“If you change your mind, just stop by,” he said.
“I’ll do that.” And she hustled him out the door.
The apartment where Liv’s brother, Hague, lived was on the third/top floor of an older, industrial building on the east side of the Willamette River that had been converted into loftlike units during the ’60s. Those lofts had subsequently grown tired and in need of maintenance over the intervening years, but the place still had a spectacular view toward Portland’s city center, its westside windows looking back over the river. Hague’s unit was in the northwest corner and would have commanded an amazing slice of Portland skyline had he ever opened his blinds.
Liv parked her blue Accord a block and a half from Hague’s building, the closest spot she could find. She hurried toward his apartment, the package tucked beneath her coat, feeling unseen eyes following her, though there were probably none. It was more likely her own paranoia, always on the prowl. She usually could hold it at bay, but there were times when it simply took over and she was powerless to do anything but feel its paralyzing grip.
She wished fervently, like she always did, that she could change the past, but it was impossible. She’d lost her mother and huge parts of her life—days, weeks, months, years—and there was no getting them back. She could still remember the policeman’s probing questions after she’d woken from her trauma-induced coma. She was in a hospital with its bad smells and gray walls.
“Did you see anything when you were in the kitchen?” he’d demanded. She didn’t know he was a policeman at first. He didn’t have the clothes of a policeman.
“I saw Mama.” She forced the words out. Her lips quivered uncontrollably.
“Anything else? Something?” He threw an impatient look toward the woman who’d come with him. A social worker of some kind, she knew now, but she hadn’t understood at the time.
Livvie’s quivering lips were replaced by out-and-out sobs.
“Useless,” he muttered.
“She’s just a child,” the woman responded tautly.
He turned back to Livvie. “The back door was open. Did you notice that?”
She nodded jerkily.
“Did you walk outside? Look outside?”
“NOOOOOOOO!”
“Calm down,” he told her. “Was there anyone—anyone—around?”
“H-Hague was in his bed,” she stuttered, plucking at the covers. “He—he started crying. . . .”
“Any adults!” His mouth was smashed together like he was holding back something mean to say.
She felt the tears rain down and the woman walked over to her, patted her hand, glared at the man and said, “Let the poor child be!”
“Maybe her mother killed herself because she knew something about those dead women out in the field behind her house.”
“Shhhh.” The woman’s mouth was a flat line, too, but Livvie was glad to see it, understanding that it was for him, not her.
“Or, maybe somebody thought she knew something and decided to take care of her himself ?”
The woman marched right over to him and said in a low voice, “This child found her mother! It was suicide, and it was tragic, and she’s been terribly traumatized. Try to remember that.”
He gave her a mean, mean look, and said, “I’m trying to catch a killer. You should try and remember that.”
With the hindsight of age Liv now realized the man had been a plainclothes policeman with the small Rock Springs police force and completely out of his realm working with children. But that didn’t excuse him. And he hadn’t given up after that first interview. Oh, no. He’d come back to the house as soon as she’d gotten out of the hospital. By that time she and Hague had a neighbor woman taking care of them but Liv would not go into the kitchen. She was in the den when the officer came to interview her, and this time she was on her own with him . . . and the panic started to rise.
He tried a little harder, but Liv had lost trust completely.
“Try to think back to the night your mom died,” he told her, smiling at her through his teeth. She recognized that he was trying to be kind, but his smile just creeped her out all the more.
“Okay,” she said in a small voice.
“Don’t think about your mom. Think about the kitchen.”
Panic swelled. She saw the table and the sink and the window. “It was really dark. The outside was coming in,” she said.
“Yes. The back door was open,” the officer said, nodding. “Do you know who went out the door?”
“My dad?”
“You think your dad went through the door?”
“Mama was holding her face.”
“Your dad told me they had a fight. Do you know what the fight was about?”
That made Livvie think hard, but she shook her head.
“Have they fought before?”
“Yeah . . . Mama hit him once.”
“Your mama hit your dad?”
“I think he hit her, too,” Livvie said solemnly. “That’s why she was holding her face.” Then, remembering Mama, she started shaking and hiccupping.
“Now, be a big girl and stop crying. I need your help. Your mama needs your help.”
“Mama’s dead. Mama’s dead!!!”
“You can help her.”
“You’re lying! Mama’s dead!” Livvie wailed and clapped her hands over her ears and the policeman left the den, said something mean to the neighbor lady and slammed the front door.
After that the police gave up trying to interview her, though the social worker questioned Livvie further about her parents’ relationship, which created havoc for her father and was probably partially to blame for their chilly relationship ever since. The police questioned Albert Dugan thoroughly, and he’d been furious with Liv for telling tales. Still, he admitted that he and Deborah’s relationship had been tempestuous. He might have slapped her . . . once . . . or twice . . . but she’d hit him, too. He admitted to slapping her the night of her death before he’d stalked out the back door. Deborah had bitten him and he’d struck without thinking. But he was so sorry. So, so sorry.
It was also why Mama had said, “I’m done,” Liv was pretty sure.
Even so, to this day Liv wasn’t sure what the truth had been between her parents. Her father swore they’d loved each other . . . well,
