Where They Found Her by Kimberly McCreight

just—I don’t care anymore. Or I don’t care now. After we lost the baby, he sent me a sympathy card and made a donation to my work—or my old work—like we asked people to. But there’s only so much that a stranger can do in a situation like this.
    Q:     And that’s okay with you? That your sole surviving parent is a stranger?
    M.S.: What difference does it make whether I’m okay with it? It’s the way things are. I have enough problems right now without dredging up ancient history. I had a rough childhood and a cold, angry mother who died when I was eighteen. I can’t change any of that now.
    Q:     But you could acknowledge that not having parents makes this harder for you.
    M.S. : Because feeling sorry for myself is going to make me feel better?
    Q:     It might. And what about Justin’s parents? What’s your relationship like with them?
    M.S.: Justin’s mother came and stayed for two weeks right after. I don’t know what we would have done without her help.
    Q:     But it doesn’t sound like you’re exceptionally close.
    M.S.: Are we supposed to be? Justin’s parents are just— They’re intimidating, I guess. His mother told me once that I was different from Justin’s other girlfriends. More spirited, that’s what she said. I think she meant it as a compliment, that I kept him in better line than his other girlfriends or something. But it made me feel like a horse. That’s what they’re like: well-intentioned, but always off somehow.
    Q:     Have you and Justin spoken about trying to have another baby?
    M.S.: How could I have another baby? I can’t take care of the one I have.
    Q:     I didn’t mean now. Eventually. Sometimes making plans like that for the future can be helpful.
    M.S.: I can’t do that. Not yet.
    Q:     Have you told the NAPW that you’re not coming back?
    M.S.: Yes, I told them. They said I could have more time off, as much as I needed. But I don’t want more time. I want to know that it’s over. That I never have to go back there.
    Q:     What will you do if you don’t go back to work?
    M.S.: Try to survive. Right now that feels like more than a full-time job.

Molly
    I headed straight from the police station to the Black Cat Café on the far side of the chilly green. Gray had overtaken the sky, turning it from the front edge of spring back into the tail end of winter. I pulled my coat tighter around me and lifted my bag on my shoulder.
    I was glad I’d brought my laptop with me. There wasn’t much time before everyone would have the story, which meant I’d have to go for basic in my second post. I’d save my crime statistics and the background on Simon Barton. As it was, I would have barely anything to add in the print follow-up. I’d already called the ME’s office and, as expected, I had gotten a curt “No comment pending our official results.”
    Despite my initial vertigo, I was no longer conflicted about staying on the story. I wanted to, needed to write about it, and with an intensity that even I had to acknowledge was somewhat disconcerting. I could only imagine what Justin would say if he knew what I was feeling, which was why I didn’t plan to tell him.
    Can you have coffee? Justin texted before I’d gotten all the way across the green. He was checking up on me. Acting like he was sure I’d be fine, but wanting a peek with his own eyes to be sure.
    Great. Black Cat? Thirty minutes?
    By then I’d be done with the Web update.
    Wouldn’t miss it.
    It was warm inside the rough-hewn Black Cat, the air rich with the ten varieties of free-trade coffee beans on offer. It was my favorite café in town, the place I went when I didn’t want to write at home, which was most of the time these days. That was the thing about not being able to get out of bed for weeks on end. Once you finally could, you developed a real phobia of being at home.
    The Black Cat was a true university hangout—professors and students—complete with