by Nicola Marsh
“We have,” I say through gritted teeth, wanting to stick a pen in his eye for bringing it up again. “I really do have to get back to work—”
“While murder is never pleasant, and I feel sorry for that girl, personally I think you’ve had a lucky escape.”
He perches on the edge of my desk. I used to like his ability to appear at ease in any situation; now his familiarity in my office makes my skin prickle with indignation. “Bringing a baby into your marriage would’ve been a mistake.”
Disbelief renders me speechless. I stave off a shudder as a chill washes over me, like he’s tipped a bucket of icy water on my head.
“How dare you—”
“You forget, I work with Marisa too and when I saw you and Dane meeting with Jodi at the center, I figured it out.”
His audible pity makes my palm itch to slap him and I curl my fingers into a fist.
“You were going to adopt her kid.” He stands, looming over me. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But I think you bringing a child into a marriage fraught with problems is a short-term fix for deeper unresolved issues.”
He braces his arms on my desk and leans forward, annoyingly nonchalant. “I’m just saying it how I see it, Claire, like all those times you asked me for advice.”
Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it down, the burning trail it leaves behind as unpalatable as what I’m listening to. I don’t want his unsolicited marital advice and I can’t believe how blasé he is after the awkwardness of our last confrontation.
I trusted him. I let him into my life by confiding my fears about so much: my fear of never having a child, of not being enough for Dane, of our marriage imploding. And now the bastard is throwing it back in my face, all wrapped up in a solicitous, faux caring, bundle of advice.
“You can stick your advice up your ass.” I stand so we’re almost eye-to-eye. “We’re done here.”
His blasé mask slips for a moment and I glimpse a startling mania before he blinks and it’s gone. In that second I wonder if I’ve misjudged Griffin more than I already have.
I’ve seen how he twisted our friendship into something more.
What if he’s more warped than I think and has harmed Jodi in the hope my marriage will fall apart if we can’t adopt?
It’s a whacky theory. Then again, I’ve had a few of those in the last few hours.
“How much time have you spent with Jodi?”
He stiffens. “A little. I consulted with her once at the center.”
“If you know something about her that can help—”
“You know I can’t say anything because of patient confidentiality—”
“She was murdered!” I thump my desk. “If you know something, tell me.”
He compresses his lips like a kid and shakes his head, so I decide to rattle him.
“Where were you last night?”
He rolls his eyes. “In New York City.”
“How convenient—”
“Look, I don’t know why you’re asking me irrelevant questions when the most important one is when you’re going to see sense and admit there’s something between us—”
“Stop.” I move so suddenly my chair slams the metal filing cabinet behind me. The resultant clang is loud and I wince, before squaring my shoulders. “You need to listen and listen good. If you approach me with any of this drivel again, I’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges so fast your head will spin.”
I stalk around the desk and open the door. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”
I say it loud enough that several heads pop up from the dividers between desks. Sensing an audience, Griffin assumes his usual carefree mask and strolls out of my office with a casual wave, like our fraught exchange is nothing more than an overreaction on my part.
I slam the door and determined to delve further because I won’t get any answers from him, I get back to my computer and start investigating. In the name of thoroughness, I check his alibi. Traffic footage of his car on the highway and the tolls prove he’s telling the truth. The guy is guilty of being an idiot but he didn’t kill Jodi.
I need to focus on discovering who did.
Thirty
Marisa
When I make it into the office staff tell me to take the day off. I can’t. I need to stay busy and check Jodi’s paperwork is in order. I usually keep meticulous files because some cases end up in court, especially the domestic violence ones. With Jodi murdered, I know my files can be subpoenaed and I have to ensure I’ve followed procedure every step of the way.
I scroll through Jodi’s details on the computer. All seems to be fine. Then I flick through her paper file and glimpse the unsigned adoption papers and the attorney’s contact details. Sadness sits on my chest like an invisible giant, heavy and stifling until I can hardly breathe. I saw the devastation in Claire’s eyes at The Rise. It was the pain of a woman who’s lost a dream, not that of a policewoman investigating a murder. Would she start to spiral again?
I’ve hated watching my friend turn to alcohol for comfort, being forced to take leave from work because she wasn’t coping. Claire is tough. She has to be in her line of work. But it’s the people with the hardest exteriors that often hide secrets deep inside. I should know. I’ve put on a brave front for years.
Not that I’m tough. I’m a marshmallow. A pushover, my girls say. They could coerce me into giving them anything when they were younger. I justified it by thinking we had the money but we wouldn’t have the twins forever so whatever they wanted I provided.
Now I wonder if I’ve done them a disservice. Will they expect to coast through life without facing hardships? Will they seek out men to marry like their father, a good provider but a lousy husband? I hope not. I wouldn’t wish that on my girls.
I’d like them to have husbands like Dane: dependable, chivalrous, solid Dane, who has been so supportive of Claire through their fertility issues. Most men would’ve retreated, maybe felt guilty if they couldn’t father a child. But the few times I’d seen Dane since Claire revealed their secret he’s been the same. I admire that, the ability to take the bad that life dishes out and move forward without falling apart.
I think he’s helped Claire through the adoption process too. She’s been a different person since I gave her hope. A hope cruelly ripped away by a monster. Something we’ll all have to live with.
I’m concerned that Claire may revert to self-pity. I worry about her more than Elly. Even after the rape Elly bounced back quickly. She’s resilient and adept at putting the past behind her. She reminds me of me. Not that either of them know how much I worry. I’m used to hiding my true feelings. Claire is vulnerable beneath her hardy hide. Elly is too but to a lesser extent. My friends need me to look out for them.
They don’t know but when my girls left for college I transferred my mothering onto Claire and Elly. I don’t feel whole unless I’m caring for someone. Avery gave up needing me a long time ago, unless it’s to act as a trophy wife and a hostess.
I need the validation and my friends provide that. Without them, I’d be lost. My job feeds into my neediness too, not that my clients know it. Nurturing is what I do best and as I gather the adoption papers into a bundle, tap them on the desk to neaten them, then slide them into the folder and paperclip the lot, I know Claire needs me more now than ever.
Thankfully, everything is in order with the paperwork. I wish I could say the same for the impending sense of doom I can’t seem to shake.
Something is seriously off about this murder.
Jodi didn’t have any friends in town. She knew nobody but me, Claire and Dane.
And the baby’s father.
I can’t shake the thought that he might’ve had something to do with this. I wish I’d pushed her further for answers regarding his identity. I wish I had some clue.
A knock sounds on my door and Claire pops her head around it.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I quickly shove Jodi’s file
under the stack on my desk. The last thing Claire needs is to find me brooding over it.
I stand and come around my desk to give her a hug. “Is this official business?”
“Yes and no.” We release each other and I gesture at the sofa.
“Want something to drink?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
We lapse into an awkward silence that isn’t us. We always talk, even if we don’t have much to say.
“Are you sure you should be on this case?” It sucks as an opener but it’s something I’ve been thinking about since I saw Claire at The Rise this morning.
She immediately bristles, her gaze wary while her nod is emphatic. “I need to be.”
I should keep my mouth shut. I can’t. “But aren’t you too close to it? I mean, you were hoping to adopt Jodi’s baby. It’s your dream to be a mom and now that’s been taken away from you in the most unexpected, cruel way—”
“Ris, you’re a good friend, but trust me when I say I have to be on this case.”
Her gaze is evasive. She can’t look me in the eye and she’s fidgeting with the seam on her uniform trousers. Claire never fiddles. She’s too controlled for that.
That’s when I know something is seriously wrong.
“You have a suspect already?”
It sounds like a question but I’m making a statement. Because deep down I know, know without a doubt that she’s here because she has to impart bad news and it has something to do with me.
She takes a long time to speak, as if searching for the right words, and that’s when I guess the truth before she says anything.
“You think Avery’s involved in this?”
Pain darkens her eyes as she finally meets my gaze. “I would never discuss any aspect of this case with you if I thought it could be compromised. But you’re my best friend and after all you did for me with the adoption…” She shrugs, a simple gesture that is far from nonchalant. “I wouldn’t feel right following up this lead without you knowing.”
I want to know.
I don’t want to know.
The story of my life with Avery.
“You shouldn’t tell me.” A wave of nausea rolls over me as I place my palms on my knees and breathe deeply. It does little for the fear making me want to cover my ears and not hear another word. “Because if he’s responsible for what happened to that girl I want you to lock up that son of a bitch and I know that can’t happen if this investigation is compromised in any way.”
Her lips part in shock but she quickly masks it. “You’re not angry? Or surprised?”
“Honey, I’ve got years of pent-up resentment against that man.” My nausea eases, replaced by a determination to nail whoever killed Jodi, even if it’s the man I’ve been married to for twenty years. I pat Claire’s knee and she manages a wan smile. “As for surprise, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
Speechless, Claire stares at me, the friend she thought she knew, realizing maybe she doesn’t know me at all. I’ve always been a doormat around Avery: throwing the perfect parties, supporting him unquestionably, being the model wife.
I’m surprised that Claire doesn’t understand that if something appears too perfect, it usually isn’t. She’s an expert at reading people. I’ve seen her in action at my parties when she meets my acquaintances for the first time. She’s the epitome of polite, able to make small talk with anyone, but later she’ll describe in detail what makes an individual tick. I envy her that ability. It would’ve saved me a lot of heartache if I’d been able to do that twenty-two years ago when Avery had strutted into my life.
As Claire continues to look at me with open curiosity, I can read her stare: she’s still wondering how much to tell me.
“I’m not as clueless as I make out to be.” I sound snappish when it isn’t her fault I’ve portrayed exactly that to my friends. Appearing blissfully oblivious is often much easier than admitting my marriage is a sham and I’m desperately unhappy.
Claire doesn’t know what to say in response to my honesty so she waits, looking at me expectantly. I’ve never admitted Avery’s faults to anyone. I’ve spent my entire married life pretending: first for my kids, later for appearances. Probably for me too, because I never want to admit to myself that I made a horrific mistake the day I married Avery Thurston.
I’d been so smug back then, knowing my plan worked. I felt superior in every way knowing I’d targeted a big fish like Avery and reeled him in without him having the faintest clue. My life had changed for the better. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, because as it turned out no amount of skiing holidays in Aspen or designer wardrobes or lavish degustation dinners could make up for the fact I’d married an egotistical, vain man-child that didn’t give a crap about anything but his image.
“Let me give you a little background, then it might make it easier for you to understand.” I steeple my fingers and rest them in my lap. “Avery’s a classic narcissist. But he gives me the life I always wanted so I’m happy to tolerate his shortcomings.”
Until now, because if that bastard has done anything to harm Jodi I’ll castrate him myself.
“My father left when I was a toddler, I never knew him. Mom worked hard, never cooked or cleaned, so we lived in a hovel and had frozen TV dinners every day. She was never there for me so I vowed to never be like that when I had my own family.”
Some of my outrage against Avery fades as I think of the twins. My gorgeous girls with their clear eyes and radiant smiles. They’re so innocent, though I’m hoping they’re not half as naïve as their mother at the same age. I can’t hate Avery no matter how much I want to because he’s the father of my beautiful children. “I met Avery in my first training hospital. He was doing post-surgical rounds, I was organizing temporary housing for a battered wife.”
I remember the way he looked at me that day in the hospital corridor: it still gives me chills. Like he knew what he wanted – me – and nothing would stand in his way of getting it. An intense, commanding stare that brooked no argument, a smug smile like he knew he had me, the confident wide-legged stance of a man used to owning the world and everyone in it. Avery Thurston was king, on the lookout for his queen and I’d been only too happy to accept his crown. Pity it had been thorned.
“I didn’t stand a chance. He was charming and generous, swept me off my feet and into a life I’d always craved. Beautiful house, security, kids.” I’m pressing my fingers too hard against each other and I forcibly relax. I can’t tell Claire the whole truth, that I’d deliberately targeted Avery in the hope to escape my crappy life. He’d been my way out and thankfully he’d fallen for my ingenuous, deferent act. Still does. I guess it’s not his fault I’m tired of acting and putting up with him. “My identity became wrapped up in my kids. They gave my life meaning. A purpose. I kept the perfect home, raised the perfect girls, played the perfect wife. And then they left for college.”
I fall silent and Claire prompts, “That’s two years ago, right? Just before I arrived in town?”
I nod. “You always had good timing. I was foundering without the girls. And being alone with Avery became… difficult.”
Claire’s expression is carefully neutral. “How?”
“He became more demanding. In all aspects of our life.”
I don’t need to elaborate. She’ll read between the lines. Though it’s not his insatiable sexual appetite that bothers me as much as his never-ending sense of entitlement. Avery Thurston expects the best in life and if he doesn’t get it he’s a nightmare to live with. The best clothes, the best restaurants, the best service… the best wife. Because that’s how he sees me, as an adjunct to his perfect world. If I slip up, I’ll be out. That’s how he makes me feel. It’s no way to live.
I tolerated being an accessory while the girls were home but now they’ve gone it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I’m happy. I’ve been faking it for twenty-two years and it’s wearing me down. Something has to give and I’m ho
ping it’s not my sanity.
I press my palm to my chest. Like that will help the hollowness that resides beneath my breastbone every single day. “I accommodated him, I still do. I put up with his frequent absences for work, I tolerate him constantly having to bail Ryan out of situations, I act like I’m happy with it all, because my greatest fear is losing him.”
There, I’ve said it and it sounds just as crazy articulated out loud as it does in my head. Because for all his faults, the small, insecure part of me that I thought I’d conquered a long time ago after escaping my past still rears its ugly head, making me want to cling to him despite abhorring him. We’re like some strange co-dependent couple pretending like everything’s fine when we know deep down that nothing could be further from the truth.
“I despise him most of the time but I’m afraid of being alone.” Which is madness. I know this.
How many women have come through the Help Center after being through horrific traumas and go on to live full, independent lives? I catch myself at times, giving them a stupid trite lecture about conquering their fear of loneliness and being strong and comfortable in their own skin.
I need to practice what I preach. “I don’t like quiet. I need to keep busy. I need to be needed, otherwise I’ll be left with my thoughts and emotions and I can’t face that.”
Because there’s only one outcome if I acknowledge my innermost thoughts and I don’t think I’m ready to leave my life behind as I know it. Not yet. Someday. Possibly sooner rather than later. I don’t know when and this self-enforced powerlessness isn’t helping.
I’m exhausted by the time I finish talking and Claire radiates sympathy.
“So that’s why you constantly throw parties and volunteer alongside work?”
“Yeah. If I stop being busy…” I inhale sharply, my throat tightening. “I might actually realize how utterly miserable I am and want to do something about it.”
