I nodded and smiled back. It was so hard to imagine this soft, affable guy with Sarah. “No problem.”
By evening, Sam had sent half a dozen texts I’d ignored—all some version of: “Please, Lizzie, can we talk?” He’d called, too. In the third voice mail, he’d started to cry.
“I never deserved you,” he’d said. “You’re kind and understanding and honorable. You’re a much better person than me, Lizzie. You always have been.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
I parked myself at Café du Jour again. I checked in with Thomas and my secretary, answered emails, then spent a couple hours finalizing the overdue cell-phone-battery motion to dismiss. When the café closed, I moved to Purity Diner near our apartment, which somehow survived even though it was always empty. Their spanakopita was crap, but even my mother would have approved of their fries. “A front,” I imagined my dad proclaiming as he so often did about such restaurants, with no evidence whatsoever. He never did like cheaters.
I stayed at Purity until there was at least a reasonable chance Sam would be asleep. If we’d had more money, I would have gone to a hotel. If we’d had more money, I probably would never have gone home. It wasn’t as if there was anything Sam could say now that would make me feel better. He didn’t know where the earring had come from and also couldn’t say for sure that it didn’t belong to some woman he’d screwed while too drunk to remember. That was really the beginning and the end of the conversation, at least the conversation I wanted to have.
And I was convinced Sam was telling the truth about not remembering. It would have been too much easier to lie. Part of me wished Sam had. That way we could have just continued on as we had been. We had deep fissures, sure, but we were still in one piece. Now we’d be trapped in a place where doubt would nibble at our edges until, at long last, it devoured us whole.
When I finally got home, Sam was asleep as I’d hoped, propped up on the living room couch, having apparently lost the battle to wait up for me. His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open. When I leaned in close, he didn’t smell of alcohol. Asleep and not passed out drunk. Victory once again.
Standing there watching him sleep, I wasn’t even angry anymore, only overwhelmed by grief. Alcoholic or not, Sam was still smart and kind and passionate. Seeing him across a room still made my heart pick up speed. My life had begun again when I met him. And yet none of that meant we should stay together. I’d been so foolish to think love could change the essential nature of anything.
My phone rang in my bag.
Sam bolted awake. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, go back to sleep,” I said, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door. I dug my phone out and answered. “Hello?”
“You have a collect call from a New York State—”
I hit 1, cutting short the recording. Zach must have bribed somebody at Rikers—with what I didn’t want to know—to let him use a phone at that late hour.
“Hi,” Zach said, sounding positively cheerful once he was on the line. What a relief it must have been for him not to have to pretend anymore. Asshole.
“I spoke with your accountant,” I launched in. “As you are aware, there are no funds available to cover the experts’ retainer. It’s potentially soured your relationship with them, which was stupid because they’re really good. You will also need to pay them for the work they’ve already done. They’ll sue you if they have to. And then no one will work for you. You are going to need experts, too—a lot of them—in order to win this case.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, notably not sounding surprised.
“Meaning you’ll need to get the money from somewhere,” I said. “The fingerprint evidence is potentially exculpatory, and they only just got started. It’s the best chance you’ve got.”
“Exculpatory?” Zach sounded delighted.
I hated making him happy. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of getting emotional in response. This was something I was being forced to do, but I could treat it like any other job. If nothing else, I had always known how to get a job done.
“There are some prints on your golf bag that match some others in Amanda’s blood from your stairs,” I said. “The prints aren’t yours, but they do belong to someone who was there that night.”
“Oh, thank God.” He exhaled loudly. “I’ve got to be honest, I was starting to get a little worried you weren’t going to pull this off.”
“Fuck you, Zach.” So much for staying unemotional. I was so angry now it was making my eyeballs throb.
“Fuck me?” He laughed. “Hey, you’re the one who’s been lying to everyone. First on that form, and then about your marriage. And who knows what else.” Oh, I did not like the way he had said that. What else did he know? “I may have been a shitty husband, but at least I was honest about it. Getting back to the money, I’ll be honest about that, too: there is none. But we’ll need those fingerprint results, obviously. So use your creativity. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Zach, this is ridiculous,” I said, though I knew there was no point.
“Agreed, this entire situation is ridiculous,” he said crisply. “I’d much rather have avoided the complication of our shared history. But where else was I going to find a great lawyer, with access to the world’s best experts, who was willing to work for free? And to think, you never would have even occurred to me as a possibility if I hadn’t seen you at the farmer’s market in Prospect Park.”
“You go to the farmer’s market?” I asked. I could not remotely imagine Zach buying organic produce and bringing it home in a reusable shopping bag.
“As you can imagine, not to shop,” he said. “It’s great for observing people, though. It’s important to know people’s strengths if you’re going to work with them. But you know what’s more important?”
“No, Zach,” I said. “What’s more important than knowing someone’s strengths?”
“Knowing their weaknesses.”
There was a click. I’d been hung up on by a man locked away in Rikers. A man who somehow still held the key.
Grand Jury Testimony
BENJI PANKIN,
called as a witness the 8th of July and was examined and testified as follows:
EXAMINATION
BY MS. WALLACE:
Q: Good afternoon, Mr. Pankin. Thank you for coming to testify today.
A: You’re welcome.
Q: Were you at the party at 724 First Street on the night of July 2nd?
A: Yes.
Q: How did you come to be there?
A: We were invited. I used to play basketball in a league in the neighborhood with Sebe. Neither of us play anymore, but I know some of the guys, Kerry and them.
Q: Who did you attend the party with?
A: My wife, Tara Pankin.
Q: Were you aware that there were sexual activities going on at the party that night?
A: Not that night specifically. But we’ve been to that party before. I’d heard about that kind of thing previously.
Q: Did you participate in those activities?
A: No.
Q: Why not?
A: Why not? Because my wife would fucking kill—sorry, excuse me. Poor choice of words. I know some marriages … I know that people do that kind of thing and it works out fine. They even manage to keep it all a secret. Who ends up with who at that party never gets out. To each his own and all that. But it wouldn’t work for us. I’d kill my wife, too, by the way.
Q: I see.
A: Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep saying kill. This whole thing is just … Anyway, no, we didn’t have sex with each other or anybody else at the party. We did drink too much sangria. For half the night I was wearing a jester’s hat I found on the floor, if that tells you anything.
Q: Do you have a clear memory of that night?
A: I do. I remember everything that happened. I’m not like an alcoholic or something. I had three glasses of sangria. That’s it.
>
Q: Did you know Amanda Grayson?
A: No.
Q: Did you see a woman exit abruptly out the back of the party that night?
A: I did.
Q: Can you describe what happened?
A: She came down the stairs and was trying to leave out the front, but it was too crowded. She looked upset and in a hurry, so I told her to go out the back. I warned her that we weren’t really supposed to do that. One year, Sebe’s neighbor called the cops.
Q: What time was that?
A: 9:47 p.m.
Q: How do you know so precisely?
A: Because somebody had just asked me what time it was.
Q: I would like to show you a photograph.
(Counsel approaches witness with photograph, which was previously marked as People’s Exhibit 6.)
Q: Is that the woman you pointed the exit out to?
A: Yes.
Q: Let the record reflect that Exhibit 6 is a photograph of Amanda Grayson. Shortly before you pointed that woman out toward the back door, did you have an interaction with a man?
(Counsel approaches witness with photograph, which was previously marked as People’s Exhibit 5.)
Q: Is this that man?
A: Yeah.
Q: Let the record reflect that the witness has been shown a photograph of Zach Grayson. What did Zach Grayson say to you?
A: He told me to get out of his fucking way.
Q: Why did he say that?
A: He was in a hurry, too, I guess. I probably was in the way. Like I said, I was drunk.
Q: What happened after that?
A: After that, he shoved me to the side and headed out the front door.
Q: Are you sure that Mr. Grayson left before Amanda left?
A: Yeah, like right before. Because after I saw her, I got up and I went to find the bathroom. I ended up passing out in there for a while on the floor. When my wife found me it was after 10:00 p.m. and she was seriously pissed.
Lizzie
JULY 11, SATURDAY
St. Colomb Falls was farm country, but not the quaint Vermont farms that I’d so loved when Sam and I had been there for his thirtieth birthday. My memories of that weekend had always been of charming red barns and white fences, and Sam and me dancing alone to distant country music in the Echo Lake Inn’s moonlit backyard. But now I’d also remembered how wasted Sam had gotten on Dark and Stormies, sleeping both days until noon. It was as though Sam’s admission about the earring had finally ripped my blinders off, taking the top layer of skin along with them. I could now see every memory for what it was: corrupted by the reality of Sam’s alcoholism. And my pathological willingness to overlook it.
Unlike picturesque Vermont, St. Colomb Falls was filled with working farms, where hundreds of cows were raised for slaughter and chickens were crammed into feather-filled warehouses the length of football fields. It was gritty and dirty and desolate.
The farms were set off the main highway that ran through the center of town, which, it turned out, consisted only of a post office, gas station, Dollar General store, and Norma’s Diner—a rusted metal box that looked like it had been there for decades. On the far side of town, there were occasional signs for hiking trailheads and campgrounds and the Adirondacks, though it was hard to imagine anything remotely recreational or scenic taking place anywhere nearby.
The homes were heavy with wear and tear, the worst downright disintegrating. And why was St. Colomb Falls so empty at ten on a Saturday morning? Like everyone was hiding from some threat about which I was stupidly unaware. I was feeling extra jittery, too, maybe because I’d gotten up so early. In an effort to continue avoiding Sam, I’d left well before dawn. He’d woken anyway, long enough to demand to know where I was going and for me to turn my destination into an attack.
When Xavier Lynch’s house finally appeared ahead on the left, I felt a small wave of relief. The low ranch was the same shape and size as all the others, but it was painted a deep gray with sparkling white trim and a cheerful red door. There were large planters on either side of the small front porch, too, filled with fuchsia and purple flowers. Even the mailbox was painted to match the house with some steel detail. I double-checked the address. Definitely the right house. Of course, Xavier Lynch having a nice house did not make him a good person. But a monster with a well-tended home might be less likely to kill an uninvited lawyer from New York.
All I needed to do in this first visit was to confirm that the person who lived here was, in fact, Xavier Lynch, bonus points if he admitted he was Amanda’s dad. My plan was then to occupy myself somehow until dark. Under cover of night, I’d return to Xavier’s home and quietly rifle through his garbage in search of some things likely to provide fingerprints—a bottle, a can, a plastic fork.
I took a deep breath as I got out of the car and headed up the manicured front walk. I knocked hard on the screen door and waited, bracing myself for the door to snap open, for someone to lead with What the fuck do you want? Or worse, for pain—a hand on my throat, a fist to the jaw.
But the door opened slow and calm, the huge man looming on the other side of the screen the very same, very large Xavier Lynch from the church newsletter. He was even wearing similar khakis and a button-down with the same large, nearly fashionable glasses covering half his big face. A diamond, maybe. These shapes weren’t obvious to me. He was even taller than he’d appeared in the picture, though. Maybe it had been the angle, or that the woman pictured had also been exceptionally tall. Xavier Lynch was bigger than Sam, six foot three or four, and must have been pushing 225 pounds. I suddenly felt very easy to kill.
“Can I help you?” His voice was taut. He looked past me out to the driveway, as though worried I might not be alone.
“My name is Lizzie Kitsakis, and I’m an attorney. I’ve been asked to locate the beneficiaries of a significant financial estate,” I began, sounding—I now realized—like an email scam.
“I’d highly doubt you’re looking for me,” he said, skeptical but not aggressive. “I don’t stand to inherit nothing from nobody.”
He adjusted his glasses then, and in a way that made me wonder if they were just for show. He also opened his door some more—hopefully not to invite me inside. My entire strategy—such as it was—had been predicated on staying in the relative safety of the outdoors.
“Are you Xavier Lynch?” I asked, not moving a step closer.
“I am.” He adjusted his glasses again. Then he slid his hands into the pockets of his pleated pants. There was something so deliberate about each gesture, as if he had carefully studied the steps of a normal-person routine.
“The inheritance is actually in the name of Amanda Lynch. She didn’t leave a will, and under the circumstances, you are her sole heir.”
That wasn’t true, of course. Amanda had a son. I also had no idea if she’d left a will. If she hadn’t, any money in her name would have gone to Case, then Zach. Not that there was any money anyway, apparently.
“Amanda,” he said, then hung his head. It was over his bowed head that I glimpsed the large cross on the wall behind him. Little Jesus.
But when Xavier finally looked up, his expression was more resigned than guilty. “You’re the person who called before?”
I nodded. “I thought it might be easier if I came in person to explain.”
He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry that I hung up on you.”
I nodded. “That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. That’s not the person I am anymore. I mean, I have been that person, God knows.” He shook his head. “Once upon a time, hanging up on a nice lady would have been the least of the bad things I did in a day.”
Nice lady. The way he said it gave me the chills.
“I understand,” I said, though I did not.
“I’ve tried so hard to make it right,” he went on, leaning against the doorframe and gesturing behind him, to the cross maybe, to a family inside. I had no idea, though others living in that house would complica
te any fingerprint analysis. What if I didn’t pull Xavier’s? “I’ve tried so hard to make me right. I’ve had whole years I’d just as soon forget. But this house, my job—I’m a supervisor at the Perdue processing plant two towns over. I’m even thinking about marrying my girlfriend if she wears me down a little more. Anyway, I’ve been keeping myself on the straight and narrow. It hasn’t always been easy, but these days I’m making my way.”
“I understand,” I said again, but dread was creeping up the back of my scalp.
Xavier Lynch looked away as he sniffled. Was he actually crying, or only pretending to? “How did Amanda die?”
I needed to be careful now. He was fishing for what I knew. And, polite or not, there was something decidedly off about Xavier Lynch. Like every moment that passed was yet another he’d survived without doing something monstrous. Xavier and I were doing okay so far, but maybe that was only because I hadn’t tried to bolt.
“She was found at the bottom of the stairs in her house. She died of a head injury,” I said. All true facts. “They’ve arrested her husband.”
Xavier winced slightly. “She always was on borrowed time.”
Well now, what did that mean?
“Had she told you about problems she was having?”
“Me?” He shook his head, frowned. “Oh, I haven’t talked to Amanda for at least twelve years, longer probably, since … you know.” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“No. I don’t know. Since what?”
His eyes narrowed and turned colder. “Who did you say you were again?”
“An attorney.” I tried to imagine how far the car was behind me. How quickly I could turn and race toward it. “Amanda’s estate needs to be divided.”
My mouth felt tacky, and my eyes had started to burn. Like I was staring into the lights of an oncoming train. Brace yourself.
Xavier was staring at me differently now. Not quite hostile, but nearly. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
“I’m here because of the will, like I told you,” I said as calmly as I could. “As Amanda’s father, you’re her rightful next of kin.”
A Good Marriage Page 29
