Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  And of course, Carol doesn’t know Will like I do. A wave of sympathy for Carol pulses through me. The poor lonely woman. I’ll be nicer. It’ll hit her hard when she has to accept the truth about Justin.

  Santiago’s cellphone rings, the distinctive funky growl of War’s “Low Rider.”

  “Shh!” Mom admonishes. “Don’t wake her up.”

  The rustle of Santiago leaving. His faint “Hello” from out in the hallway as the door swings closed behind him.

  I feel Mom’s cool hand on my forehead. Sleep beckons, so enticing, so inevitable…

  The sound of the door opening drags me back.

  “That was Lizzie,” Santiago intones softly. “God bless that girl. She’s handling the press and she found Annie a lawyer. A fancy one. And get this. The police carted off half of what was in Annie’s house.”

  Mom’s hand leaves my forehead. I imagine it’s at her throat.

  “Who knows what’s on the asshole’s computer? In his files? How he might have implicated her. And in god knows what.”

  Mom sniffs and blows her nose. She must be crying.

  “My poor baby” is the last thing I hear before blessed, blessed sleep takes me under.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WILL

  The news is playing in the background on the television at the station house when they book me. Hugh Hayter blew his brains out. At Annie’s house. Gotta say, I kinda understand the guy’s perspective, even if his choice of location was perverse.

  I don’t mean to be flip, but as I’m photographed and fingerprinted, strip-searched and handed orange scrubs, it’s challenging to “stay above the fray,” as the trendy meditation guru Justin once brought in for a company workshop advised us. Find your center and stay above the fray.

  My center is liquid. I’ve never been more scared in my life. One thing they let you know when they put you in jail: You belong to them.

  At least the news report said no other casualties, which means Annie is all right. I hope to god she wasn’t there at all.

  I’m finally shoved in a holding cell with four relatively harmless-looking guys, or at least that’s what I tell myself. One of them, with long, dirty blond hair and a fixed sneer on his face, swaggers aggressively over toward me.

  Something ancient and proud rises in me. The same impulse that made me fling myself against my father’s back when I saw him hit my mother—an instinctive knowledge that something is not right and I have to be strong enough to meet it.

  “What did they get you for?” I bluster, inwardly cringing at how cartoonish I sound.

  “Aggravated assault,” leers Blondie.

  “Huh. Yeah. Murder for me. Two counts, maybe three.”

  “You don’t know for sure?” He looms over me; he smells like garlic and sweat and burnt rubber.

  “Day’s young,” I say with a smile and a shrug. “Don’t piss me off.”

  He barks a laugh and returns to his bench. My heart’s hammering. I stare at the bare wall opposite me, eyes fixed.

  Dying in prison. Blamed and shamed for crimes I didn’t commit. That is the legacy my best friend left me. The man I thought of as a brother.

  Rage stirs from a pit deep inside of me. It festers and foments, curdles and burbles. I will not let him do this to me. No.

  Justin always used to praise me to the skies: how brilliant I was, how I’d saved his ass in B school and a thousand times since. I’d always thought he was being unnecessarily self-deprecating; I thought of us as equals, more or less. Justin was the leader in the people-skills department, I was the steady hand on the rudder. A good team, that was how I thought of us.

  But we weren’t a team; I was a pawn.

  Annie and I have both been searching for answers, but I don’t give a shit about understanding anymore. I just want revenge.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CAROL

  Grief has discombobulated me. My sleep is disordered; I forget words, or to eat. I suspect it will be like this for quite some time. But with Will in jail and Annie finally starting to open up, it feels like order is being restored to my little corner of the universe. For the first time since I learned of Justin’s death, I feel a mild sense of contentment.

  I turn my attention to the problem of Laura and Santiago. They can’t be allowed to destroy the precious seedling of intimacy I’m nurturing with Annie. Santiago was impossibly rude, but I’ve no doubt his macho pride will ensure I never get the apology he owes me.

  Maybe I can talk to Laura, though. Mother to mother. That’s an idea. She’ll understand. Surely, she wants everyone who loves and supports Annie to rally around her during this difficult time. It’s what I would want if Annie had died and Justin was the grieving widower. A loving community of dependable people my child could rely on.

  And anyway, Annie’s a grown woman. She can make decisions for herself. She doesn’t need her parents’ approval to spend time with me.

  A little giggle escapes me. I feel impudent and girlish. I think about heading down to the beach. Maybe Santa Monica.

  The ocean is always so soothing, its very vastness a comfort. And the cluster of high-end hotels that congregate at the end of Pico Boulevard are a good hunting ground for an encounter. I think I need one.

  As I dress, I decide on a persona. China, I decide, for a first name. A little exotic, it’ll inevitably lead to a question and we’ll be off to the races. China Hendrix. I like the sound of that. A little nod to Annie, a way of keeping us connected.

  I select a lightweight navy knit dress that shows just how disciplined I am about maintaining my figure.

  “Looking good,” I murmur at my reflection. But I pull a rectangle of silk from a drawer, sensitive about my neck. I knot it around my throat. It ruins the lines of the dress.

  I pull it off. “Lipstick on a pig, girl,” I say to my reflection.

  What’s China’s story? I decide to keep it simple and easy. “I’m here from Long Island on vacation,” I tell the adorable twenty-something who can’t believe this gorgeous MILF is chatting him up at the hotel bar on the beach. “But I come by my name honestly,” I say, brushing my breast against his bare forearm as I reach for my drink. “My parents conceived me in Shanghai.”

  He turns an enchanting shade of pink. The pickings were slim tonight. I’d been here for a couple of hours before he showed up. He’s the only promising prospect of the evening and arrived just when I was giving up hope.

  “And you?” I ask him. “You visiting or a local?” I prefer the tourists; even in a big city it diminishes the chance of running into someone after the fact, so to speak. Awkward.

  “Visiting. From Oklahoma.”

  Perfect.

  “First time in L.A.?”

  “Yeah. It’s a crazy place, huh?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” I run a finger up the inside of his thigh.

  His enchanting pink shade goes scarlet.

  “Are you staying in the hotel?” I whisper.

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Do you want to go to your room?”

  “Uh, sure. I’ll get the check.”

  As he signals for the bartender, I pull out my compact and reapply my lipstick. You are beautiful. You deserve this. You’re allowed a release.

  “Ready?” This beautiful boy-man I’ve picked up is off his barstool and bouncing on his feet. An eager beaver. How cute.

  I lick my index finger lasciviously, enjoying the fun. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you even want to know my name?” My eager beaver suddenly looks anxious.

  “Of course I do, sweetheart,” I reassure him. He’s even cuter than I thought. Does he think this is the beginning of something? “Tell me.” I lean in and trail kisses from his ears to his lips. Just as I arrive there…

  “Justin.”

 
I jerk away. My desire evaporates. Any contentment I was feeling along with it.

  “No,” I retort.

  “Yes. I mean, yes, ma’am, it is. My name is Justin.” His wide square face is puzzled. “Justin Obermayer.”

  “I have to go.”

  He called me “ma’am”! He fucking called me “ma’am.” Rage powers through my body. Stumbling away from the bar, I want to cry and shout, beat someone with my fists until they run bloody.

  As I run down the beach, rage ebbs and despair takes hold. Loss consumes me like a hungry ghost. I want to crash my car into a brick wall, slit my wrists, take a handful of pills. Sprint into that ocean and let it swallow me whole.

  What do I have to live for anyway?

  Annie.

  I stop running. I have Annie to live for, and through the two of us, Justin, my Justin, will live on forever. Adored. Respected. Loved.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ANNIE

  Cousin Lizzie’s connections apparently extend from Silicon Valley to the oppressively elegant Beverly Hills law office in which I now find myself waiting with Mom. I have ambivalence about using Lizzie’s connections. When we were teenagers, Lizzie talked me out of taking Santi’s last name, claiming that a white girl taking a Mexican name was cultural appropriation, no matter how much Santi acted like my father. I backed out of the name change without explanation, too ashamed to explain to my mom and Santi. We didn’t sort out that mess until years later at a disastrous family Thanksgiving at which the whole story finally came out.

  But once again, the Lizzie Morales magic is in play. I googled the lawyer when Lizzie told me about the appointment. She’s represented movie stars with drug problems, politicians in bribery scandals, captains of industry caught with their hands in the till. I seem a very pedestrian client for this firm, but apparently Monica Stanton, Esq., owes Lizzie a favor.

  Since I was released from the hospital, I’ve done a ton of thinking, puzzling through the facts as I know them. I feel oddly dispassionate, removed from my hurt and pain, almost as though I’m observing my life from the heady distance of a gaudy hot air balloon dancing above the earth.

  I have questions, more than I know what to do with. But I also have suspicions. Convictions. Ideas.

  I find myself gnawing a cuticle on the edge of my thumb until it bleeds. I suck at the metallic tang.

  The lawyer is not at all what I expect. She’s warm and funny and a little disheveled, unlike the sleek shark I’d imagined. She’s got an unapologetic Boston accent and a hearty bray of a laugh. Next to me, I can feel Mom relax, an almost palpable wave of relief at both Monica’s demeanor and her competent assessment of the facts as I set them out.

  Her questions are sharp and pointed. I do my best to stay logical, organized, and on point. I’d prepped for this, writing out bullet points of the collapse of my life like I used to prepare for a marketing meeting.

  There’s a knock at the door. It flies open immediately, and Lizzie marches in, trailing Santiago behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I tried to get her to wait.”

  “Time doesn’t wait for Lizzie Morales,” Lizzie announces in her usual brash fashion. “Besides, I’m always welcome here, right, Monica?”

  Monica blushes and it dawns on me that the favor Monica Stanton, Esq., owes Lizzie might be of a sexual nature.

  It turns out Lizzie has a plan. Not a legal strategy, she assures me, that’s Monica’s department, but a complementary media plan that she’s devised to both help protect me and maximize any opportunities that might be exploitable given my circumstances.

  Even though this same idea had occurred to me before Hugh blew his brains out and Will was arrested, the events of the past few days altered my view on things. I want to clear Will and then get somewhere far, far away from everyone and everything.

  Lizzie is outlining the first step of Phase Three when I interrupt.

  “Thanks, Lizzie. Really. And you too, Monica. But I can’t do all of that. I can’t do any of it.” My voice shakes, and I curse myself. I wanted to sound decisive and in control and instead I have the nervous tenor of a teenager caught breaking curfew.

  “Of course you can,” Lizzie replies briskly. “I’ll be by your side every step of the way. You play this right, Annie, and you could be set for life. Free to write whatever you want. Think about that! After what Justin put you through, don’t you owe it to yourself to get a little of your own back?”

  “My best friend is in jail! I owe it to him to help clear his name!”

  “Well, that too, of course.” Lizzie frowns, perplexed. “I don’t see the problem. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “Still,” I continue with more conviction, “Justin exploited me, Will, god knows how many people! Exploiting the situation seems like a sick continuation of the whole disgusting mess.”

  Lizzie looks at me with pity and I’m reminded again why she irks me. Supercilious is the word that comes to mind.

  “The ‘disgusting mess’ will be exploited one way or another. That’s already happening,” Lizzie asserts. “The question is whether you want to be controlling the narrative or reacting to it. I’d argue that getting ahead of it is the most powerful thing you can do to take control back. You’ve been a victim, Annie, but you don’t need to stay one.”

  “Lizzie’s plan dovetails with our legal strategy,” Monica adds. “This is the best path to realizing all of your agendas.”

  “Mom?” I turn to her and find her hand at her throat (no surprise there, if she played poker it would be her tell every time).

  “I just want Annie to be safe?” It’s a question, not a statement. “Will she be safe if we do all you say? Who’s to say another Hugh Hayter won’t come out of the woodwork? We don’t know what other damage that maniac left behind!”

  Monica takes this one. “I do suggest staying in a hotel for the time being, instead of going home.”

  “Like we’d ever go back to that house!” Santi explodes.

  I suffer a flash of memory: Hugh’s brain matter on my sunny yellow kitchen wall.

  “Shh, honey.” Mom takes Santi’s hand. “Of course not.” She turns to Monica. “Our place isn’t good enough?”

  “It’s too easy a target for the paps,” Lizzie asserts.

  “My office has a list of hotels where we have arrangements for discretion. We’ll email you the list,” Monica offers.

  Everyone is staring at me, waiting for something. An agreement? A media ready smile? I can’t remember the last time I smiled.

  I recall the night Justin went missing. We’d had a stupid fight. He was mere weeks from the professional milestone he’d worked toward for years. I understood that, but was feeling lonely and abandoned, and he had nothing to give. Both of us had said things we’d regretted. At least I know I did. He went out to “clear his head.”

  Three hours later, I called Carol, who sounded surprised and pleased to hear from me, but when she asked if she could speak to Justin. I lied and said he was snoring on the sofa in front of the TV.

  But her question answered mine: Justin hadn’t gone to see his mother.

  The hours drew later; it became too late to check with Will or any of Justin’s other friends. I thought about calling Bella, but I felt uneasy about revealing trouble in paradise to her scrutiny.

  As dawn approached, I spiraled. My inner voices were screaming at me: Of course he left you, you pathetic, stupid fool. Everyone leaves you.

  I calculated the time difference and tried Mom overseas but the call went to voicemail. What is she going to do from Hong Kong anyway? I wondered as I heaped a fresh round of emotional abuse on myself.

  When the doorbell rang, I was haggard, fragile, terrified. Also praying it was Justin, sheepish and loving. He’d lost his keys, been mugged, couldn’t call. I swore I would allow reli
ef to temper rage and just be grateful to see him. We’d take this dreadful, petty moment and direct our marriage back to the right track.

  It was the police. They confirmed my identity and my relationship to Justin. Regretfully informed me. And told me they needed me to come identify his body.

  I realize I’ve gnawed my thumb’s cuticle raw. It stings and pulses and I clasp my hands together in my lap. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll follow the script.”

  Lizzie’s right. It’s time for me to write my own story.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  WILL

  Getting locked up was never among my ambitions. But it’s where they’ve led me. And it’s pretty fucking grim: gray and hard-edged, and I’m referring to the people as well as the environment.

  But it’s left me loads of time to think.

  Best as I can figure, “our resident genius” turned out to be less of a genius than advertised and Justin talked Hayley into “sharing” proprietary haptic tech MediFutur had developed for training surgeons.

  Why did Justin kill her? A mystery to me. Something went wrong, obviously.

  And here’s another question I’m toying with, now that I have time on my hands: I know I didn’t kill Justin. So how did he die? Did he kill himself? Was he suicidal because of whatever had “gone wrong” with Hayley?

  I could kick myself. I’m sitting in a cell because of that motherfucker and still trying to find evidence of his conscience!

  If he had one.

  There were clues in front of me all along, I realize, if only I’d been bothering to look. Like if there was no Thomas Childs, the entire Thomas Childs Memorial Fund for Addiction Research, for which Justin had quietly raised money for years, was no doubt also fraudulent.

  I never questioned the legitimacy of the fund, but why would I? We both ran 5Ks and raised money for the charity, and the more Justin asked me to play it down, citing a combination of modesty about his good works and a little shame about Tommy’s “weakness,” the more I quietly asked people to support it.