Chapter 8: Gwen’s House by the Ocean
Ruiz did not want me near Gwen’s house. I went as far as the coastal town’s public pier and stood with Holt’s binoculars description in my head, not the lenses themselves.
The ocean was indifferent. Tourists took selfies. I tried to imagine Clara’s car on that road, children in the back, a sister waiting with a roast or with men. The imagination refused to settle on one picture. That refusal was honesty.
Gwen’s attorney sent a letter warning me against harassment. Ruth—no, this story’s counsel was a legal-aid cold-case liaison named Patel—answered that a widower walking on a public pier was not harassment. The letter retreated.
A local journalist smelled the file and called. I declined comment. Ruiz declined harder. The story stayed out of the paper another week. Another week was a gift.
At the motel where my nephew insisted we stay the night instead of driving my blood pressure home in the dark, I dreamed of the mattress cracking again and woke with my hands curled as if around scissors. The dream was only memory. Memory was becoming evidence’s shadow.
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