Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  The shadowy darkness of the hallway is a relief after the heat outside. I head for the kitchen, and fill myself a glass of water from the dispenser in the corner. I swallow it down and fill another as Santiago watches me warily, aviators now slung in the collar of his golf shirt.

  “Like I said, Annie and Laura are sleeping,” Santiago says. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “It was vague, to be honest. Can you be more specific? Because I’m not really sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay. Let’s start with this: Did Justin have a brother named Thomas?”

  “Oh, that. No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘oh, that’? You knew he lied about having a brother?”

  “It’s all so long ago, it hardly seems to matter. Back when Justin was just starting business school, he went through a rough patch. He ended up taking some time off to take care of himself and corrected course, but he was embarrassed about falling behind, so he made up a little story.”

  “Uh-huh. A little story.” Santiago is staring at me. He’s not asked me to sit. I do so anyway, defiantly curling into a kitchen chair and sipping at my water.

  “Aren’t we all entitled to go through a hard time and come out the other side?” I press. “Is your life a completely open book?”

  “What does a ‘rough patch’ mean?” Santiago fixes me with dark, glinting eyes. “What happened exactly?” He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the doorjamb.

  “I don’t see why you’re digging up that old history now…”

  “I don’t see why you’re not.” His voice is icy. “Whatever happened, Justin invented a drug-addicted sibling, and then pretended he died to cover it up.”

  “Okay, then. I don’t know why you’re so fixated on something that happened years ago, but he had a bit of a breakdown. He was institutionalized for a while, actually. Did ECT.”

  Santiago’s eyebrow shoots up again, and I continue, “Shock treatments. Surely you can see why he would want to keep that period of his life private? People don’t always understand about mental illness; there’s a stigma.”

  “But why make up a story about a brother who doesn’t exist?”

  “The shrinks said he was transferring his pain to someone else.” I shrug. “Look, I just want to talk to Annie. The police came to see me. They told me about poor Hayley. I know Annie must be really hurting right now.”

  “I’d say that’s an understatement. You do realize Justin is the number one suspect in Hayley’s death, right, Carol? And that he was probably having an affair with her?” His face contorts in a snarl. “Annie, our Annie, was living with an unfaithful killer! Driving off that cliff is the most decent thing Justin did in his entire life!”

  “I’m not going to let you talk about my son that way!” I retort as I rise and slam my water glass down on the kitchen table. “He didn’t kill Hayley!”

  “You’re deluded.”

  “And you’re being cruel. Justin was a human being, just like the rest of us. He had his weaknesses and faults, he wasn’t perfect, he made mistakes. And yes, maybe occasionally he twisted the facts a little to make himself look better, but who hasn’t? He was a good man and a good husband. Not a killer!”

  “I think you should go now” is Santiago’s chilly reply.

  “I think you’re right,” I shoot back in a tone as frigid as his. “But you can relay a message to Annie for me. Tell her I know Justin was faithful to her. And that no matter what she hears, or surmises, the truth is that he loved her.”

  Santiago snorts in response. “You think she gives a shit anymore? She’s just praying that whatever crap your son was involved in doesn’t swallow her alive.”

  I struggle to keep my composure but I don’t want to say things I’ll regret later. My eye catches Justin’s favorite blue mug in the dishrack and my heart wrenches all over again.

  “Just tell Annie I came by,” I choke out as I stride past him and toward the front door. Then I stop and address him once more. “You know we should be united now, a family, not picking apart the past and leveling unfounded, hurtful accusations at each other.”

  “I feel sorry for you.” Santiago’s voice is so soft I can barely hear him.

  “I don’t need your pity,” I retort. “You’ll see. Justin will be cleared. You’ll be apologizing to me.”

  “Nothing would make me happier,” Santiago replies as he shuts the front door behind me with a decisive click.

  I slip on my sunglasses and head for my car. The jacarandas are blooming and the street’s canopied in rich purple, the pavement dappled with sunshine and welcome shade. It’s an idyllic little block, small neat houses, nicely maintained yards. A man and his son come toward me, the father walking, the little boy riding a tricycle. The father’s absorbed in his phone; he’s paying absolutely no attention to the fact that his son has bicycled far out in front of him.

  The boy is abreast of my car. His father half a block away, still enrapt in his electronics. I could open my car door, scoop that child up, and spirit him away without his father even noticing.

  People are so pathetic. They don’t realize how temporary everything is, how quickly their sense of order in the universe can be upended, their life destroyed.

  I should snatch that little boy, just to teach his father a lesson. Sweep him up, tuck him into my car, and drive away.

  The boy is mere feet in front of me now, pedaling furiously, his face scrunched with effort.

  Just then his dad looks up from his phone. “Andy!” he shouts. “Slow down there, buddy!”

  I press my key fob to power open my door locks. Give Andy’s unruly hair a swift caress as I pass him, but climb into my car, leaving the child be.

  I never would have taken him. Not really. I know what it is to lose a child. I couldn’t do it to someone else, even to teach them a lesson.

  But I can’t be punished for fantasies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ANNIE

  When I wake, I feel sluggish and dazed; my tongue is thick in my mouth. Mom’s still fast asleep, curled behind me, one arm thrown protectively over my middle. I pull my cell over from the night table. After tapping at my phone with confusion for a few minutes, I realize I’ve slept for almost twenty-four hours.

  I extricate myself from Mom’s embrace without waking her and head downstairs. Cinnamon Toast weaves around my ankles, mewing plaintively. I give his head a rub and pour some food into his bowl.

  Justin’s tiny home office, a screened-in porch with no insulation, is right off the kitchen. That had been another planned project of ours, finishing the room, making it truly all weather.

  It’s searingly hot outside again today; the room is stuffy and too warm even with the blinds pulled shut. I sink into Justin’s desk chair and give it a little swivel. I never came in here much; it was always Justin’s domain. I sniff the faint scent of him that lingers, spicy, sweet, very male.

  There’s a picture of me on his desk, a candid shot he snapped one day when we were on a hike. My hair is tousled, my cheeks pink with exertion, my sunglasses perched atop my head. I’m smiling, happy, innocent. I gently lay the frame glass-side down on the desk.

  I flip open his laptop. Password protected. I try a few random guesses: his birthday, “password,” our anniversary, my name, Carol’s. No go.

  I turn my attention to his desk drawers. The top one holds no surprises: pens, crumpled singles and a handful of change, assorted business cards, paper clips, a spare phone charger, a stress ball, the card I wrote him on our anniversary. I read the words I’d labored over so carefully.

  Darling J,

  One whole year! I can hardly believe it. The past 365 days have flown by. As we’ve taken the first few wobbly steps into building our future together, I’ve come to love you more with every passing day. You
make me want to be better; you actually make me better just loving you. You restored an elemental faith in myself that I thought I’d lost forever and for that I will always be grateful. May every anniversary we share be as blissful as this one.

  Love, A

  The card’s face depicts a stick figure groom carrying a stick figure bride over the threshold of a stick figure home. The reference to the wobbly steps was a private joke, a reference to the uneven front stairs at our little cottage, a joke that now leaves a bitter taste. It was just over six months ago that I wrote those words.

  Stupid fool that I am.

  fool [ˈfül]

  noun, a silly or stupid person

  synonyms: nitwit, simpleton, dunce, ninny, cretin, nincompoop, dolt, idiot, jackass, buffoon, blockhead, numbskull, oaf, boob, clod, dunderhead, ignoramus, imbecile, moron, driveler, bonehead, etc.

  The synonyms for fool are almost endless, and I deserve to be labeled with every single one.

  But no more. My eyes are wide open now.

  The next drawer contains stacks of files, each one neatly labeled: Amex, Visa, Discover, Verizon, AAA, Car Insurance, Life Insurance, Mortgage, etc. I start at the top and work my way down.

  It’s ugly. There are multiple credit card accounts I knew nothing about. Many of them are in my name. All of them are past due, with enormous balances largely accrued through cash advances, accumulating interest at a nauseating clip.

  There are three mortgages on our house, two of them sporting my forged signature. There’s a copy of the lease for the apartment on Windjammer, signed with Justin’s distinctive, illegible autograph, in a file marked Research.

  I marvel at his sheer audacity. Every bit of it was just sitting here, neatly organized and labeled, under our shared roof. If I’d been even the slightest bit nosy, I would have unearthed it all. I shiver despite the heat as I realize that it’s technically not even our roof. Three different banks own this house, not me.

  I don’t understand, and I don’t think I ever will. Not only how he pulled it off, but why he felt compelled to in the first place. We were doing fine with our two salaries; we could have made our nut on mine alone if we were careful.

  I used to tease Justin about living large and splashing out, even as I welcomed his generosity. I thought I understood his largesse: He was a self-made man, who appreciated the fragility of good fortune and wanted to share his with others. It seemed genuine.

  Could it have been genuine, despite his being a liar and a cheat? Possibly a killer?

  The contours of the room swim before my eyes. More hot tears. I’m impatient with myself; what am I grieving exactly? The loss of Justin? Or the enormity of his betrayals?

  I hear the front door open. The sound of Santiago’s gravelly voice floats in, along with another voice it takes me a moment to place.

  Bella. My heart lifts a little.

  I exit Justin’s office and head for the kitchen. There I find Santiago unloading cartons of savory, mouthwatering take-out while Bella grabs plates and utensils from drawers.

  “You’re awake!” Santiago announces.

  “You don’t miss a trick,” I reply, trying to match his jovial tone.

  Bella wraps her arms around me from behind. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?” she murmurs into my uncombed hair.

  “I’ve been better,” I reply weakly. Suddenly I’m ravenous. I grab a plate and load it up: garlic chicken, plantains, rice and beans, Cuban food at its most delicious. I stuff my mouth.

  Bella arches an eyebrow at me as I wipe a smear of garlic sauce from my chin. “Slow down, girl,” she teases. “The food’s not trying to escape.”

  I swallow down a mouthful of sweet plantain. Bella hands me a glass of cold water and I drain it.

  “Thank you.” I nod at both Santi and Bella. I do feel marginally better, but a heavy silence falls over the three of us. Santiago picks at a chicken wing, shredding it meticulously. Cinnamon Toast leaps up onto the counter and eyes the chicken fragments with rapt attention.

  I’m the one to break the silence. “Bella, when Justin and I first got together you were the only one who spoke up—”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she interrupts. “We don’t need to go into that ancient history! Not now.”

  “I have my reasons for asking you, Bell. I know I shut you down back then, but now I need you to be honest with me. You were pissed when Justin ghosted me, but was there anything else?”

  “It was a long time ago.” Bella hesitates, twisting her hair into spirals. “How can it really matter?”

  “Please! Just tell me.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She shrugs. “Here it is: that weekend you met Justin up at Mammoth? I’m not sure it was entirely an accident.”

  “What are you talking about? I totaled my car.”

  “Right. I know there was an accident. But…well, the first day we were on the slopes, I met Justin. We started talking, and he was so charming. You know better than anyone how he could be.” Bella shrugs again.

  “So, you met him. So what?” There’s a defensive bristle in my reply and Bella casts her eyes away from mine.

  “I pointed you out. I said that you were in need of a fun weekend.”

  “Wow. I had no idea you thought I was so pathetic!”

  Bella jerks back, stung, and Santiago raises his hands, asking for peace. “We know you’re really hurting, honey,” he says. “But just hear Bella out.”

  Bella shoots him a grateful glance. “I didn’t think you were pathetic. He was with a group of cute guys and I thought we’d all hang out. I was just flirting. It was before I wiped out and hurt myself.”

  “Okay. Again—so what?”

  “Okay. Here it is. He didn’t seem all that interested in you—like he was just being polite, you know? Until I mentioned that you worked at MediFutur. Then it was like a switch flipped. So much so that it struck me as a little weird at the time. But then, you know, I got hurt and forgot all about him, and then he was your knight in shining armor, with the car. I told myself I’d imagined it.”

  Bella’s arms raise and drop. I can tell she feels better for getting this admission off her chest.

  On the other hand, my chest feels like it might explode.

  My job. He was interested in me because of my job.

  It was the answer I was searching for but still I’m in the dark.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Bella looks startled. “What do you mean?”

  “How did MediFutur come up?”

  “I don’t know, exactly, it was years ago!”

  “Try to remember, Bell. You pointed me out, how did that happen?”

  “I was flirting with one of his friends, that guy Darien he used to hang with?”

  I nod. Darien was a peripheral friend of Justin’s who fell away after we got serious.

  “Anyway. He asked who I was there with. Said he was with friends and maybe we could all meet up later.”

  “Where was this?”

  “By the lift. We figured out that we were all from L.A. I think maybe it came up then. You had just gotten that piece placed in the L.A. Times so I was bragging on you.”

  “And that’s when Justin became interested?”

  “Bingo. And, oh, right! He wanted to know if you were just P.R. or if you understood the science. I told him you were a word nerd from way back.” Bella shrugs. “Anyway, like I said, weird at the time, and then…” She trails off with another shrug.

  My mind races. I am a word nerd.

  But Hayley was a tech nerd.

  Bella and Santiago are looking at me, I realize, warily gauging my reaction. Bella twirls her hair. “Are you mad at me?”

  It surprises them both when I begin to laugh.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  WILL

  I s
uppose I ought to be grateful that Vern Fellowes, the CEO of MediFutur, is even willing to see me.

  It might be curiosity motivating him. Or pity. I’m not sure, but if our positions had been reversed, I probably would have declined. The speculation that the husband of one employee killed another employee in a sordid love triangle is hardly the kind of P.R. a company like MediFutur wants.

  Nonetheless, here I am, in their stark, modern waiting area, fifteen minutes early for my appointment.

  There’s an easel in one corner holding a large photograph of a smiling Hayley and an announcement about an upcoming memorial in her honor. It conjures another image: her cold blue face, her shattered eye. I pluck at a loose thread on the edge of my shirt so as not to look at the poster.

  I think about texting Annie to see how she’s doing, but when I last called, her mother picked up and said Annie was finally sleeping. I rub my own eyes and stifle a yawn. Each time I’ve tried to sleep, a sudden adrenaline flare floods my system right before I doze off, jerking me back to an uneasy wakefulness. I’m exhausted. I’m wired.

  The loose thread comes away from my shirt in a satisfying spiral.

  Then Fellowes’s assistant is asking me in, offering me beverages as he escorts me down the hallway to a sunlight-flooded corner office. My eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the light.

  To my mild surprise, Fellowes isn’t alone. There’s a sleekly dressed woman sitting in one of the two deep, square armchairs that flank his desk.

  Lawyer is my guess.

  A prickle races down my spine. Maybe this meeting isn’t so friendly, after all.

  My instinct is proven correct. The woman introduces herself as Lorraine Perkins, general counsel for MediFutur. Her voice is pure steel.

  I begin by offering condolences about Hayley. Fellowes cocks an eyebrow and exchanges a glance with his attorney. “What is it you want, Mr. Barber?” Fellowes demands. “Unless you’re here to return our property I don’t think we have anything to discuss.”