Claim of Innocence. Laura Caldwell

shifted on the stiff couch while my father just sat there, looking contemplative and sad. I wished I could help him become less invisible.

      And then I had an idea.

      I reached for my bag and took out the notes that Detective Vaughn had made in Valerie’s case. “I have to cross-examine a detective on Monday. I’m helping Maggie on a murder trial…” My words died off when I saw recognition in his face. “You already know all of this.”

      He gave a slight bow of his head.

      “How do you know this? I didn’t even know I was trying this case until yesterday.”

      He didn’t look sheepish or embarrassed. He said nothing.

      I felt a flicker of anger. I thought about telling him that I no longer needed him to follow me around, to see if I was okay. I thought about telling him that he should be a normal person. But the anger fizzed when I realized he was looking after me in the only way he knew how. And really, when I thought about it, was it so bad to have someone looking over my shoulder?

      When I was younger, zipping through the city on my Vespa, never bothering with a helmet, I felt I hadn’t needed protection. When I was in a relationship with Sam, I hadn’t felt any desire for that, either. But when I learned Sam was going strong with Alyssa, I had suddenly liked the idea of someone else keeping an eye on me.

      Thinking of Sam, I lifted my current cell phone from my purse and glanced at it. Still nothing. A flash of annoyance lit up my brain. How could he walk back into my life and then not call or text me? It was true I’d walked out on him, but still…

      My dad cleared his throat. I looked at him, at his woeful expression, and the urge to help him feel less invisible returned. “Would you review these records for me?” I held out the Chicago Police Department notes for the Amanda Miller murder. “They’re written by the detective I’m crossing on Monday.”

      “Of course.” His expression turned hopeful. “What do you want me to look for?”

      “Anything, basically. Any inconsistencies, anything lacking.”

      “Of course.”

      I handed him the records. “Thanks. I guess I can leave those with you, and I’ll get another copy from Maggie.”

      He looked momentarily confused. “I just need a few minutes.”

      “What do you mean? You only need a few minutes to analyze the records of a Chicago homicide detective?”

      “Probably less than that.” His face was flat. He wasn’t trying to be funny or impressive.

      “Oh. Okay.” I stood. “Can I use your restroom while you look those over?”

      He nodded, waved at the hallway.

      In the bathroom, I ran the water, wanting some kind of buffer in the quiet apartment. I used the toilet, then washed my hands. I couldn’t help it then. Trying to be silent, I opened the medicine cabinet. On a slightly rusted metal shelf was a can of shaving cream, an expensive-looking chrome razor, deodorant, a wood-handled brush and nail clippers. I had more toiletries in my purse than my father had in his whole apartment.

      Back in the living room, my father was still in the chair, the notes in his hand. As I came into the room, he put them on his lap. He said nothing. Although I was somewhat used to his silences, I wondered if his quiet was because he knew I’d been snooping in the bathroom.

      I decided I could be just as unreadable. I sat and pointed at the notes. “Got anything?”

      He smiled, and nodded.

      19

       V alerie walked around her lifeless apartment. It felt that way, she supposed, because she herself had grown more and more like that, as if she were in a walking coma, getting ready for her mind to shut down. Because prison seemed real. Imminent. And the only way she could imagine surviving that was to become someone else and put away the person she was now.

      She walked into the kitchen and turned on one small light. Although she had enjoyed wine before, in her other life, she had not had a glass of wine or a cocktail for months now. She had no taste for it, had little taste for anything. But now there was a pinprick of light in the flat existence in which she had been living. It was the light of possibility.

      The reason for the slice of optimism was Izzy McNeil. She completely trusted the Bristols, but neither Martin nor Maggie had wanted the whole truth. She was fine not to give it. The whole truth would cause so many more problems. But still. But still, it cheered her somehow that Izzy wanted to know, wanted to understand. She had told Valerie again today—I want to believe you.

      Valerie opened the door of the refrigerator, the light from inside making a bold entrance into the dimly lit kitchen. Although the sun still shone outside, it was always dark in her home these days. She had gotten used to closing all of the blinds and drapes to keep herself away from the curious eyes of her watching neighbors.

      The refrigerator was old and mustard-colored. It had been here when she’d rented the West Side apartment after Brian died. Despite her hopes that she would come into some kind of salary stream, that she would find her calling and be able to replace the appliances, maybe even move back to the Gold Coast near Bridget and Amanda, such a bounty had never happened.

      Her refrigerator, as well as her cupboards, was only spottily inhabited, aside from the supplies she’d bought the other night for the chocolate torta—the one she’d never made. Neither she nor Layla was particularly interested in grocery shopping lately. Or food. But she knew she should eat. She looked at the random contents of the fridge—ketchup, eggs, a slightly shriveled pear, a bottle of grapefruit juice, ground flax seed, a folded piece of foil with an old tortilla in it, half a carton of graying mushrooms, a few teaspoons of milk in the bottom of a carton, and a container of leftovers Layla must have brought home from a restaurant. She opened it—half-eaten strip steak. Where had Layla gone and ordered this? She looked at it a moment longer, then put it on the counter.

      Amanda.

      Amanda.

      Amanda.

      Valerie tried to keep her friend at bay, tried not to let the memory ravage her. But everything led her back to Amanda. To Bridget. Her life had been led with them, next to them, for so long.

      She knew she had to eat. She let herself think of Amanda then, tried not to let the memory cut her. What would Amanda do?

      Like her, Amanda had loved to cook. She was always reading recipe magazines, taking classes at the Chopping Block or asking Valerie to teach her one of the Mexican dishes she had learned from her father.

      If Amanda had been standing here at her fridge, what would she do, Valerie asked herself?

      She permitted herself a short laugh. Amanda, whom they often called “Demanda” because she always knew what she wanted, would put her hand on her hip and consider the food and the leftovers. She would be wearing designer jeans, a casual shirt and lots of the blingy accessories she loved and pulled off with aplomb. She would have said something like, “Don’t you have any potatoes? What about some fresh herbs?” Then she would have turned around before Valerie even answered and said, “Never mind.”

      And then what would she have done?

      Valerie looked at the contents of the refrigerator again and concentrated in a way she knew Amanda would have. She scanned all the random bits, putting them together in different ways.

      She took out the tortilla, and steamed it back to life. She cracked open a couple of eggs and whipped them with the milk, then scrambled them. She sliced the strip steak into thin ribbons and sautéed them with the mushrooms and garlic. Then she put everything in the tortilla, wrapped it tight the way her father had taught her, dug some salsa from the back of her refrigerator and sat down with her steak-and-egg burrito.

      “Thanks, Manny,” she said out loud to the silent house. “Manny” was the other nickname Amanda had. One only Valerie used.