Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  I unlock my front door to discover the detectives are both women, which surprises me. I chide myself for my unconscious bias, but I’m also pleased; I expect women will be more sympathetic to me, and I’m deeply aware of my own fragility in this moment.

  They introduce themselves as Detectives Ruiz and Waldstein. I haven’t spoken to either one of them before in connection with Justin’s death. I ask them in and offer seats, which are accepted, and beverages, which are declined. I perch on the edge of an armchair across from the sofa where the two detectives have settled themselves, and wait for them to lead the conversation.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Childs,” Detective Ruiz launches in. “We know you’ve recently lost your son and that this must be a difficult time.”

  “It is,” I reply simply.

  Ruiz continues. “We just have a few questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you know about your son’s real estate holdings?”

  I can’t mask my surprise. Whatever I thought she was going to ask, it wasn’t this. “Nothing, really. I mean I didn’t know he had holdings. He and his wife own a house in Mar Vista. His company rents their space, I believe.”

  Ruiz makes a note on her little pad. “So, you knew nothing about an apartment? In Marina del Rey?”

  I shake my head. “No. But he was very clever about money, Justin. He might have bought a place as an investment, even if he didn’t necessarily talk to me about it. What does Annie say?”

  Ruiz evades my question by asking another one. “How about a boat?”

  “A boat?” My eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. A growing sense of alarm frays my composure. “No. Absolutely not. What’s going on? What’s this about?” I demand.

  Ruiz exchanges a glance with her partner before replying. “I regret to inform you of this, Mrs. Childs. But the body of a young woman was found in an apartment rented by your son, a place he rented using an alias, apparently.”

  My head spins. The body of a young woman. An alias.

  “What? Who is she?” I stutter. “Has she been identified?”

  “Yes, but we haven’t informed the family yet, so I’m afraid I can’t release that information just now.”

  That white light fills my brain again, along with a buzzing sound that competes with Ruiz’s voice as she continues her questions:

  “Are there any other possible holdings Justin maintained that we don’t know about?”

  “If I didn’t know about the one ‘possible holding,’ how could you really think I would know about any others?” I snap at her.

  The two detectives exchange a glance at the sharpness of my tone. I force a little laugh and a vague apology. “Sorry, this is all a bit much.”

  Ruiz presses on. “Where did Justin maintain bank accounts?”

  “I don’t know. You should check with his wife, Annie, regarding his personal accounts. And with his partner, Will Barber, on the business front.”

  “Was Justin and Annie’s marriage solid?”

  This question takes me aback and I answer carefully. “Who knows what really goes on between a husband and wife? But yes, I believe their relationship was a good one.”

  Ruiz picks up the wedding photo of me, Justin, and Annie that I was examining earlier. “Nice-looking couple,” she compliments. “It’s a damn shame.”

  I’m not quite sure which “it’s” she’s referring to, but I’m suddenly desperate to have these two detectives out of my apartment. Unfortunately, they don’t seem inclined to leave.

  Detective Waldstein takes over, “just to confirm a few facts.” She asks questions about Justin’s company, his history with Annie, my relocation to Los Angeles. She’s more conversational than Ruiz, and I find myself feeling relieved as I answer these relatively simple questions.

  I’m proudly outlining the achievements of Justin’s company and its soon-to-be launch, when Ruiz’s cellphone buzzes. “Excuse me,” she says, rising to take the call. I watch as she steps through the doorway into the kitchen, closing the door behind her without asking permission. My hackles rise. It feels like a violation.

  “You know, I’m feeling quite tired. Would you and your partner mind if we picked this up another day?” My tone is plaintive, but it’s not an act.

  Waldstein nods. “Sure,” she agrees, snapping her notebook closed. “As soon as Diana’s off the phone, we’ll be out of your hair.”

  We sit quietly until Ruiz re-enters the room. “Well,” she announces. “We’ve informed the family, so I can be a little more forthcoming with you, Mrs. Childs.”

  “Yes? What is it?” My voice sounds tinny and far away to my ears. I’m surprised that Ruiz can even hear me, but she responds so she must.

  “The body in your son’s apartment is Hayley Hayter. A woman who worked with your son’s wife. We have reason to believe she was murdered,” Ruiz adds matter-of-factly, fixing me with a reptilian eye.

  Oh, Justin. My poor, sweet boy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ANNIE

  “Mommy!”

  The word bursts from my lips as soon as Mom and Santiago arrive on my doorstep, direct from LAX, luggage in tow. I don’t think I’ve called my mother “Mommy” in fifteen years.

  The single word cracks open the dam and suddenly I’m sobbing, wrenching, desperate sobs. Mom leads me to the sofa and holds me as Santiago silently carries in their luggage, and then fetches a box of tissues for me and glasses of water for the two of us. He then discreetly retires to the kitchen, leaving Mom and me alone in the living room.

  Mom does everything right. Strokes my back and murmurs soothing reassurances as my shoulders heave. Hands me tissue after tissue. Waits patiently.

  When my living room floor is littered with a snowdrift of used Kleenex and I’m all cried out, I pull away from Mom’s embrace and curl on the sofa, my arms protectively wrapped around my knees. Cinnamon Toast jumps up and wiggles his way onto my belly.

  Santiago peeks his head around a corner. He’s a man of action, my stepfather. Not so good with open displays of emotion, much less hysterical tears, but he’s always there when you need him.

  It occurs to me then. They don’t even know the worst of it. Where do I begin?

  “Mom,” I whisper. “Hayley Hayter’s been murdered. I think Justin killed her.”

  Mom’s hand flies to her throat. “What are you talking about?”

  I tell them about the boat and the magazines and the apartment and the refrigerator. About the obscene message Hayley’s brother left on my voicemail after the police informed him that her body had been found.

  “Dear god,” Mom says.

  Santiago mutters expressively in Spanish. I’m not fluent, but I know enough to know he’s cursing. “I always had a feeling…” Santiago starts in.

  “Did you?” I interrupt. “Because that’s the thing that’s making me crazy. How did I not see him for who he was? How could I have been so epically, phenomenally, incredibly stupid?”

  “You weren’t stupid!” Mom cries, always my ardent defender. “He seemed perfect. We all loved him! And he loved you!”

  “Did he, though?” Bitter bile rises in my throat.

  “That’s not even all of it.” I tell them what Will’s learned about Warren Sax.

  After the last word stumbles across my lips, we sit in a long heavy silence.

  Santi is the first one to speak. “I’m going to call Lizzie,” he announces.

  Mom and I swivel our heads toward him, equally surprised.

  “I hate to say it,” Santi continues, “but I think Annie’s going to need a lawyer, a good one, and Lizzie will know the best.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WILL

  I hang up the phone and raise my eyes to meet Sunil’s. I know I should tell him about Warren Sax. But I can’t, no
t quite yet.

  After I found Hayley, I called the police. Pacing back and forth, I prayed that they would get there quickly. I was horrified and my mind was racing. What else didn’t I know? What other grisly surprises had Justin left in his wake?

  I was also torn, knowing I needed to tell Annie about my discovery but wanting to prolong her blissful ignorance for even a few minutes longer.

  I texted her to stay put, but she followed my lead and clambered in the window over the recycling bin just as sirens signaled the approach of the cops. I kept her away from the refrigerator and the body, but I’m sure her imagination filled in the blanks.

  The police arrived. It was awkward and surreal as we explained the trail that had led us to the apartment. Annie broke down and started crying as she produced a picture of Justin. Fernanda identified him as the lawful tenant. Annie tearfully maintained she could prove she was Justin’s widow and heir. One of the cops recognized Justin from a story about his accident.

  In the end, they released us with warnings. Don’t go mucking around where you shouldn’t. And don’t leave town without informing us.

  I brought Annie back to her place. She was quiet, distant. I tried to talk to her, but she shut me down and said she just needed to sleep, that she had never felt so tired in her life. I stopped pushing. After all, I felt much the same. I was a little worried about leaving her alone, but she insisted.

  Despite my exhaustion, I came back to the office.

  In the last few hours, Sunil and I have learned many facts, each more disturbing than the last.

  For starters, we learned that Justin never got an MBA from Columbia; the school had no record that he ever even attended. Nor did anyone named “T. J. Childress” during the years that Justin claimed he’d been enrolled. Moreover, Justin’s undergraduate work wasn’t done at Yale, as he’d told us, but at a small liberal arts college of minor distinction in a far pocket of Connecticut.

  But his “inflated” credentials are the least of it.

  In addition to the boat purchased on the company’s dime, we’ve unearthed a trove of credit card accounts, taken out under my name and authority, all with screamingly large balances, none of which I knew about.

  “A dick move, for sure, that Justin took them out under your name,” Sunil says, seeking to reassure me, “but they’re company cards, so you have no personal liability. And we’re weeks away from launch. It could just be a cash flow problem, particularly since we’re due for our next infusion from Sax any day now.”

  I ask Sunil to confirm some details about how Sax funded us, doing my best to keep the inquiry sounding offhand. He substantiates my understanding: We supplied ninety-day cash flow estimates and the money was direct deposited into Convincer’s corporate account.

  “At least there hasn’t been any problem with that.” Sunil sighs. “The money always shows up. Do you think it’ll be different now, you know, because Justin was so hands-on with Sax…” The corners of his brown eyes crease with worry.

  I have to stifle the hysteria that threatens to spill out of me. To say Justin was “hands-on” with Sax is a gross understatement. While he’d freely relayed the story of how he’d impressed Sax and then quit to go out on his own, he’d fiercely guarded the contact, dealing with him directly, claiming it was because of Sax’s legendary proclivity for flying under the radar with his investments. Now I know it was all bullshit.

  But if Warren Sax, reclusive tech billionaire, isn’t funneling money into our company every ninety days, who the hell is?

  I realize Sunil is staring at me. I clear my throat, trying to conjure words, but am saved by a knock on my closed office door. I rise and open it.

  Molly. Perhaps the last person I want to see right now.

  “Hey,” I manage. “How’re you doing? This isn’t really a great time.” I gesture to Sunil, who gives Molly a smile that looks like a grimace.

  “I think you want to talk to me,” she says with an edge. It’s not like her and I’m taken aback.

  “Okaaaay,” I answer. “Sunil? Can you give us a minute?”

  Sunil gathers up his laptop and a sheaf of papers, exiting my office without a word. I usher Molly into the pink room with its baby yellow carpet, conscious for the first time in a long time of the absurdity of the color scheme.

  “Like I said, babe, it’s not really a good time,” I start in, but Molly cuts me off.

  “How could you?” She stares at me balefully.

  “How could I what?” I don’t have the time or energy for a fight right now, and Molly seems determined to pick one.

  “I know about you and Annie.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Justin wrote me an email,” she says triumphantly. “I got it this morning. He told me you two were sleeping together and his heart was broken.”

  Reeling over the accusation, I fix on the detail of an email from a dead man. “What do you mean you got it this morning?”

  Molly looks at me with something like pity. “He wrote it and scheduled it to send later, which turned out to be after he died.”

  “It’s not true,” I answer, but I’m so thunderstruck by Molly’s words that even to my ears the words sound feeble.

  “Right,” Molly says with contempt. “Keep lying. I always knew about you and Annie, on some level, and I don’t know why you feel the need to keep up the pretense now that the obstacle to your grand love affair is out of the way. I hope you two will be very happy. You can dance on Justin’s grave together.”

  Now that she’s said her piece, her angry bristle is gone. She looks sad and defeated as she gathers herself up to leave my office.

  I don’t want to fight for Molly; her acceptance of Justin’s accusation is the last straw on a camel’s back that was already buckling. But I also don’t want her to leave just yet either. We were never going to be right together long term, but we had some good times. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  She wheels around, her face flushed with anger. “Don’t touch me! I wasted almost a year of my life on you!”

  “It isn’t true,” I say softly. “You and I had our problems, but they were ours. They didn’t have anything to do with Annie.”

  “When are you going to give up the charade, Will? Justin told me everything! How he bailed you out in business school, not the other way around, but how he let you rewrite history because he felt sorry for you! How you begged him to come aboard this company after you were fired from your last gig. How he discovered that not only were you fucking his wife, but that you had embezzled so much money from the company that the whole thing was going to implode!” She gestures expressively. “And now Justin’s dead, which is very convenient for you, isn’t it?”

  I stare at her helplessly. He’s framing me.

  My throat constricts. There are a million things I want to say, but I find I can’t speak.

  “You as good as killed him,” Molly rages on. “Maybe you did. I’m taking Justin’s email to the cops.”

  I find my voice. “None of that is true. None of it.”

  “They say every good liar starts with lying to himself,” she snaps back. “Good luck.”

  And she’s gone.

  My legs are trembling, an involuntary judder. I sink back into my desk chair and push the meat of my palms onto my thighs in an attempt to make it stop.

  Whatever Justin was up to, he planned to leave me holding the bag. The unalterable truth that I was thoroughly and completely played is so profound and enormous that I can barely breathe.

  Molly’s final words ring in my ears: “They say every good liar starts with lying to himself.” My challenge is that I don’t have a clue where Justin’s lies begin or end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CAROL

  In response to my push on the bell, Santiago answers Annie’s d
oor.

  I’m surprised to see him; I didn’t think he and Laura were back yet. I’m glad for Annie’s sake, but disappointed for my own; I’d hoped to see my daughter-in-law alone.

  “Carol” is Santiago’s minimalist greeting. He stands blocking the doorway.

  “Hi,” I reply, smoothing my black linen tunic with my palms. “Welcome back. I was hoping to see Annie?”

  “She’s napping,” Santiago answers. He steps outside to talk to me, leaving the front door only slightly ajar.

  I’ve never had a problem with my in-laws. Laura and Santiago are nice enough; he does something I don’t understand in IT; she works as an ESL instructor. We’ve shared many dinners and outings organized around and by the kids. But something has clearly shifted; he hasn’t offered even a single word of condolence about Justin’s death or apologized for missing the funeral.

  Tears well in my eyes. They’re genuine, god knows, but I also hope they’ll have an impact. I steal a look at Santiago to see if he’s moved by my sorrow, but he remains cold as ice. My back stiffens, and I pull myself up to my full height. Even so, he towers over me, an implacable barrier.

  “Annie and I have a bond, you know,” I assert. “We both just lost someone we loved dearly. I don’t know if you’re just jet-lagged or what, but there is absolutely no reason to be rude.”

  Santiago slides on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. I see my image reflected back at me as he replies, “Just how much do you know about the lies your son fed to our daughter? I find it hard to believe you were completely in the dark.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Can I at least come in and have a glass of water? Talk things over?” I entreat. “It’s hot as hades out here.”

  One of Santiago’s bushy eyebrows shoots up over the rim of his aviator frames. He takes his time, but finally gestures me inside. “Be my guest,” he says in a tone that’s anything but welcoming. “But Annie and Laura are both out cold and I’m not waking them up.”