She handled it with kid gloves, knowing how much it meant to him.
He grabbed his phone; Evan had texted him that he was at his place, waiting in the kitchen. He knew their garage code and had waited for him at the house before. He’d heard through the grapevine that there was a warrant about to be executed.
Fuck. It was almost five o’clock. How long was he crying at the beach before he went into the water?
There were two cars at the end of the cul-de-sac as he pulled up to his house. A proper police vehicle and a town car. As he approached, all doors opened. Solomon and Garvey got out of the town car and two officers got out of the cruiser.
“Nice day, Montgomery,” Solomon said as Jace stopped in his driveway and got out to greet them. “Out for a run?” He said it sarcastically, like he hadn’t just made him identify a body hours before. Solomon was practicing psychological warfare on him. He had to know that wasn’t Tessa, but he made him go look anyway.
“Just clearing my head,” he said. Let them think what they wanted.
“Mmm. Well,” Solomon said. “We got an interesting phone call since you left. An anonymous tip, if you will.”
Jace swallowed, hopeful. “Tessa? Does someone know where she is?”
He scoffed. Angry. His eyes were accusatory. “No, not about Tessa. About Rosita. And you. Someone saw you go into her townhouse late at night. Before she went missing.”
Jace crinkled his eyes. What was happening? He hadn’t seen Rosita since the morning after Tessa disappeared. “That’s not true.”
“Mmm. Interesting. Especially since we went there on the tip. Found her, too. Shot.”
Someone shot Rosita? “What? Is she okay?”
“No, Mr. Montgomery, she’s not okay.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a yellow piece of paper, then slapped it on Jace’s chest. “We have a warrant to search your house for an illegal firearm.”
“Oh my God. Rosita’s dead?” The color drained from Jace’s face. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this!”
“Mmm. You swear, huh?” Salty.
Between Jane Doe, Tessa missing, and now a dead coworker with a bullet wound, Jace was a serial killer in their eyes. He let them in. They wouldn’t find anything, and then maybe they’d get on with looking for his wife’s true whereabouts.
Evan embraced Jace as soon as he walked in. “You okay, pal?”
Jace shook his head. “No. They said Rosita is dead. Someone called and said they saw me there. What the fuck is going on, Evan?”
“Jesus.” Evan’s eyes shifted to the cops filing in, evidence bags in hand. “Don’t say anything. No matter what happens, just don’t say anything.”
Jace’s eyes thanked Evan without a word.
Solomon and Garvey stood watch as the other two officers were joined by a team of agents. Jace sat at the kitchen table with Evan as they read through the warrant—pretty standard, according to Evan. He reminded Jace that they could only search places where a gun would fit, which, in reality, could be almost anywhere. They didn’t have a right to look in his computer, and also not in jewelry boxes and other tiny compartments. Jace could have ten tiny baggies filled with cocaine in a one-inch-by-two-inch box and they wouldn’t be allowed to arrest him. Not that Jace had any cocaine. He’d never even tried the stuff.
“Can I make you some coffee?” Jace asked politely. He might as well stay on their good side and not act smug when they didn’t find anything.
Solomon and Garvey looked at each other, and Garvey shrugged, then answered. “Sure. This might take a while.”
Jace thought it best to stay in the kitchen with Evan anyway. They could tear the place apart. He had nothing to hide. As the percolator bubbled, he sat at the table and opened the paper, trying to act normal. If there was such a thing now that Tessa was missing.
Unlike on TV, no one ransacked his house. They didn’t flip furniture, cut into cushions, or break things. Aside from the subject matter of their presence, they were respectful.
Until the worst happened. A man came down the steps, holding a clear plastic bag marked EVIDENCE. Inside was a revolver. A gun. One that didn’t belong to Jace.
“What’s that? Where did you get that?” Jace asked nervously. He’d never seen that gun in his life.
Solomon stepped next to him with a smirk on his face. “Mr. Montgomery, place your hands behind your back please.”
Jace, wide-eyed, stared at Evan. “What’s going on?”
Evan’s face was blank, registering as much shock as Jace.
“Jace Montgomery, you’re under arrest for the murder of Rosita Morales.”
“What?” Jace screamed as the cuffs clicked tightly around his wrists. “That’s not my gun! You planted that!” Jace looked at Evan. “Evan. Help. This has nothing to do with me! Where’s my wife?” he shouted.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Evan said. “Don’t say a word.”
Solomon patted him down.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
27
TESSA
I’m on my knees in the laundry room, my face smothered with saliva. “Mommy loves you. Mommy is going to miss you. You’re Mommy’s good girl, aren’t you?”
We adopted a dog last week. She was in the shelter for six months, they said. They named her Candy, and we kept the name when we brought her home. She’s a cattle dog mix, and she took to Jace and me immediately. She’s already housebroken and knows basic commands, and except for jumping on the couch no matter how many times we say no, she’s a great addition to our little family.
I swore I’d adopt a dog when I was settled and could care for it properly. The poor dogs I had growing up—well, they were usually my mother’s boyfriends’ dogs—God, they were treated horribly. I saw one of the boyfriends kick the dog once, and it yelped and ran to a corner, tail between its legs, ears pulled back, face full of fear. There was nothing I could do about it then, but there’s something I can do now. Jace will be lucky if this is the only dog I save, because I would’ve taken every single one in the shelter if it was up to me.
Jace laughs at my overbearing Mommy act. “She’s fine. We’ll only be gone a few hours.” He places his arm around my shoulders, and we get in the car and head out.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Jace, again motioning to the chocolate babka in my lap that I got at the bakery in town that afternoon.
He places his hand on my knee in the car and strokes it gently. “Yes, Daffodil. Mr. and Mrs. Soderberg will love it.”
I love when he calls me Daffodil. I mentioned that it was my favorite flower when I used them as centerpieces at Jupiter’s, and he’s been nicknaming me ever since.
Evan invited Jace and me to dinner with his parents, as they are all excited to meet me for the first time. Jace mentioned that Evan and a few law school buddies who were still single had gotten a house in the Hamptons for the entire month of June, and he’s been back for a couple weeks, catching up on work, so Jace hasn’t seen him in a while. Evan was shocked when Jace sent him our wedding photo with “I’m hitched!” attached to the bottom and set this up for a proper introduction.
“They’re going to love you as much as I do,” Jace says.
I know how much Evan and his parents mean to Jace. He’s told me stories about them growing up together, and how they were like second parents to him. Since Jace’s actual parents are in Florida, I won’t get to meet them until we go down there for Thanksgiving. Afraid of my ID, I told him I had a fear of flying and he agreed to drive, stopping for a night in North Carolina on the way down, and South Carolina on the way home, to break up the weeklong trip.
One day, I’m going to have to tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It’s a weird thing to say about my husband, and the love of my life, but . . . but I’ve only known him seven or eight weeks.
We make a left to a quaint tree-lined street. Th
e lawns are manicured, dogs and small children run under sprinklers, and some properties even have little white picket fences. The Victorian-inspired houses practically rotate colors like a box of Crayolas. One red, the next blue, the next green, the next white. It looks like something straight out of a children’s picture book. We pull into the long driveway of a powder-blue house with white trim. There’s a detached one-car garage at the end and Jace parks the car.
What a departure from the concrete jungle I called my backyard. A sprinkler in the summer was a leaky pipe. We constantly moved from shitty rental to shittier rental, or occasionally in with whoever my mother was screwing at the time. Most times those were trailers. All of us, mashed in, fighting over a jar of pickles or a bag of dollar-store cheesy poofs or a carton of week-expired milk. Zero supervision, as mom spent her time doing dollar shots or giving dollar blow jobs at the local tavern. Super fun.
Jace’s arm is around me when he rings the doorbell and a guy around Jace’s age opens the door. Evan.
“What’s up, man?” he says as the door swings open and they hug. Then he looks at me. “You must be Tessa. I’m Evan. It’s so good to finally meet you. Come on in.”
Evan is tall and lanky, with a hipster beard and thick, dark-rimmed glasses, which are nerdy but not on him. He looks like he teaches interpretive dance at a community college. I know he’s a lawyer because Jace told me, and I wonder if I should tell Evan about my history, my fake ID, and have him help me fix it all—but I’m not sure that Jace wants him to know about any of that.
We walk in and Evan embraces me, and I know I’m going to be put on the spot when he says, “Let’s find out everything about the girl who got Jace married.”
My stomach clenches, and I try not to let my nerves show as I meet Mr. and Mrs. Soderberg, but my hand is shaking as they take mine in theirs and lead me to the kitchen. Mrs. Soderberg’s hair is cut into a bob, silver streaked with black, and she wears an apron around her black T-shirt and bone-colored linen pants. She takes the babka from my hands with a flourish, commenting on how I must’ve known it’s her favorite, and kisses me on the cheek, welcoming me to the family.
Looks-wise, Evan takes after Mr. Soderberg, who is also tall, although less lanky, but he’s also sporting a beard. Less hipster, more old-school. He’s wearing a golf polo with a country club’s logo and golf shorts. Same as Evan. Apparently, they “hit the links” earlier in the day.
In the wallpapered kitchen, there’s a meat and cheese feast on the kitchen counter. Mrs. Soderberg offers me a drink, red or white wine, but I opt to start with a club soda, so I don’t look like a lush. Plus, I don’t want loose lips tonight.
When I reach for a small paper plate, Mrs. Soderberg notices the burn scar on my arm.
“Oh, dear, that looks like it hurt!” she exclaims.
My eyes go wide and my mouth is open and I’m about to say—God, I have no idea what I’m about to say—when Jace jumps in.
“She spent most of her teens pushing dough in and out of a pizza oven,” he says, winking at me. No, he won’t tell them that my ex threw boiling water on me when I was sixteen. He looks at his best friend. “And guess what, Evan? The place she worked as a teenager was also called Emilio’s. Just like where we used to hang out! Oh, man, Tessa, let Evan tell you the story about when we got there right before it opened that one time, and what we saw through the window. He tells it best.”
And just like that, all eyes are on Evan as he regales them with the story. Jace gives my other arm a little squeeze. Partners.
It’s a nice feeling, having someone in my corner. Drew didn’t tell his colleagues that someone threw boiling water on me, either. He told them I poured it on myself because I’m clumsy and I couldn’t cook if my life depended on it. Ironically, half the time I did fear my life depended on presenting a hot meal.
Over dinner—chicken parm, one of my favorites—I hear a lot about Jace as a teenager and college kid, which fascinates me. He played cool instruments—drums and a little guitar, not band-geek instruments like a tuba. He was in honors classes.
They even talk about his brother, Tommy. Tommy was two years older than Jace, and dated Evan’s twin sister Pamela—Evan’s a twin?—for a few months in high school. When Jace goes silent, Mr. Soderberg mentions that “it’s a shame they never caught that drunk bastard” so I assume it was a hit-and-run. Jace looks at me, because he knows I don’t know.
“It was a few months before we graduated,” he says, nodding toward Evan. “Tommy was finishing his sophomore year at Ohio State. He and some friends were heading out to blow off steam after cramming for finals. There was an accident. His friend that was driving lost an arm, but Tommy didn’t make it after surgery. The two guys in the back seat were okay. Said it was a black truck, the kind with those huge wheels. Rammed into the passenger side at double the speed limit after blowing a stop sign. Then sat there for thirty seconds after the crash and took off.”
Very detailed explanation, yes. I take it as Jace not wanting me to ask questions about it later because it makes him too upset to talk about. His eyes mist over. I’m not sure if changing the subject is insensitive but I don’t want him to feel pain.
Luckily, Mrs. Soderberg mentions that she talked to Jace’s mother in Florida and she’s so happy that the cancer is gone—something else I don’t know about. But at least everyone is in better spirits, talking about the medical miracle.
Jace seems to have had enough pain and loss to last a lifetime. I promise myself, right then and there, I’ll make sure he never feels pain again.
For the most part, I get out of the evening unscathed—every time something came up that Jace knew I wouldn’t talk about, even with him, he covered for me. Everything from answering about my exes: Come on, a girl’s gotta have her secrets to answering about the town where I grew up: Her high school had the same mascot as us. Remember when our lion backflipped at that pep rally . . . ? Not only did he trick everyone into thinking they were learning about me, but he also showed at the same time how much we had in common.
Even if it was all a lie. They didn’t know that. But I did have so much in common with Jace. Just not those things. I didn’t come from a happy home and eat fresh-baked cookies while I did my homework. I didn’t attend pep rallies. I didn’t graduate from high school.
The only thing they know, or Evan knows, anyway, is how Jace and I really met. The night with Damon, his old roommate. What could’ve happened to me. God, it seems like a lifetime ago.
I wonder what ever happened to Damon Moretti?
28
JACE
Of all the shitty things that could’ve happened since the moment he arrived home to an empty house the night Tessa disappeared, being arrested for a different murder was the last thing that Jace expected to happen. And now, there he was, wrists pinned behind his back and perp-walking into the police station. Thankfully, he supposed, they found the gun (whose fucking gun was that?) and arrested him immediately—there was no time for the media to get involved. Although, he had a feeling when, if, he got out of there, the vultures would be waiting to snack on whatever was left of him.
Jace was led down a hall and into a room, where he had to hand over everything personal to be sealed in a bag and locked away, possibly forever. He was observed as he took off his clothes and fitted with an orange jumpsuit. The administrators took his watch, his wallet, and Jesus, did his heart clench when he slid off his wedding ring. The portly woman behind the counter snatched it up in her fat little hand and threw it into a plastic bag with zero regard for what it was, what it meant to him. Then it was sealed and tossed into a bin, like garbage.
Jace didn’t need his phone call, because thankfully Evan was at his house when the arrest was made, and as Jace was being pushed into the back of the police cruiser, Evan told him that he’d get a criminal attorney that he knew to the courthouse for the arraignment, and to wait. To not talk, and to wait.
So, he didn’t talk. Not when Solomon pulled hi
m in a room and asked him questions about Rosita, or when he tossed postmortem pictures of her in front of him on the table. He didn’t say a word. Solomon wasn’t amused and threw his ass in a cell.
He waited.
He sat in a cell—a fucking jail cell—overnight, while the cops played goddamn TV detectives with a chip on their shoulder, trying to pin anything on the husband. All of this was a distraction, and it was taking away from the real issue: Tessa was missing, and what the fuck were they doing to try to find her?
He’d failed. He couldn’t protect her. Instead, he was rotting in a jail cell for a murder he didn’t commit, while someone was probably hurting his wife. Where are you, Tessa?
“Montgomery!” A cop shouted his name and he rose onto wobbly legs. “Time for your arraignment.”
When Jace was led to the courtroom, he had mere minutes to consult with Robert Brown, the attorney that Evan had procured for him. Jace’s mood lifted, because this man looked like a champion, from his custom navy suit to his shiny red pocket square. He was about Evan’s age, and Jace assumed they were law school buddies or colleagues. They shook hands—another win. Robert’s paw engulfed Jace’s hand and pumped firmly twice, never breaking eye contact. He exuded confidence, something Jace was sorely lacking at this stage of the game.
“Hello, Mr. Montgomery. I’m Robert Brown. Evan filled me in, and I’ve talked to the DA. Obviously, say nothing except ‘not guilty’ when the judge addresses you. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thanks, Mr. Brown.”
“Robert, please call me Robert,” he corrected.
“Robert. I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill her. I never went near Rosita.”
Saying her name out loud reminded Jace that he’d barely thought about the fact that Rosita was actually dead—all he’d thought about was that he was being blamed, and his mind had been engrossed with Tessa’s disappearance. Rosita had issues, sure, but Good Lord, they were friends and he didn’t want her dead.
Finding Tessa Page 17
