Chapter 9: After
Daniel Reeves was formally charged six weeks later.
Reyes called me on a Tuesday morning while I was getting ready for work.
I stepped into the hallway to take it.
"Portland confirmed the identification this morning," she said.
"They're combining the cases.
Three jurisdictions.
His attorney filed for a continuance but the judge denied it."
"The trust account," I said.
"Was anything accessed?"
"No.
You locked that door before he got to the storage unit.
The combination on the floor was as far as he got."
I leaned against the wall.
"He came that close," I said.
"He did," Reyes said.
"But he didn't get there." A pause.
"You should know — when we interviewed him, he said you were paranoid.
That you had never accepted Tyler's relationship and used the first excuse you found."
"I know that's what he said."
"I thought you'd want to hear it anyway.
Because the traffic camera, the note, the prior cases, the ID flag — none of that is paranoia."
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
After I hung up I stood in the hallway for a moment.
Then I went back into the kitchen and finished making coffee.
Tyler called that evening.
He was back at school, had been for three weeks.
He was seeing someone at the university counseling center, which he had told me about straightforwardly and without embarrassment, which made me quietly proud.
"They charged him," I said.
"I know.
Reyes texted me too." A pause.
"How do you feel?"
"Relieved.
Tired." I thought about it.
"Glad it's over."
"Is it over?"
"The legal part is just starting.
But the part where I didn't know what he was — that part is over."
Tyler was quiet for a moment.
"Mom," he said.
"I've been thinking about what you said.
About not talking yourself out of the feeling."
"Yes."
"I want to learn how to do that."
"You will," I said.
"It takes time.
But you will."
We talked for another twenty minutes about ordinary things, his classes, a professor he liked, a film he had watched twice.
When we hung up I sat for a moment in the quiet kitchen.
The good dishes were back in the cabinet.
The pot roast was long gone.
The basement door was just a door again.
I made one cup of tea.
Set the kettle back on the stove.
Sat down at the table where six weeks ago everything had changed.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like the house was mine again.
* * *
Some instincts exist for a reason.
Diane almost talked herself out of hers — and the people she loved most were exactly what was at stake.
Have you ever had a moment where something felt wrong before you could explain why?
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