“Understandable.”
“But you knew all this already,” I said.
“I did?”
“You’ve checked her feeds.”
“I have?”
“You’re telling me you just happened to roll out of bed and into that Basic Bitch outfit?”
“Touché,” Regina said. “What’s the play?”
“Be her friend,” I said. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
“As it should be.”
Olivia Parisi lived in Northside, a prewar neighborhood lined with converted Victorians. She came to the door dressed for work — charcoal trousers, matching blazer, ivory scoop-neck shirt. She was five-five, slightly pear-shaped, and conventionally pretty, with an upturned nose and a pointy chin bearing a small cleft. Ash-blond hair, medium-brown roots. By far her most striking feature was her eyes, their gray one shade lighter than the slate-colored Persian cat in her arms.
“Sorry.” Apologetic smile. Evidently her perks included an employee discount on whitening treatments. “He’s a runner. Please.”
We followed her in. She set the animal down and it fled to a back room.
The living-eating area was IKEA with a splash of Target. Olivia invited us to the sofa but drew up short; fur blanketed the upholstery.
“Dangit.” She ran to the kitchen for a lint roller, began sweeping furiously. “I vacuumed yesterday. It’s so gross. Oh my God, look at me.” Rolling her clothing.
“What’s his name?” Regina asked.
Olivia smiled again. Proud pet mom. “Owen. He’s a stinker, but I love him... Okay. I think it’s safe now.”
She pulled over a dining chair, sat opposite us with her hands in her lap, and did one quick inhale-exhale. “Whew. Sorry about that.”
I took out the voice recorder. “All right for me to tape this?”
“Sure.”
Regina said, “Thanks again for taking the time.”
“It’s fine. I’ve already talked to so many people, you know? After a while you’re running on autopilot.”
“I bet. Why don’t you start by telling us how you met Adam?”
Olivia named a popular dating app. “He DM’d me like five times. I was about to block him. Then he sent this poem. ‘Roses are red, Michael Jackson sang “Thriller,” I promise I’m not a serial killer.’ I was like, ‘Fine, you win.’ ”
Regina matched her smile. Perfect tone and temperature. “Cute.”
“Yeah. Although, maybe he’s saying that because he is a serial killer, right? ’Cause who comes right out and tells you they’re not a serial killer?”
“Except a serial killer.”
“Exactly,” Olivia said.
They shared a laugh.
In the space of sixty seconds, everything about Olivia Parisi had changed: her posture easing, her voice lighter. I’d seen Regina work her magic before, but it was always impressive to witness.
“We were messaging for a while before I agreed to meet him in person,” Olivia said. “I was so used to guys who seem nice and normal, then next thing they’re asking for nudes or sending you pictures of their — you know. So I definitely had my guard up. Actually, it’s kind of a funny story: I have this app, like a safety thing, for dating? It calls you at a preset time. You pick up and say Yes if you want to stay or Hi if you need to bail. If you say Hi, it starts playing this recording of a woman crying and saying Please come right now. It’s really loud, so the guy can overhear it. You hang up and go Gosh, I’m so sorry, I have to leave, it’s a family emergency.”
“Wow, I love that idea,” Regina said.
“Right? It’s so good. And the name, oh my God... It’s called Grandma Died.”
We all laughed together, bringing me into the mix.
Olivia crossed her legs. “Anyway, the first time I met Adam, we’re having coffee, talking, getting to know each other. My phone rings with the app. I’m having fun, so I pick up and go, ‘Yes.’ It waits a while, then calls again. I had mine set to call every fifteen minutes. Usually thirty minutes is way more than enough. Me and him, though, we’re really hitting it off. I don’t want to leave. But it just keeps on calling. If you don’t answer, it tries again, two minutes later, and after four tries it calls 911. I’m under the table” — she mimed typing with her thumbs — “trying to get it to stop, and he’s staring at me. ‘Are you okay? Do you need to take that?’ ‘Oh yeah, no, it’s... telemarketers.’ Finally I went to the bathroom and shut off my phone.”
“Good date,” Regina said.
“Amazing. Everything was so easy and natural. I remember feeling sad when it ended, ’cause I was sure he’d ghost. But he called the next day.”
She gnawed a cuticle. “Honestly, I don’t know what he saw in me. He’s this artistic spirit, and I’m just... me. But I’m grateful.”
Like Adam’s mother, she was weaving in and out of the present tense, unable to land.
“You were together for a while,” Regina said.
“Four years, eight months.”
“Did you ever discuss getting married?”
“All the time.”
“What stopped you?”
A wry smile. “You met his parents.”
“They didn’t approve.”
“I mean,” Olivia said, “they didn’t disapprove. Not out loud. His mom’s super polite. His dad... isn’t. But I almost prefer that, at least he’s honest. In the beginning, they made a point of saying how they wanted to get to know me. They’d invite us for dinner, then ignore me and talk about his dad’s research or some fundraiser his mom was organizing. I had nothing to contribute. It wasn’t my world. My dad left when I was two, my mom raised me by herself. We didn’t like, starve, but... The first time Adam brought me to his parents’ house I was like, ‘Holy macaroni.’ ”
Regina smiled. “That’s what I said, too.”
Olivia laughed softly. “Yeah. And I was surprised, ’cause he’s so down-to-earth. It made me like him even more. He was always apologizing for them. ‘I’m so sorry, they’re ridiculous. We don’t have to do that ever again.’ Or he’d talk about eloping. I appreciate that he was trying to make me feel better. But we both knew he couldn’t, it wasn’t... realistic.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one, I didn’t want to come between him and his family. I’m not that kind of person. Plus he depended on them.”
“Financially? Emotionally?”
“Financially. They paid for his car, paid his rent. Most of his jobs came through his mom. She’s on all these boards. He’ll shoot the galas, do video presentations. She introduced him to people. Adam jokes about it. ‘Thank God for white privilege.’ ”
Regina said, “He felt conflicted.”
“For sure. But he never turned down the work. He couldn’t, not unless he wanted to start over on his own. That’s why we didn’t live together, because we knew it’d make things way too complicated. Also, I’m pretty OCD, and his place,” she said, laughing, “is a disaster. Anyway... I hoped they’d warm up, or at least get used to me. We both love the same person, right? Then it... happened, and we’re thrown together, the three of us, twenty-four seven. Like, really? This is what it takes? He has to, to—”
She covered her face and let out a sharp sob.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
I took out a mini-packet of tissues — a habit from my coroner days.
“Thank you.” Olivia wiped her eyes, smearing mascara. “Uch. Dangit.”
“Do you need a break?” Regina said.
“It’s fine. I’m gonna have to redo my makeup, we may as well get it over with.”