On the screen, Helsinger’s head moved to the right, then the left, as if he was scanning the restaurant. Andy knew there was not much to see. The place was half-empty, a handful of patrons enjoying a last cup of coffee or glass of tea before they did errands or played golf or, in Andy’s case, went to sleep.
Helsinger stepped away from the garbage can.
A man’s voice said, “Jesus.”
Andy remembered that word, the lowness and meanness to it, the hint of surprise.
The gun went up. A puff of smoke from the muzzle. A loud pop.
Shelly was shot in the back of the head. She sank to the floor like a paper doll.
Betsy Barnard started screaming.
The second bullet missed Betsy, but a loud cry said that it had hit someone else.
The third bullet came sharp on the heels of the second.
A cup on the table exploded into a million pieces. Shards flew through the air.
Laura was turning away from the shooter when one of the pieces lodged into her leg. The wound did not register in her mother’s expression. She started to run, but not away. She was closer to the mall entrance than to the back of the restaurant. She could’ve ducked under a table. She could’ve escaped.
Instead, she ran toward Andy.
Andy saw herself standing with her back now turned toward the window. Video-Andy dropped her coffee mug. The ceramic splintered. In the foreground, Betsy Barnard was being murdered. Bullet four was fired into her mouth, the fifth into her head. She fell on top of her daughter.
Then Laura tackled Andy to the ground.
There was a blink of stillness before Laura jumped up.
She patted her hands down the same way she used to tuck Andy into bed at night. The man in black, Jonah Lee Helsinger, had a gun pointed at Laura’s chest. In the distance, Andy could see herself. She was curled into a ball. The glass behind her was spiderwebbing. Chunks were falling down.
Sitting in the chair beside Gordon, Andy reached up and touched her hair. She pulled out a piece of glass from the tangles.
When she looked back down at Detective Palazzolo’s phone, the angle of the video had changed. The image was shaky, taken from behind the shooter. Whoever had made the recording was lying on the ground, just beyond an overturned table. The position afforded Andy a completely different perspective. Instead of facing the shooter, she was behind him now. Instead of watching her mother’s back, she could see Laura’s face. Her hands holding up six digits to indicate the total number of bullets. Her thumb wagging to show the one live round left in the chamber.
Shoot me.
That’s what Laura had told the kid who had already murdered two people—shoot me. She had said it repeatedly. Andy’s brain echoed the words each time Laura said them on the video.
Shoot me, I want you to shoot me, shoot me, when you shoot me, my daughter will run—
When the killing spree had first started, every living person in the restaurant had screamed or ducked or run away or all three.
Laura had started counting the number of bullets.
“What?” Gordon mumbled. “What’s he doing?”
Snap.
On the screen, Helsinger was unsnapping the sheath hanging from his gunbelt.
“That’s a knife,” Gordon said. “I thought he used a gun.”
The gun was holstered. The knife was gripped in Helsinger’s fist, blade angled down for maximum carnage.
Andy wanted to close her eyes, but just as badly, she wanted to see it again, to watch her mother’s face, because right now, at this moment on the video when Helsinger was holding the menacing-looking hunting knife, Laura’s expression was almost placid, like a switch inside of her had been turned off.
The knife arced up.
Gordon sucked in air between his teeth.
The knife arced down.
Laura lifted her left hand. The blade sliced straight through the center of her palm. Her fingers wrapped around the handle. She wrenched it from his grasp, then, the knife still embedded in her hand, backhanded the blade into the side of his neck.
Thunk.
Helsinger’s eyes went wide.
Laura’s left hand was pinned to the left side of his neck like a message tacked to a bulletin board.
There was a slight pause, no more than a few milliseconds.
Laura’s mouth moved. One or two words, her lips barely parting.
Then she crossed her right arm underneath her trapped left.
She braced the heel of her right hand near Helsinger’s right shoulder.
Her right hand pushed his shoulder.
Her left hand jerked the knife blade straight out of the front of his throat.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Gordon’s mouth gaped open.
Andy’s tongue turned into cotton.
Right hand pushing, left hand pulling.
From the video, it looked like Laura had willfully pulled the knife out of Helsinger’s throat.
Not just killing him.
Murdering him.
“She just—” Gordon saw it, too. “She—”
His hand went to his mouth.
On the video, Helsinger’s knees hit the floor. His chest. His face.
Andy saw herself in the distance. The whites of her eyes were almost perfect circles.
In the foreground, Laura’s expression remained placid. She looked down at the knife that pierced her hand straight through, turning it to see—first the palm, then the back—as if she had found a splinter.
That’s where Palazzolo chose to pause the video.
She waited a beat, then asked, “Do you want to see it again?”
Gordon swallowed so hard that Andy saw his Adam’s apple bob.
“Mr. Oliver?”
He shook his head, looked down the hallway.
Palazzolo clicked off the screen. She returned the phone to her pocket. Without Andy noticing, she had angled her chair away from Gordon. Palazzolo leaned forward, hands resting on her legs. There was only two inches of space between her knees and Andy’s. She said, “It’s pretty horrific. It must be hard seeing it again.”
Gordon shook his head. He thought the detective was still talking to him.
Palazzolo said, “Take all the time you need, Ms. Oliver. I know this is hard. Right?” She was talking to Andy again, leaning in closer; so close that it was making Andy feel uncomfortable.
One hand pushing, one hand pulling.
Pushing his shoulder. Pulling the knife through his neck.
The calm expression on Laura’s face.
I’ll tell you what I know, and then if Andrea feels like it, she can tell me what she knows.
The detective had not told them anything, or shown them anything, that probably was not already on the news. And now she was crowding Andy without seeming to crowd her, taking up a section of her personal space. Andy knew this was an interview technique because she had read some of the training textbooks during slow times at work.
Horton’s Annotations on the Police Interview: Witness Statements, Hostile Witness Interrogations and Confessions.
You were supposed to make the subject feel uncomfortable without them knowing why they were feeling uncomfortable.
And the reason Palazzolo was trying to make Andy uncomfortable was because she was not taking a statement. She was interrogating her.
Palazzolo said, “You’re lucky your mom was there to save you. Some people would call her a hero.”
Some people.
Palazzolo asked, “What did your mother say to Jonah before he died?”
Andy watched the space between them narrow. Two inches turned into one.
“Ms. Oliver?”
Laura had seemed too calm. That was the problem. She had been too calm and methodical the whole time, especially when she’d raised her right hand and placed it near Jonah’s right shoulder.
One hand pushing, one hand pulling.
Not scared for her life.
Deliberate.
“Ms. Oliver?” Palazzolo repeated. “What did your mother say?”
The detective’s unspoken question filled that tiny inch of uncomfortable space between them: If Laura really was that calm, if she really was that methodical, why hadn’t she used the same hand to take away Helsinger’s gun?
“Andrea?” Palazzolo rested her elbows on her knees. Andy could smell coffee on the detective’s breath. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but we can clear this up really fast if you just tell me what your mom said before Helsinger died.” She waited a beat. “The phone didn’t pick it up. I guess we could send the video to the state lab, but it would be easier if you just told—”
“The father,” Gordon said. “We should pray for the father.”
Palazzolo didn’t look at him, but Andy did. Gordon was not the praying kind.
“I can’t imagine …” he paused. “I can’t imagine what it feels like, to lose your family like that.” He had snapped his fingers together on the last word, but close to his face, as if to wake himself from the trance that the video had put him in. “I’m so glad your mother was there to protect you, Andrea. And herself.”
Andy nodded. For once, she was a few steps ahead of her father.
“Look, guys,” Palazzolo finally sat back in her chair. “I know you’re thinking I’m not on your side, but there are no sides here. Jonah Helsinger was a bad guy. He had a plan. He wanted to murder people, and that’s exactly what he did. And you’re right, Mr. Oliver. Your wife and daughter could’ve been his third and fourth victims. But I’m a cop, and it’s my job to ask questions about what really happened in that diner this afternoon. All I’m after is the truth.”
“Detective Palazzolo.” Gordon finally sounded like himself again. “We’ve both been on this earth long enough to know that the truth is open to interpretation.”
“That’s true, Mr. Oliver. That’s very true.” She looked at Andy. “You know, I’ve just realized that you haven’t said one word this whole time.” Her hand went to Andy’s knee with almost sisterly affection. “It’s all right, honey. Don’t be afraid. You can talk to me.”
Andy stared at the mole on the woman’s jawline because it was too hard to look her in the eye. She wasn’t afraid. She was confused.
Was Jonah Helsinger still a threat when Laura had killed him? Because you could legally kill someone who was threatening you, but if they weren’t threatening you and you killed them, that meant you weren’t defending yourself anymore.
You were just killing them.
Andy tried to think back to this morning, to fill in the blanks with the video. Could Laura have left the knife in Jonah Helsinger’s throat, taken away his gun, and then … what?
The police would’ve come. Dispatch would’ve radioed in an ambulance, not a coroner, because the fact was that, even with a knife sticking Herman Munster-like from the side of his neck, Jonah Helsinger had not been dead. No blood had coughed from his mouth or sneezed from his nose. He had still been capable of moving his arms and legs, which meant his carotid, his jugular, were likely intact. Which meant he had the chance to remain alive until Laura had killed him.
So, what would’ve happened next?
The EMTs could’ve stabilized him for the ride to the hospital and the surgeons could’ve worked to safely remove the knife, but none of that had happened because Laura had braced her right hand near Jonah Helsinger’s right shoulder and ended his life.
“Ms. Oliver,” Palazzolo said. “I find the lack of communication on your part very troubling. If nothing’s wrong, then why aren’t you talking to me?”
Andy made herself look the detective in the eye. She had to speak. This was her time to say that Laura had no other choice. My mother was acting in self-defense. You weren’t there but I was and I will swear on a stack of Bibles in front of any jury that my mother had no other choice but to kill Jonah Lee Helsinger.
“Laura?” Gordon said.
Andy turned, finally breaking out of Palazzolo’s vortex. She had expected to see her mother lying in yet another hospital bed, but Laura was sitting up in a wheelchair.
“I’m all right,” Laura said, but her face was contorted in pain. She was dressed in a white gown. Her arm was strapped to her waist in a Velcro sling. Her fingers were held stiff by something that looked like a biker’s glove with the tips cut off. “I need to change, then I’m ready to go home.”
Gordon opened his mouth to protest, but Laura cut him off.
“Please,” she said. “I’ve already told the doctor I’m going to sign myself out. She’s getting together the paperwork. Can you pull up the car?” She looked annoyed, especially when Gordon didn’t move. “Gordon, can you please pull up your car?”
“Dr. Oliver,” Palazzolo said. “Your surgeon told me you would need to stay overnight, maybe longer.”
Laura didn’t ask the woman who she was or why she was talking to the surgeon. “Gordon, I want to go home.”
“Ma’am,” Palazzolo tried again. “I’m Detective Lisa Palazzolo with the Savannah—”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” She looked up at Gordon. “I want to go home.”
“Ma’am—”
“Are you hard of hearing?” Laura asked. “This man is a lawyer. He can advise you of my legal rights if you’re unfamiliar with them.”
Palazzolo frowned. “Yeah, we’ve already do-si-doed that two-step, but I want to get this straight with you, on the record: you’re refusing to be interviewed?”
“For now,” Gordon intervened, because nothing made him stand more firmly by Laura’s side than to have a stranger challenge her. “My office will call you to schedule an appointment.”
“I could detain her as a material witness.”
“You could,” Gordon agreed. “But then she could stay here under doctor’s orders and you’d be denied access to her anyway.”
Laura tried, “I was under anesthesia. I’m not competent to—”
“You’re making this worse. You realize that, right?” Palazzolo had let the helpful, we’re-on-the-same-team façade drop. She was clearly pissed off. “The only people who are quiet are the ones who have something to hide.”
Gordon said, “My office will be in touch when she’s ready to talk.”
The hinge of Palazzolo’s jaw stuck out like a bolt on the side of her face as she gritted her teeth. She gave a curt nod, then walked off, her jacket swinging as she made her way toward the elevator.
Gordon told Laura, “You should stay in the hospital. She won’t bother you. I’ll get a restraining order if I—”
“Home,” Laura said. “Either get your car or I’ll call a taxi.”
Gordon looked to the orderly behind the wheelchair for help.
The man shrugged. “She’s right, bro. Once she signs that paperwork, we can’t keep her here if she doesn’t wanna stay.”
Gordon knelt down in front of the chair. “Honey, I don’t think—”
“Andrea.” Laura squeezed Andy’s hand so hard that the bones moved. “I don’t want to be here. I can’t be in a hospital again. Not overnight. Do you understand?”
Andy nodded, because that much, at least, she understood. Laura had spent almost a year in and out of the hospital because of complications from her surgery, two bouts of pneumonia and a case of C. difficile that was persistent enough to start shutting down her kidneys.
Andy said, “Dad, she wants to go home.”
Gordon muttered something under his breath. He stood up. He tucked his hand into his pocket. His keys jangled. “You’re sure?” He shook his head, because Laura wasn’t given to making statements she wasn’t sure about. “Get changed. Sign your paperwork. I’ll be out front.”
Andy watched her father leave. She felt a familiar guilt ebb into her chest because she had chosen her mother’s demands over her father’s wishes.
“Thank you.” Laura loosened her grip on Andy’s hand. She asked the orderly, “Could you find a T-shirt or something for me to change into?”
He bowed out with a nod.
“Andrea.” Laura kept her voice low. “Did you say anything to that detective?”
Andy shook her head.
“You were talking to her when I was being wheeled up the hall.”
“I wasn’t—” Andy wondered at her mother’s sharp tone. “She asked questions. I didn’t tell her anything.” Andy added, “I didn’t speak. At all.”
“Okay.” Laura tried to shift in the chair but, judging by the wince on her face, the pain was too much. “What we were discussing before, in the diner. I need you to move out. Tonight. You have to go.”
What?
“I know I said I wasn’t going to give you a deadline, but I am, and it’s now.” Laura tried to shift in the chair again. “You’re an adult, Andrea. You need to start acting like one. I want you to find an apartment and move out. Today.”
Andy felt her stomach go into free fall.
“Your father agrees with me,” Laura said, as if that carried more weight. “I want you out of the house. The garage. Just get out, okay? You can’t sleep there tonight.”
“Mom—”
Laura hissed in air between her teeth as she tried again to find a comfortable position. “Andrea, please don’t argue with me. I need to be alone tonight. And tomorrow, and—you just need to go. I’ve looked after you for thirty-one years. I’ve earned the right to be alone.”
“But—” Andy didn’t know what the but was.
But people are dead.
But you could’ve died.
But you killed somebody when you didn’t have to.
Didn’t you?
Laura said, “My mind is made up. Go downstairs and make sure your father knows the right entrance to pull up to.”
Gordon had picked them up at the hospital before. “Mom—”
“Andrea! Can’t you just for once do something I tell you to do?”
Andy wanted to cover her ears. She had never in her life felt this much coldness from her mother. There was a giant, frozen gulf between them.
Laura’s teeth were clenched. “Go.”
Andy turned on her heel and walked away from her mother. Tears streamed down her face. She had heard that same edge to her mother’s voice twice today, and each time, her body had responded before her mind could shut her down.
Gordon was nowhere in sight, but Detective Palazzolo was waiting for the elevator. The woman opened her mouth to speak. Andy kept walking. She took the stairs. Her feet stumbled over the treads. She was numb. Her head was spinning. Tears rolled like rain.
Move out? Tonight?
As in now? As in forever?
Andy bit her lip so that she would stop crying. She had to keep it together at least until she saw her dad. Gordon would fix this. He would make it better. He would have a plan. He would be able to explain what the hell had happened to her kind, caring mother.
Andy picked up the pace, practically flinging herself down the stairs. The anvil on her chest lifted the tiniest bit. There had to be a reason Laura was acting like this. Stress. Anesthesia. Grief. Fear. Pain. Any one of these things could bring out the worst in a person. All of them wrapped together could make them go crazy.
That was it.
Laura just needed time.
Andy felt her breathing start to calm. She rounded the stairs at the next landing. Her sweaty hand slipped on the railing. One foot hit sideways on the tread, the other foot slipped out from under her and she found herself flat on her ass.
Fuck.
Andy put her head in her hands. Something wet slid down the back of her fingers that was too thick to be sweat.
Fuck!
Her knuckle was bleeding. She put it in her mouth. She could feel her hands trembling. Her brain was spinning inside her head. Something weird was happening with her heartbeat.
Above her, a door opened, then closed, then there were scuffling footsteps on the stairs.
Andy tested her ankle, which, remarkably, was fine. Her knee felt wonky but nothing was sprained or broken. She stood up, ready to head down to the ground floor, but a wave of nausea spun up her throat.
Above her, the footsteps were getting closer.
It was bad enough to vomit in a public place. The only thing worse was having a witness. Andy had to find a bathroom. At the next landing, she pushed open the door and sprinted down another hallway until she found the toilets.
She had to run to make it to the stall in time. She opened her mouth and waited to throw up but now that she was here, squatting in front of the toilet bowl, the only thing that came up was bile.
Andy horked out as much as she could before flushing the toilet. She sat down on the closed lid. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. Sweat dripped down her neck. She was breathing like she’d run a marathon.
“Andrea?”
Fuck.
Her legs retracted like a roller shade, heels hooked onto the edge of the toilet bowl, as if drawing herself into a ball would make her invisible.
“Andrea?” Palazzolo’s chunky police-issue shoes thumped across the tiles. She stopped directly in front of Andy’s stall.
Andy stared at the door. A faucet was dripping. She counted off six drops before—
“Andrea, I know you’re in there.”
Andy rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the situation.
“I gather you don’t like to talk,” Palazzolo said. “So maybe you could just listen?”
Andy waited.
“Your mom might be in a lot of trouble.” Palazzolo waited another beat. “Or not.”
Andy’s heart leapt at the possibility of the not.
“What she did—I get that. She was protecting her daughter. I’ve got a kid. I would do anything for the little guy. He’s my baby.”
Andy bit her bottom lip.
“I can help you with this. Help you both get out of this.”
Andy waited again.
“I’m going to leave my card here on the counter.”
Andy kept waiting.
“You call me, anytime, day or night, and together, you and I can figure out what you need to say to make this problem go away.” She paused. “I’m offering to help your mom, Andrea. That’s all I want to do—help.”
Andy rolled her eyes again. She had learned a long time ago that one of the prices of prolonged silence was people assumed that you were simple-minded or outright stupid.
“But here’s the thing: if you really want to help your mom,” Palazzolo tried. “First you have to tell me the truth. About what happened.”
Andy almost laughed.
“Then we’ll go from there. All right?” Another weighted pause. “Right?”
Right.
“Card’s on the counter, doll. Day or night.”
Andy listened to the drips from the faucet.
One drip … two drips … three … four … five … six …
“You wanna make a gesture, like flush the toilet to let me know you heard me?”
Andy held up her middle finger to the back of the stall door.
“All right,” Palazzolo said. “Well, I’m just going to assume you heard. The thing is, sooner rather than later, okay? We don’t wanna have to drag your mom down to the station, open a formal interview, all that stuff. Especially since she’s been hurt. Right?”
Andy had this flash in her head, the image of herself standing from the toilet, kicking open the stall, and telling the woman to go fuck herself.
Then she realized that the stall door opened in, not out, so she couldn’t really kick it open, so she waited on the toilet, hands wrapped around her legs, head buried between her knees, until the detective went away.
3
Andy waited on the toilet so long that her knee popped when she finally uncurled from her perch. Her hamstrings jangled like ukulele strings. She pulled open the stall door. She walked to the sink. She ignored the detective’s card with its shiny gold shield as she washed her face with cold water. The blood on her knuckle ran fresh. She wrapped a paper towel around her finger, then tentatively opened the bathroom door.
She checked the hallway. No Detective Palazzolo. Andy started to leave, but at the last minute, she grabbed the detective’s card off the counter. She would give it to her father. She would tell him what had happened. The cops were not supposed to question you when you had a lawyer. Anybody who watched Law & Order knew that.
