Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  I start to laugh. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe I can leverage my personal tragedy into a book deal. Who better to write this story than me? My writer brain begins spinning.

  Perhaps I can explore how Hugh and I are forever bound by tragedy. Two strangers brought together in pain, anger, and grief, who forge an unshakable bond and…do what? I don’t know the ending to that story, but I’m relieved to find myself asking questions about how to start a new one. Despite everything, I feel a flutter of resilient hope. It’s good Hugh came here today. The start of a healing.

  I take myself inside. I feel giddy, buoyed by a momentary fantasy of a book tour and glowing reviews touting my “fearless honesty” and “deft command of language.”

  Hugh’s at the kitchen table, in what was Justin’s usual seat. It unsettles me briefly, but, of course, there’s no way Hugh could have known.

  Mom’s by the stove, setting tea bags into mugs. After washing my hands, I grab a coffee cake from the counter and set about cutting a few hefty slices.

  “How are your parents doing?” I ask, as I arrange the cake slices on a plate. “I mean, I know, shitty, but are they okay?”

  Hugh caves as if I’d punched him. “My mother’s checked into a facility,” he says in low, anguished tones. “I won’t see her for at least thirty days. So, no. They’re not okay.”

  “Oh god. I’m so sorry.” I mean it, but the words sound woefully thin. I avert my eyes and reach for foil to cover the cake, just to give myself something to do.

  “Chamomile for you, honey?” Mom asks me, turning away from the stove. She freezes. A tiny gasp escapes her as her hand flies to her throat.

  I follow her line of sight. Hugh has a gun in his hand, an ugly gray thing with a pugnacious snout. He claps it down onto the Formica top of my kitchen table with a thunk.

  “My family is destroyed,” he laments. “Broken. Hayley was…the light. The glue.”

  “People heal from grief,” Mom says kindly, wary eyes on Hugh’s weapon. “It takes time, though. You have to give it time.”

  “I can’t heal from this. It’s too much.” Hugh’s pained voice is so soft I have to strain to hear him.

  “Come on, Hugh,” I entreat. “I mean, I understand, you know I do, but I’m not giving up.” My eyes dart over to meet Mom’s. She gestures at me to keep talking.

  “Why don’t you give me that gun?” I say soothingly. “I’ll give it back to you when you leave.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Hugh growls.

  “Of course not!” Mom rushes to assure him. “No one said you were.”

  “It’s just a house rules kind of thing,” I continue. “No big deal. I’ll put it in our gun safe until you’re ready to leave.”

  “You have a gun safe?” Hugh looks at me with interest.

  Of course not.

  “Of course I do,” I answer him firmly. His eyes narrow suspiciously. “For guests. Guests with guns.” I hold his gaze steadily, clinging to my fiction despite my hammering heart.

  “She was good, you know, Hayley. She was the best person.” Hugh wails.

  “I know,” I reply softly. “She was my friend. I miss her too.”

  “Why didn’t he kill you?” Hugh demands, grabbing the gun and pointing his weapon directly at my face.

  Words choke in my throat. I honestly don’t know why the fuck Justin didn’t kill me. He might as well have. And it sure looks like Hugh is going to finish the job for him.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t kill me,” I manage to whisper. “But let my mother walk out of here, and we can talk about it. Justin was my husband. This is my problem.”

  Mom’s face is white, but she shakes her head at me vigorously, indicating there’s no fucking way she’s leaving me alone with this maniac.

  I raise my hands in a gesture I hope is placating. “Hugh. I know you’re hurting. Believe me, I know. But this won’t solve anything. You should walk out of here, go home, and try to sleep. You must be exhausted! Right? I know it’s all hit me that way. When you get some rest, you’ll see things differently.”

  “What was it all for?” His voice is strangled by emotion. His extended arm is shaking. My eyes follow the barrel of the gun like it’s a bouncing ball.

  It takes me a moment to understand what he means. Then it hits me: Why are Haley and Justin dead? Why is his family destroyed?

  “I wish I knew,” I reply truthfully.

  He nods at me, his eyes wide with what seems like understanding. He drops his arm so the gun is pointing at the floor. I exhale.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom dialing 911 on her cellphone as she creeps toward the hallway. The tinny voice of the dispatch operator crackles to life over the phone’s speaker. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  Hugh rears up at the sound of the dispatcher’s voice. Raises his gun again.

  “No!” The word explodes from Mom’s lips.

  Hugh turns the muzzle of the gun away from me and toward his own skull.

  “Hugh! Don’t do it!” I yell. “Please!”

  He pulls the trigger. Brains, blood, and skull fragments splatter against my cheery yellow kitchen wall.

  Hope dies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  WILL

  Sunil and I have put together as many pieces of the puzzle as we can. I’m astonished really, at how completely devoted to Justin we all were, how we never noticed it was all a scam. A house of cards built on lies, deception, and fraud, now all tumbling to the ground.

  I feel a sense of relief, actually. Finally, I know the worst and can face it squarely. And we think we have enough to exonerate me, no matter what Justin emailed to Molly.

  “I’ve got your back all the way.” Sunil’s dark brows knit together. “You ready, man?”

  “No time like the present,” I agree, as I stand and reach for my jacket.

  There’s a knock on my closed door.

  “Come in,” I call. It’s Ginny, our receptionist. She’s agitated and bounces back and forth on her platform sneakers.

  “Uh, Will, the police are here. Detectives.”

  Sunil shoots me a surprised glance. “Mountain to Mohammed,” he mutters.

  “All right,” I instruct Ginny. “Tell them to come in.”

  I remove my jacket and settle back into my chair. Sunil gives me a reassuring nod.

  Two women in plain clothes enter, followed by two male cops in uniform. It seems a little excessive.

  “Will Barber?” one of the women asks.

  “Yes. That’s me. I’m glad you’re here, Officer.”

  “Detective,” she corrects. “Detective Diana Ruiz. And why’s that?”

  “I was just coming to make a report. I have evidence that my deceased partner was involved in massive financial fraud.”

  Ruiz pins me with her sharp, dark eyes. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. “I, we.” I gesture to Sunil. “This is Sunil Bhatti, our CFO. The two of us are guilty of stupidity, but nothing more. And we have the paper trail to prove it.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear all about it, Mr. Barber.”

  There’s something in Ruiz’s tone that unsettles me.

  “What brought you here today?” I ask cautiously.

  “Funny you should ask.” Ruiz’s eyes bore into mine. “Will Barber, you’re under arrest for the murders of Justin Childs and Hayley Hayter.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “What?” Sunil leaps to his feet, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Ruiz goes on to read me my rights. Sunil promises he’ll find the best attorney money can buy. I tell Sunil to call Annie, and also not to tell my mother under any circumstances. I assure him this is a massive mistake and that it will all be sorted out.

  It feels completely unreal as they handcuff m
e, actually handcuff me, and perp walk me out in front of my already devastated staff.

  I take it in, along with the shocked and dismayed faces of the people in the office. This is all ending. Right here. Right now. I never thought my downfall could be so swift and complete.

  A sudden pounding at my right temple nearly blinds me. A migraine? A stroke? I stumble as we exit the building and one of the uniformed cops grips my elbow.

  There’s a waiting panda patrol car, cherries lazily spinning. I’m escorted into the backseat, my head cradled by a uniform’s meaty hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CAROL

  The waiting room at St. John’s is thronged with the anxious; I’m among them, slouched in a corner, a hat pulled low over my face.

  Annie’s been admitted to this hospital in the wake of Hugh Hayter’s suicide. That’s all I’ve been able to learn thus far. He’s dead and she’s here.

  Like a stranger, I was reduced to hearing about this latest tragedy on the news. No one bothered to call me.

  The story of Hugh’s death has caught flames and the press is fanning them, so I have some information, but its accuracy is questionable. I need to see Annie for myself. Make sure she’s all right. Make sure she understands. She’s all I have left.

  Santiago emerges from an elevator with two Starbucks cups and I slouch a little lower. He disappears down the hallway. I deflate, but perk up when he re-emerges with Laura. They take their coffees and disappear in the opposite direction.

  It’s now or never. I casually make my way down the corridor. Most of the doors are half-open, revealing beds occupied by patients in various states of misery. But I’m in luck. Annie is revealed dozing in a room where the second bed is empty. I enter and close the door softly behind me. I pull off my hat and take a seat in the chair next to the bed.

  She looks fine, as far as I can tell. No bandages or bruises, at least none visible. Her mouth is partly open, giving her a vulnerable, childlike appearance. I heave a sigh of relief.

  I wish Annie and I could start again. We both loved Justin so much, shouldn’t that be a foundation for something?

  Aware that I probably have limited time, I lay a gentle hand on Annie’s shoulder.

  “Annie. Hi, honey. It’s Carol.”

  Her eyelids flutter open. “Where’s my mom?”

  “Just down the hall having a coffee with Santiago.”

  I can’t say I like the anxious look in Annie’s eyes.

  “I won’t stay long,” I promise. “I just had to see for myself that you were okay! What a terrible, terrible thing. You’re not hurt, right?”

  “No. They said I went into shock, but no, I’m fine.”

  “Thank god! Still. I’m so sorry. That boy must have been in so much pain.”

  “Yes.”

  A silence falls. Annie struggles to keep her eyes focused, her head upright.

  “They gave me something. To make me sleep,” she says, slurring slightly.

  “Can I ask what happened? I don’t mean to be ghoulish, you know, there’s just been so many rumors, and my mind is conjuring just the worst…”

  “He shot himself in the head. In front of Mom and me,” Annie interrupts flatly.

  “I’m so sorry.” My heart aches for her.

  “Do you know how long my mom’s going to be?” That anxious look is back in Annie’s eyes. If only she understood how much I want to be another mother for her. Clearly she needs me just as much as I need her. Maybe in time.

  “I hate to be the bearer of more bad news,” I say. “But did you hear about Will? The police arrested him for Justin’s murder. And that poor girl Hayley’s too.”

  Annie’s eyes snap open. I see her fighting through the fog of the medicine. “That’s not possible.”

  “I couldn’t believe it either!” I assure her. “I’ll be heartbroken if it turns out to be true.”

  “What evidence do they have? This is crazy! It makes no sense!” Annie sits up abruptly and tries to climb out of the bed, despite the IV drip dangling from her arm.

  “Annie. Stop. You’re hooked up there, sweetheart,” I add, pointing to the IV. “And you need to stay in bed!”

  “It’s just fluids,” she retorts, ripping the IV from her arm and standing. She sways unsteadily.

  “And what do you plan to do about it? You can barely stand!”

  She sinks back down onto the bed.

  “That’s better,” I soothe. “I can’t believe it either. But we have to let the police do their job. If Will did kill Justin and that girl, then he needs to face the consequences!”

  I straighten the scarf around my neck and replace my hat on my head.

  I pat Annie’s hand. “You poor thing. Look, I’ll go. I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you. When you’re ready, when you’re better, I hope we can try to have some kind of relationship. It may take time, I understand that, but I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.”

  Annie’s hand curls around my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Help Will,” she growls at me fiercely. “That would be a good start.”

  “They think he killed Justin!” I protest. “Your husband! Don’t you want justice?”

  “More than you know.” Annie releases my wrist and falls back on her pillows. I pull her covers back up just as a nurse enters.

  “You rang, sweet pea?” he asks with a Southern lilt, placing a hand on one cocked hip.

  I lift an eyebrow in surprise. Annie must have pushed the call button without me noticing.

  “Yes,” Annie says meekly, holding out her arm. “My IV came undone.”

  The nurse narrows his eyes. “It most certainly did. Let me fix you right up.”

  “I think I’d like to sleep now,” Annie declares.

  “An excellent idea!” the nurse agrees enthusiastically.

  “Thank you for coming, Carol,” Annie says. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  I feel satisfied. I said my piece and Annie was receptive. I decide not to push my luck; Laura and Santiago are likely to be back any second.

  “Of course, darling,” I confirm. “You get some rest. I’ll see what I can do for Will,” I add, eager to keep building the bond between us.

  Annie nods gratefully. “You know Will. He’s not capable.”

  “But everyone can surprise us, right? I mean I know you’ve had to swallow some bitter pills about Justin. As have I. But we have to remember the good in him, right? Isn’t that our responsibility as the people who loved him best?”

  “Right now, this young lady’s only responsibility is to take care of herself!” the nurse declares.

  “Of course.” I kiss Annie on the forehead.

  There’s a spring in my step as I head out. Santiago had been awful to me, it’s true, but clearly Annie feels differently. She couldn’t have been sweeter.

  The poor girl. First Justin, then Hayley, now this terrible tragedy. Suicide is so selfish, really, and Hugh Hayter’s choice of time and place particularly so. Annie’s in a club with me now, the society of those touched by multiple, heartbreaking, catastrophic losses.

  I see Laura and Santiago coming my way. Laura looks like she’s aged ten years, purple patches like bruises under her eyes, her narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. I pull my hat down low and duck into a stairwell to avoid them. No need to complicate things. Not while I’m ahead.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ANNIE

  The pull of the sedatives they’ve given me is deliciously seductive, but my mind is racing. Every time I slide toward oblivion, an insistent prick of anxiety jolts me awake. I pretend to be out cold when Mom and Santi come back; it’s easier than submitting to their fussing.

  Will arrested for Justin’s and Hayley’s murders.

  Impossible. Could Carol be lying? But why would she make
up such a thing?

  Santi and Mom whisper softly, their conversation providing a soothing background, as familiar as childhood.

  But images swirl in my mind’s eye. Justin’s dead, white face on a cold steel table. His live, warm face leaning in to kiss me with hot, urgent breath. Hugh Hayter’s exploding head. I moan, and hear the rustle of Mom’s clothes as she turns toward me.

  “Is she awake? Annie, are you awake?”

  I keep my eyes firmly closed.

  “I guess not,” Mom says. “I hope she sleeps for hours. The last thing she needs is this news about Will.”

  So. It’s true then.

  But Will could never have killed Justin and Hayley. It makes no sense.

  Of course, I thought Justin was a loving, loyal husband. So, Carol is right, people do surprise you.

  I’m a broken widow, now, that’s what I am. A broken window.

  I feel dizzy. Overcome by a deep sadness. A little nauseous. It must be the drugs. One hand strays to my belly, cupping its slight swell.

  Justin and I had laughed for hours making up names for our future children. The conversation would always start seriously: “What do you think of Alexander?” But then one of us would inevitably counter back with something absurd: “What do you think of Flowerpot? She’d be the only one in her class!”

  The jokes were never really that funny; the electricity came from the subtext: We’d be having sex, practicing for making little Flowerpot, often within hours, if not minutes, of our banter.

  A deep melancholy surrounds my heart. I’m sorry, Flowerpot, so sorry.

  Something niggles at the back of my brain, practically doing jumping jacks to get my attention. What is it?

  Carol’s face as she told me about Will’s arrest. Was there an eagerness in her eyes? A pleasure? That would be sick, to wish that your son’s best friend killed him!

  On the other hand, I know the gaping wound left in me by Justin’s death; the need to understand how it happened. How that need left me vulnerable and confused and questioning. In need of answers, no matter how ugly.