Please Don't Take This
I still remember the date. It was March 19, 2022, and Eliza was about six months old then. “Mama. Say Mama.” I tried to get Eliza to say, but she would only stare at me with bright and round blue eyes. 9 months. 9 months in my uterus. Only for her to end up looking like Hope.
She is perfect.
“Ma…Ma…Come on. Say it.”
“Da-Da!”
“Excuse me?” My face contorted in confusion. “Eliza, sweetie. You have no DaDa. That’s the whole point of our setup here.”
“Da-Da!”
Hope’s laughter echoed as she entered our bedroom. “What did you say, little one?” That’s Eliza’s nickname. Little One. She was 5 pounds and 10 ounces of pure joy, which technically makes her smaller than normal babies, but she was healthy otherwise. She’s actually grown a lot since then. Apparently, she got my appetite—according to my mom. It’s one of the things they used to differentiate me and Lizzie.
“Da-Da!” Eliza repeated with joy, bringing laughter to Hope’s lips.
“Stop encouraging her!” I jokingly turned to Hope.
“Da-Da!”
My phone buzzed frantically, breaking me out of my trip down memory lane. I answered without looking, my eyes glued to the family pictures on my desk. “Detective Saltzman.”
“You dog!” Lizzie’s voice nearly made me deaf.
“Lizzie!” I jolted from my seat. “What the fuck?!”
“You really couldn’t wait until the kids were out of the house?” What is she talking about? Pardon my confusion, my sister is incoherent most of the time.
“What?”
Lizzie started to go on this ramble, stringing together jumbled words that somehow made sense to her. I’m surprised she even survived Med School or residency. Genuinely, how does she still have her license?
I ended the call.
3…
2…
1…
Lizzie’s name flashed again on my phone screen and I answered the call again. “You’ve reached Detective Josette Saltzman. Unless you want this call to be dropped, I deeply suggest you speak clearly and coherently. How can I help you?”
“Bitch.” Lizzie muttered, “As I was saying, Eliza is a teenager now. She would definitely know what those sounds are.”
“Again. What?”
“Look, I get it. I’m your sister and you don’t want to share the details of your sex life with me, but please, spare your children the possibility of walking in on the two of you.”
Words failed to escape my lips.
“Also while we’re at it,” Lizzie continued, “She definitely needed that. That post-coital glow is doing wonders on her mood today.”
Wait…
Does she think?
But we didn’t…
We haven’t…
Not in a long time…
“I gotta go. My boss is here.” I stammered before ending the call. Before I could even process what my sister told me—well, implied to me, my phone rang again.
“Detective Saltzman.”
“Hello Detective. I have something you need to see.”
I pulled up to the scene of the crime, showing my badge so they'd let me pass through. The familiar yellow tape surrounded a seemingly normal suburban home. Local authorities try to keep the journalist from getting near or snapping any photos. They got here really quick.
I greeted the police officer who gave me the call—the ever serious Officer Morgan—and with heavy footsteps, I entered the house.
It was dark and reeked of decay. Officer Morgan handed me a picture. “This was how we found him.”
Oh God.
What made me shiver wasn’t the near decaying state of the victim. It was the fact that his head, decapitated from the neck, was resting on his lap, terror forever frozen on his face.
Wait. He looks familiar.
“ID indicates that he's 47 year old Ezra Benjamin Fitzgerald, more known as-”
“Ezra Fitz.” Officer Morgan looked at me with intrigue. “He was a 22 year old teacher who dated his 16 year old student.” I paused, “I was about her age at the time.”
“You know her name? The student?”
“Aria Montgomery.”
“Isn't that supposed to be confidential?”
“It was. Until he professed his love for her on live TV.” I sighed, “Poor girl was chased by the paparazzi until she and her family left the country. Enough about her.”
“Ah, yes.” I returned the photo to Officer Morgan and he gave me a pair of latex gloves. “Despite the obvious decapitation, the victim may have died from blood loss.” He pointed at the carpet. “That is supposed to be white as indicated by the parts covered by the couch. The body was found when a neighbor went to complain about a foul smell. The victim most likely died a few days ago, but we're still waiting for the autopsy.”
Back at the station, my hand fiddled with a pen as I tried to piece together a motive for the crime.
What would drive someone to take his life?
Because he took a girl’s innocence.
It couldn’t have been a robbery. No. He would’ve still been alive. Even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t have been this theatrical. Besides, nothing of value was stolen. Nothing of value could’ve been stolen as the house had barely any things.
Aside from his life apparently.
“Saltzman!” A voice snapped me out.
“Greasley.” I smiled at him warmly.
“The kids with Hope’s parents?” His smile and tone indicated that he knew. I didn’t have to tell him. He already knew.
“Yeah.” I stretched my back. “Hope has a long surgery scheduled today, and with our line of work, who knows what time I get home.”
His lips tightened, catching the sarcasm in my voice. “You’ll work it through.” He tried to comfort me, which would’ve worked had I not been hearing this for the past decade already. His eyes wandered to the pictures on my desk. I could see the gears in his mind. “Homicide?”
“Yeah.”
His eyebrows furrowed together, “Wait, is that?”
“The teacher who confessed to being in love with his 16 year old student on live TV? It’s him.”
“Could she have done it?”
“The girl?” He nodded to my question. “No, I checked. Aria Montgomery—now Hastings—has been with her wife in London for the past six years. She’s teaching Photography at a college there. The rest of her family, father; dead, mother; in Austria, and brother; in Paris.” I sighed, “None of them have even been in the country for the past decade.”
“Does she know?”
“I don’t know.”
I was finally able to go home just before midnight. My body ached, craving a soft mattress to lie down on. I tossed the keys to the key bowl. Hope and I bought it at a garage sale when we first got our home. I removed my jacket, kicked my boots off, unbuttoned my button-up shirt almost all the way, and just landed on the couch.
“Hello, silence.” The faint sound of crickets chirping almost brought me to sleep had I not heard the front door open.
Hope giggled, as if she had a great day. Until she saw my face. “Oh.” She cleared her throat, “You’re home.”
“You look happy.” My words seemed innocent, yet my eyes threw accusations. How could I not? Was that conversation with Lizzie just her messing with me?
“I am.” She smiled, challenging my accusations. “My team was able to separate the conjoined twins and so far no complications.”
“Oh…”
“How was my mom’s lasagne?”
“Great, as always.”
Hope and I went back to silence. But I swear that I saw Hope's eyes wander on me.
“Take a bath. You smell like a crime scene.” Hope took her heels off. “Besides, you got home first.”
Without missing a beat, I went upstairs while unbuttoning the remaining buttons on my shirt. I filled the tub with warm water and jumped in, letting it soothe my aching muscles.
I finished bathing, changed into my sleepwear, and fell asleep to the sound of Hope taking a shower.
I've been living like this for most of my married life. Please don't take this away from me.