Style-guru Charlotte Oakes sells beautiful lifestyles, but her mentally ill daughter is an addict, her long marriage is dead, and she is pregnant with her ex-loverâs baby. Stunned after witnessing a hit-and-run in Chicago that leaves a child dead, Charlotte thinks she sees her Prius fleeing the scene. Her troubled daughter, Libby, is the only one who could have been driving.
His partner and best friend killed in a drug bust, police officer Ed Kelly learns that forensics has found that the fatal bullet came from Edâs gun. Under internal investigation, Ed copes by filming cars at the site of the recent hit-and-run, hoping to catch the childâs killer. There, he notices Charlotteâs pilgrimages to the makeshift memorial, and over the weeks, the two become unlikely friends sharing intimate stories. But Charlotte wonât trust him with her most vulnerable secret of all: her suspicions about her daughterâs involvement in the accident.
When Ed finally learns the truth about, he struggles with his beliefs and duties. If he keeps quiet, he has breached his commitment to the law. But if he does the right thing as an officer, he may send Libby to jailâand lose Charlotte.
Style-guru Charlotte Oakes sells beautiful lifestyles, but her mentally ill daughter is an addict, her long marriage is dead, and she is pregnant with her ex-loverâs baby. Stunned after witnessing a hit-and-run in Chicago that leaves a child dead, Charlotte thinks she sees her Prius fleeing the scene. Her troubled daughter, Libby, is the only one who could have been driving.
His partner and best friend killed in a drug bust, police officer Ed Kelly learns that forensics has found that the fatal bullet came from Edâs gun. Under internal investigation, Ed copes by filming cars at the site of the recent hit-and-run, hoping to catch the childâs killer. There, he notices Charlotteâs pilgrimages to the makeshift memorial, and over the weeks, the two become unlikely friends sharing intimate stories. But Charlotte wonât trust him with her most vulnerable secret of all: her suspicions about her daughterâs involvement in the accident.
When Ed finally learns the truth about, he struggles with his beliefs and duties. If he keeps quiet, he has breached his commitment to the law. But if he does the right thing as an officer, he may send Libby to jailâand lose Charlotte.
ONE CHARLOTTE
Black Friday, November 2018
Charlotte Oakes hurried through Lincoln Park on a bright, chilly November afternoon. She was running late and should have taken a cab, but Chicago had
so few perfect days that she had wanted to walk. It was nearly three oâclock, time to drive her daughter to the dentist. Libby was home for Thanksgiving, and the visit was not going well. Libbyâs visits rarely did. This was Charlotteâs failing. Only bad mothers had troubled kids. Good mothers had children who grew up to be artists, investment bankers, or owners of craft breweries.
Libby was twenty-three and less than two months out of rehab. She worked at J. Crew in Manhattan while she waited to become famous. Perhaps a TV star . . . It was all a little vague. She watched TMZ and hung out in trendy hotel lobbies drink- ing cappuccinos, hoping to be discovered like Lana Turner sipping a Coke at the Top Hat Malt Shop. Fame was the main point. Libby had refused to move back home after treatment. âInfantilizingâ was the word she had used. Libby had learned plenty of lingo in rehab to throw at her mother. âEnablerâ was another.
Charlotte was late because she had gone to see Emory. She did not like the word âlover,â but that was the closest she could
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come to describing him. She was still basking in the afterglow of her visit, replaying the way he had kissed her, scooped her up, and carried her to his couch. Maybe, just maybe, they could have a life together someday.
She was, of course, being ridiculous.
It was all a fantasy. She kicked at some of the red and gold leaves littering the path. Emory would never leave his wife, who was Chicago aristocracyâwhich was the difference between Charlotte and Emory. One of many. He claimed he was happy with his wife, but happy people didnât have affairs. She knew that much. She would leave her unhappy marriage for a shot at happinessâselfish though it might be. And she had been self- ish. She should have been home with Libby. Then she wouldnât be rushing.
As she approached the corner, a small girl dressed in a fairy costume darted into the crosswalk. A woman, balancing a tod- dler on her hip, dashed into the street after her. The woman lunged for the girlâs hand as a familiar-looking car flew through the intersection. Was that her car? Charlotte heard a thump. The girl tumbled to the ground, her pink tutu billowing. Her gold foil crown glinted in the gutter, squashed. The woman and her toddler were splayed across the curb.
The girlâs head lay in a puddle of blood. So much blood. This couldnât be real, but a crow cawed in a tree. There was a runner in the distance. She was in Lincoln Park on the corner. The accident was real, but children werenât supposed to get hit by cars and die. This child would surely die. Charlotte froze for a second before her instincts kicked in, and she ran toward the child. A dark-haired man, who must have been her father, got there first and began CPR. Charlotte rushed to the woman on the curb. She was badly bruised, bleeding, and cradling a small, sobbing girl. Charlotte started punching 911 into her cell phone.
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âI called. Stay with me. Please.â The womanâs skin was pale and bluish, the color of shock, and her eyes were wide and glazed. Her blonde bob was matted with blood. She pulled her toddler closer, and the child howled in pain. Her arm dangled at her sideâbroken.
âAre you hurt?â Charlotte asked, before she realized this was a stupid question.
âMy daughter.â The womanâs eyes were locked on the child lying still in the street and the man bent over her. âMy hus- band.â Blood still streamed from the girlâs head. It soaked the fatherâs gray parka and his jeans. Charlotte willed herself not to vomit. She knew she would never unsee this. Worse, the par- ents and sister would never unsee the small body in the street. A family had been destroyed in a second.
âIâm here,â she said. That was all she could do, though not nearly enough. The two women sat on the cold curb. The father continued CPR. The city went silent. The only sounds were the fatherâs breaths, and the toddlerâs sobs. Time stood still as if this moment, this nightmare, would last forever.
A cop arrived. He sprinted toward the child. He was heavyset with silver hair and a slight limp, but he was fast. Within min- utes, four squad cars and three ambulances crowded the street. Traffic was blocked off, and she had a moment to think.
How much had the cop seen? The accident? The car? How much had she really seen?
The speeding car had looked like her Prius, but she could be wrong. Sheâd only spotted it out of the corner of her eyeâa navy-blue blur. Still, she thought sheâd seen an orange daisy decal on the back windshield, like the one sheâd been gifted at the Botanical Gardens fundraiser. She had never before put a decal
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on her car. But daisies, the Danish national flower, reminded her of her Danish friend Kari who wore a small gold daisy on a del- icate chain. Daisies also symbolized childbirth and motherhood as well as love, fertility, and sensuality. She liked that.
It couldnât have been her car. Libby wouldnât have been driving. Sheâd let her license expire, although this kind of tech- nicality had never stopped her before.
A male and a female EMT hopped out of an ambulance, opened the back door, grabbed the stretcher, and dashed into the street.
âWeâll take it from here, sir.â The female EMTâs voice was serious and calm, as she motioned to the father to step aside.
The father stood up. His face was distorted with panic and confusion as he rushed over to his wife, kissed her, then hurried back to his daughter and the EMTs.
âNo cervical collar,â the female EMT told her partner. âSheâs not breathing.â She held the girlâs head while the male EMT rolled the girl onto her side and onto the stretcher. They quickly strapped her in, beckoned to the father to come, and carried her into the ambulance. Within seconds, they were speeding down the street, siren blaring.
Charlotte watched as the next set of EMTs lifted the smaller girl onto a stretcher. The mother shooed away the EMTs trying to assist her and climbed into the ambulance with her daughter. Charlotte left before anyone could question her, but she couldnât remember her walk home, only that she arrived at their house. She could not stop picturing the girl. Her hand shook as she put the key in the front door of their Lincoln Park brownstone. She walked through the foyer into the warm liv- ing room. It seemed as if everything and nothing had changed.
There was the white couch, the pale gray chairs, and white roses on the coffee table.
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âLibby, Iâm home. We can still make it to the dentist.â No answer.
She rushed upstairs and opened Libbyâs door. Her bed was made, and a glass of water sat on the nightstand. Her suitcase was open on the floor, but Libby was gone. She went back down- stairs. The bowl on the kitchen counter where she kept her keys was empty. She paced around the first floor of the house, her thoughts jumbled. Libby must have gone on her own to the dentist. Perhaps sheâd taken a cab. Of course she had. The car keys must be in her purse, which was on the kitchen table. She upended her purse and shook it. She checked the side pockets. No keys. She went outside to the garage. Her car was gone. Panic beat in her chest.
She called Libbyâs phone. It went straight to voicemail. She thought of the girl. Of death. She texted Libby. No response. Lowering herself into a chair in the family room, she called and texted nonstop. She left messages.
Where are you?
Answer me.
Iâm worried.
Call me back.
She clutched her phone, shut her eyes, and attempted to magically project her worry through space to Libby. It didnât work. Her phone remained silent.
She dialed again. âHey, itâs Libby. Leave me a message.â
Charlotte threw her phone onto the side table. This was better than hurling it across the room, which is what she really wanted to do.
Somehow dinner was made. She managed to boil water for the farfalle pasta, set out saffron and cream for the sauce, and tossed an arugula salad with toasted pine nuts and parmesan.
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At seven, her husband Daniel walked in from his investment job at Bainbridge Capital, handsome in his gray pinstripes.
âSmells good.â
He went upstairs to change from his suit into jeans. When he came down, he poured a Scotch and turned on the news in the family room. Charlotte sat down on the couch with him.
There was the girl. Her picture was splashed across the screen along with the headline Hit-and-Run Killing in Lincoln Park.
She had been five and died on the way to the hospital. Charlotteâs breath caught in her throat. Her palms began to sweat.
âThe police need witnesses to come forward. Anyone with any information should call this hotline.â A number ran across the screen.
âWhoever did that should be shot.â Daniel took a swig of his Scotch. âOr even better, run over.â
âI was walking by. I saw all the police cars and ambulances.â âThat must have been awful.â
âI couldnât really see the accident, but it shook me up.â
She hadnât meant to tell him anything. The words slipped out. It was an odd secret to keep, but there was the car . . . the car that looked like her car. And Libby. Libby drove Dan- iel crazy. Her alcohol abuse, lack of direction, and sullenness were difficult for him. There was no need to plant unfounded suspicion in Danielâs mind. Libby was still not home and still not answering her phone. Worry grew in the pit of Charlotteâs stomach and spread through her veins.
The news photo of the dead child looked like a school pic- ture, overly lit with an artificial blue-sky background. She was
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smiling the goofy, wide smile of a five-year-old. Her eyes were large, a pale clear gray. She had blonde hair like her motherâs. Her name was Sarah Caldwell. After a visit to the park, she had been crossing the street with her family, holding her motherâs hand. Even though Charlotte knew this was not true, it was somehow the worst partâthe image of the hands. The split second in which someone could lose a child. Charlotte surrep- titiously wiped her palms on her jeans as the news continued. She was not normally a sweaty person. Daniel was watching TV and did not seem to notice. He didnât notice a lot about her, which was part of the problem. She had become invisible, something she had longed for as a child. Now she didnât like it. âThe girlâs mother and two-year-old sister suffered broken bones, cuts, and bruises. The two-year-old had a broken arm,
the mother broken ribs.â
Charlotte looked up at Libbyâs unsmiling eighth-grade photo on the bookcase. She had always been an unhappy child, a worrisome one, even if it wasnât her fault. Well, not all of it. She had a trifecta of issues: obsessive-compulsive disorder, ADHD, and learning disabilities. Life had been difficult for her, but she had never done anything to hurt anyone. Only herself. The news droned on. âThe father watched, helpless, as his daughter was hit by the car. There was only one other witness.
A police officer on paid leave. Neither man was able to identify the driver. The car may have been a dark-colored Prius.â
She exhaled and glanced at Daniel, who did not react.
The cop. The man sheâd seen. Tall, blue uniform, silver hair. Her mind whirled. The car, the girl, Libby.
The news anchor did not mention the sisterâs name. Was it as timeless as Sarah? She had been careful not to choose the name of the moment when she was pregnant. Names, like clothing and certain kinds of art, could seem dated. Charlotte
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was particular about the classic. Elizabeth was a good, solid name. She wished Libby would go back to it. Her daughter had started using Libby when she stopped eating at thirteen, as if shedding letters could also make her thinner.
Libby did not show up for dinner.
âIâm sure sheâs out with a friend.â Daniel had switched from Scotch to red wine. âWould you like a glass?â He poured one and pushed it across the table toward her. She did not like red wine.
âShe didnât answer when I texted and called.â What if something had happened to Libby? What if she had crashed the car? Charlotte fingered the phone on her lap.
Daniel dug into his saffron pasta. âDoes this have cream in it? Iâm trying to cut back on fat.â
âYes, sorry. I didnât know.â She was having trouble chewing and swallowing. She reached for the glass of wine. If she took small sips, it wasnât so bad.
After she did the dishes, she poured a glass of white wine from an open bottle in the fridge. Daniel, who had finished the red, went upstairs to his office. In the past, his disappearances had made her lonely. It was sad to live with someone who ignored her. Who often didnât bother to answer her questions. Who never wanted to have sex. Her days of trying to tempt him with lacy lingerie and skimpy nightgowns were over. Heâd expressed no interest, which only made her feel aging and ugly. Eventually, she gave up.
She thought sheâd put that part of her life behind her, until she met Emory and became an adulterer.
If sheâd not gone to see Emory, she would have been here with Libby and driven her to the dentist. True, Libby was old
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enough to get to the dentist on her own. But Libby struggled, and Libby was all she had. She had tried for years to get preg- nant again. Daniel had not wanted IVF, and she had finally given up. Now, at nearly forty-five, she was too old.
She took the wine and lay on the family room couch. She propped Circe on her stomach, but instead of reading, she pressed Libbyâs number over and over again. She finished the wine. It did nothing to calm her. Around eight, the back door opened. Libby stood in the hall removing her bright yellow down jacket. Her long dark hair was tangled. Her lips looked chapped, her eyes unfocused.
âWhere have you been?â She tried to ask this as if she was only inquiring about her evening. This took a lot of self-control. âDinner with a friend.â Was there a slight slur to her voice?
Having a child who has been through rehab hypersensitizes a person, but she didnât smell alcohol.
âDid you get to your dentist appointment? I know I was late.â âYeah, my teeth are fine.â
âHow did you get there? A cab?â Libby did not answer.
âI hope you didnât take my car. Your license is expired.
Unless you got a new one in New York?â This was met with silence.
âLibby, Iâm asking you a question.â
Libby headed upstairs to her room. Charlotte sat for a min- ute, unnerved and angry, before she got up. She opened the door to the backyard. It took a minute for the outdoor lights to brighten. She walked down the back stairs and into the dark garage. Her car was back. She flipped the light on, but it was too weak to see much. Stooping down, she ran her hand over the bumper. She felt a divot and fished her phone out of her pocket. The flashlight clicked on. There was a small dent on the bumper.
As a mother and wife and lover and 'life stylist', Charlotte has her hands full. An addict with OCD, anorexia, and ADHD, Libby is just trying to keep her world together and quiet the voices. Ed is a husband and father and grandfather and friend with a complicated personal life that runs alongside a straining work life. It is while Charlotte is tending to everyone but herself and Libby is out of rehab once again and Ed is suspended from the force that, on a Black Friday in November of 2018 their lives intersect right when tragedy strikes. A car hits Sarah Caldwell and flees the scene, changing everyone's lives.
My favourite thing about Intersections is how multidimensional the characters are. Many writers have a tendency of giving characters certain traits to make the plot make sense, but Karen F. Uhlmann wrote this book in such a way that the characters are almost human in that they do things because of who they are and how they feel. The plot exists because of the characters; not that the characters are shaped for the plot.
It is because of this approach that the lives depicted on these pages become complex. The story is textured in such a way that there are no clear heroes and villains; there are just humans...trying. Uhlmann also made the excellent choice of telling the story from Charlotte and Ed's perspectives. By so doing, the reader gets access to information that the other character does not have while deeply connecting with each narrator's viewpoint.
It goes without saying that this book is a must-read. It is an engrossing page-turner that I could not put down and for days after reading it, I just sat with what I had just read. Those who enjoy family drama, welcome home.