bite of my pasta.

"How about you DM me?" she said eventually in response. "We can get more in depth there."

I wanted to snort but didn't. I wasn't sure how in depth you could get with a highlighter cheek duo palette from a YouTuber and a high-end makeup brand.

I was still eavesdropping on their conversation—the girls said a lot of yeah, of course, cool in response to whatever Andi was telling them about her upcoming million subscriber milestone—when I noticed the woman walking away from the tub of food-stained dishes and down the hallway toward the bathrooms.

I knew it probably wasn't the best idea as I did it, but I kept thinking about her hushed conversation with the Solidays outside earlier with that one man—who was also still here, watching more than he seemed to be actually interacting—and how Amy wondered if it was safe to still have the funeral.

So, I grabbed my empty glass and told Indie as I unlatched my hand from hers, "I'm going for a refill." She nodded, going back to discussing wedding plans with Jason and Kimberly—apparently conversing about Bill Paxton had struck up some sort of a bond between the three—and I slipped away from the table, placing my glass down on the beverage table as I passed it.

And followed the woman into the bathroom.

It wasn't my proudest moment, lingering outside near the hand dryer as I waited for her to emerge from one of the stalls, wondering if maybe I should lock the door to keep others from coming in then realizing how it looked to lock myself in a bathroom with a stranger. My elbow accidentally triggered the motion-sensor hand dryer as I read one of the scripture verses framed on the wall and I grimaced at the blaringly loud sound.

She came out of the stall a moment later, looking visibly confused as she went over to the sink and turned on the faucet. She was squirting the soap into her hand when I blurted out, "You're a cop, right? I saw you after the tornado, dressed like one."

She lathered her hands together with suds, seeming to thoughtfully choose her words. "I'm a police officer," she confirmed.

"Did you know my mom?"

The woman—the police officer, apparently—ran her hands underneath the running hot water for a long time, what seemed like at least a minute, which meant she was trying to think of something better than the truth to admit to me. "Not directly, no," she finally answered, shutting off the water.

"Why was Amy wondered about the funeral being safe? And if you don't know my mom, directly, then why are you here? Why are you watching everyone, just like that guy I saw you with earlier with Amy and David?"

"Maybe you should talk to your—to Amy and David about this."

I stepped in front of the hand dryer as she moved to approach it, hands dripping wet against the tiles, and hot air blew against my back, the blaring sound resuming. "She's my mom. If there's something going on, I should be the one in on all this, not Amy and David."

She looked as if she were about to respond, flicking the water from her fingers at her sides, when the bathroom door opened beside us and Amy's heels clicked against the tiles as she stepped into the room. Concern was etched across her expression, furrowing into crevices between her eyebrows and round lines around her mouth, her lipstick fading.

"Bronwyn," she said, glancing at the woman, then back at me. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "People want to say goodbye before they leave, you should go back outside."

"Why is a cop my mom didn't know at her funeral, watching people? Is this about that thing the guy said earlier, about suspicious behavior? Someone paying too much attention to me?" I looked at both of them, neither of them saying anything, the woman wiping her damp hands against her pantlegs. "Are you thinking someone's, like, targeting me because they found out I'm a senator's daughter?"

Amy sighed. "No, that's—that's not what's happening right now." Then she gestured to the woman in front of me, the police officer, who had resumed her careful observation, this time of Amy. "Bronwyn, this is Officer Clara Porterfield and the man you saw her with was Detective Ben Marsh. They are . . . investigating your mother's death."

I blinked. I never moved, but the hand dryer turned on again behind me, blaring loudly in my ears. Or, at least, I thought it was the hand dryer. "Why?"

"Bronwyn," Amy started, then hesitated, her hands lingering in the air as if she thought of touching me, reaching out to me, but then they fell back down to her sides, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric of her dress. "Sweetheart, the police think your mother might not have been killed in the tornado. They think—it seems as if your mother was already dead when the tornado touched down."

"Like," I said, my throat suddenly now dry, "she OD'd?"

"No," she answered softly, shaking her head. "They think she was murdered."