Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  “You preparing for a merger over there, Howie?”

  He chuckles. “Sorry. I know this looks like a lot.”

  I pour two cups of tea. They are in mismatched mugs: an SCPD mug for Howard, a chipped “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” mug for me. There is no sugar, so I don’t offer any. I hope Howard likes stale English Breakfast, because that’s what he’s getting.

  “Thanks,” he says. He wraps his hands around the mug and lets the steam rise toward his face.

  “So. Where do I need to sign?”

  Howard looks up at me and frowns. “Well, there are things we need to discuss first. Before we get to signing.”

  I lean back against the couch. “All right.”

  “Did you and your father discuss estate planning?”

  “No.”

  “His assets?”

  “You mean this house?”

  “Well, the house, yes. But your father’s estate was substantial.”

  “Substantial? I know this land is probably worth something. But beyond that . . .” I trail off, unable to think of anything else that Dad might have owned.

  “There are other assets. An offshore account, for one.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “An offshore account? You mean, in the Caymans or something?”

  “Yes. Cayman International Bank. I don’t know how much is in it. But right before your father died, he brought it up. He wanted to be sure you knew how to access it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m confused. I mean, he was a cop. What was he doing with money in an offshore account?”

  Howie shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me and I didn’t want to know. I promised him I’d get you this.” He hands me a business card.

  Justin Moran, the card reads. Senior Vice President, Cayman International Bank.

  “I’m sure if you contact him, he can help you.”

  I stare at the card, trying to make sense of it. I can’t imagine why my father had an offshore account. A familiar sensation seeps into my body. Dread.

  My eyes shut. I’m seven again. I’m sitting in the back seat of my father’s car. Outside, police lights flash in the murky morning light. My father heated up leftover rice and beans for breakfast and my stomach is sour, heavy. My father and Dorsey are talking. Their lips are moving, their faces are pale and pinched. Something has happened, something bad. What, I don’t quite understand.

  I press my tongue against the backs of my front teeth. I’m still surprised by the absence of one. The place where the root used to be is tender and raw. My tongue retracts as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

  “Nell?”

  My eyes snap open. Howie is staring at me, his brow furrowed. “What else is there?” I ask. “Besides the account.”

  Howard raises an eyebrow. He seems surprised that I don’t have more questions. “The house goes to you.”

  “Fine.”

  “If you want help with listing it, I can put you in touch with a broker. We’ll also need to have the contents appraised at some point.”

  I gesture at the coffee table and the ancient couch beyond. “That should take all of fifteen minutes. That’s it?”

  Howie coughs uncomfortably. “Were you aware that he was considering redrafting his will when he died?”

  “No,” I say, a little stunned. I set my tea down on the table between us. “Meaning, he wasn’t going to leave me the house?”

  “No. The house was always yours. But he took out a two-year lease on an apartment in Riverhead last summer.”

  “An apartment?”

  “Yes. Here’s the address.” He slides a piece of paper across the table. “He didn’t say much about it. He has a separate bank account set up, which he said covers rent, utilities, all of that. He wanted to make sure that the person who lives there can stay, even if something happened to him.”

  I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. Howie, I notice, busies himself shuffling papers. We’ve entered awkward territory and both of us know it. “The person . . . like a tenant?”

  “I get the sense that she was more than that.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No. I thought maybe you might.”

  I sigh, frustrated. “This is the first I’m hearing of an apartment. Or the person who lives there.”

  “Maybe he was seeing someone and he didn’t want to upset you.”

  “I’m not a child, Howie. If Dad had a girlfriend, he could have told me.”

  “I have a daughter your age. I can understand how that kind of thing would be sensitive.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, that’s up to you. But Marty was clear. He wanted this woman to be taken care of. Hence the restructuring of the will.”

  “But it wasn’t restructured.”

  “No. We had this conversation maybe a week or so before he died. Everything is yours. I’m just trying to be up-front with you. There was another person in your father’s life that he wanted to provide for in some way. You have no legal obligation to her. His will is valid, and unless this woman comes forward and contests it—and frankly, even then, given that they weren’t married, I don’t think she really has grounds to—everything will go to you. But I’d be remiss in not telling you his intentions.”

  I sit back and cross my arms. I wonder if it’s too early for a drink. “Well, shit, Howie. This sounds complicated.”

  “I’m sorry, Nell. I really am. I hope you don’t think he was trying to take money away from you. I just think he was trying to do right by this woman.”

  “If he had someone in his life, I would’ve been happy for him. My mother’s been dead for twenty-one years. I didn’t expect him to become a monk.”

  “Were you two in touch?”

  I sigh. “Not really. We had a falling-out ten years ago. When I was in high school.”

  “He mentioned that.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “What did he say?”

  “He said he pushed you to go to college out of state. He didn’t want you to end up trapped here in Suffolk County like he did. He said you never forgave him.”

  I nod, stung by the notion that he felt trapped here, by my mother. By me. “I did forgive him. We talked now and then, but it was always a little bit strained between us. We’re both stubborn. I think we both expected an apology, and neither one of us was willing to give one.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “I know. He’d call a few times a year to wish me a happy birthday or a merry Christmas, but that was about it. We never really got into personal life–type stuff.”

  “Your dad was a very private man.”

  “He certainly was.”

  “Maybe one of his friends on the force knew her?”

  “Glenn Dorsey planned the whole memorial service yesterday. He never mentioned a girlfriend. I think he would have, if this woman had been so important to Dad.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know about her, either.”

  “So you don’t have her contact information?”

  Howie shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Just the address of the apartment. He gave me a copy of the lease agreement—it’s all in there. The account is at Suffolk County Bank. I’d contact them. As I said, the will specifies that you get his entire estate. And the will is valid. So the account is yours. It’s up to you what you choose to do with it.”

  I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the sofa. I am suddenly excruciatingly tired. My bones ache. My head feels like it’s made of lead. I wonder if I just stay here long enough, maybe I will drift away into sleep.

  Howie gets the message. He taps a stack of papers against the table, stands up. My eyes flicker open. “I’m sorry. It’s been a helluva day.”

  “I’m sure. Why don’t you rest. I’ve left everything there for you to look over. If you have
questions, call me. We can talk more when you’ve had a chance to read through everything.”

  I stand up, extend my hand. “Thanks, Howie. I appreciate it.”

  He gives me a quick hug instead. “Nell, I’ve been doing this a lot of years. Estates are complicated in every family. Some things about your dad’s life might come as a surprise. But your dad cared about you. You were the most important person in his life. Don’t doubt that for a second. Every time he was in my office, you were all he talked about.”

  I shrug, unsure of how to respond. My father always felt like an enigma to me, even when we lived beneath the same roof. I wondered often if I knew him at all; whether he had the capacity or desire to really know me. Now it strikes me that we’ll never get the chance. The thought fills me with a hard, uncomfortable sadness. I bite down on my lip. The pain keeps me from tears.

  “Do you see anyone?” Howie asks. “A therapist, I mean. I can recommend some names if that would be helpful.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.”

  Howie nods. He picks up his briefcase and we walk together to the front door. He gives me an awkward, stilted handshake goodbye. As soon as he’s gone, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a drink. I finish it in a few large gulps, pour another. I settle in on the couch. The alcohol courses through my veins, warming me. On impulse, I dial Dr. Ginnis’s phone number.

  “Andrew Ginnis.” He answers on the first ring, startling me into momentary silence. I assumed it would go straight to voicemail. I was prepared to leave him a message. I’m not yet ready to talk.

  “It’s Nell Flynn,” I say finally. My voice is flat and hard, like it’s him who called me and not the other way around. “I work with Sam Lightman at the BAU.”

  “I remember. We met a few weeks ago.”

  “I know I should’ve followed up with you. My father passed away. I’ve been in Long Island for the funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve had a tough month.”

  “People keep saying that.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I take a sip of scotch before replying. “You mean now? Shouldn’t I set up an appointment first?”

  “If you like. It’s up to you.”

  I hesitate. A part of me wants to hang up, return to my scotch. But if I don’t talk to Ginnis today, I’ll just delay the inevitable. And there’s something oddly soothing about his voice. It’s warm, like he’s an old friend.

  “Where do I start?”

  “Wherever you’d like.”

  “We scattered his ashes yesterday. He was only fifty-two.”

  “That’s sad. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Motorcycle accident. He had been drinking. It was late and the road was wet. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. I didn’t really know him. I haven’t been home in ten years. Even when I was home, we hardly spoke.”

  “And your mother? Is she alive?”

  “No. She died when I was young. It was just me and him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My father was a marine. A cop. The kind of man who woke up every day at five a.m. to go for a run. He’d run in the rain, in the snow. He ran when he was sick or if he hadn’t slept the night before. He was obsessively disciplined. Except for alcohol; that was his weakness. But he was tough as they come. And deeply principled. At least, I thought he was. Today I found out that he had money stashed in an offshore account. And he rented an apartment I didn’t know about, either. A woman lives there. His girlfriend, I guess.”

  “Does it upset you that he was seeing someone?”

  I take a gulp of scotch and consider the question. “It upsets me that I knew so little about his life.”

  “Are you worried that he harmed himself?”

  “Maybe. Or that someone harmed him.” I say this aloud for the first time. The words are strange, foreign. “I don’t know. It’s possible I’m being paranoid.”

  “Why would someone harm him?”

  “He was a homicide detective. He was investigating a case when he died. A young girl, an escort. She was murdered last summer. Today they found a second body. Another young girl, buried the same way as the first.”

  Ginnis doesn’t reply. I realize that I’m rambling. My words are starting to run together. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe I’m tired. Probably both.

  “You think I sound crazy, don’t you?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement than a question.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know how it sounds. He’s just a cop. It’s just a murder investigation.”

  “Something about it troubles you.”

  “I have a bad feeling.” I stand up and the blood rushes to my head. I sit back down, resting my head on the arm of the couch. The room spins a little, and then stops. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s why I’m here.”

  “Can I ask you something? Off the record.”

  “There is no record, Nell. Everything you and I discuss is confidential.”

  “Except that you’re paid for by the Bureau.”

  “That doesn’t mean they get to listen in on what we discuss. Doctor-patient privilege exists between us. I take that very seriously.”

  “You have to write a report on me, don’t you? How can you do that and still maintain privilege?”

  “I will write a report,” he says carefully, “about your mental fitness for your job. Not about what we discuss in session. Do you understand the difference?”

  “It seems like a fine line.”

  Ginnis sighs. I’m being difficult, and we both know it. “Don’t worry about the report. My job is to help you cope with trauma. Not to type up some form for the Office of Professional Responsibility.” The way he says it, with just a hint of disdain, makes me smile just a little.

  “To be honest with you, the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me all month is coming back here. To Suffolk County.”

  “A lot of people feel that way about returning home. Especially under such sad circumstances.”

  “It’s brought up a lot of old memories. Some not so pleasant.”

  “Do you want to talk about those memories?”

  “I—I don’t know yet.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “If I were to tell you something that might implicate someone else in a crime, do you have to report it?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Well, on a lot of things. But foremost, whether or not I think someone is in danger. If I could prevent harm to someone by breaking privilege, I would. Does that make sense?”

  I mull this over. The ice in my drink clinks against the bottom of the glass. I roll my head toward the counter, eyeing the bottle. It’s more than half empty: a surprise. I’ve drunk more than I thought. I’m not in any shape to be confiding in anyone. Especially not a therapist who reports to my boss.

  “I think I should stop talking and set up an appointment.”

  “That’s fine. Get some rest. Call me when you can, Nell. I’m here.”

  7.

  I don’t rest. Not well, anyway. I toss and turn until the room begins to brighten around the edges. When it’s officially morning, I hop behind the wheel of my father’s pickup and drive to Riverhead. It’s early and the town is still asleep. I’m still half-asleep myself, propped up only by the two cups of black coffee I drank as my breakfast. The stores are closed and there’s hardly any traffic. I find a parking spot on Main Street, directly across from the address Howard gave me.

  Dad’s apartment is on the top floor of 97 Main, a small, boxy building sandwiched between an Irish pub
called O’Malley’s and a dusty drugstore with vacant-eyed Victorian dolls lining the window. It’s a three-story building with one apartment per floor. The landlord lives on the ground floor. Dad has been renting out the third floor since June of last summer. From what I can see, the second floor is vacant. The windows are boarded over. It’s not a particularly charming place, but then, Dad didn’t care much for aesthetics. He did like seclusion, however, and so I can see how he’d appreciate a third-story apartment with no neighbors, no one living directly below or above, and a discreet entrance through a parking lot behind the building.

  The rent on this apartment is a thousand dollars a month, which is not exorbitant for a two-bedroom apartment in Suffolk County, but it’s not insubstantial, either. I can’t imagine why my father would have committed such a large percentage of his income to a second residence, especially one that’s a fifteen-minute drive from his own. Maybe he used it as an office. But why, then, would he keep an office in his house, as well? Maybe he used it on nights when he wanted to drink at O’Malley’s and stumble upstairs instead of driving home. That seems plausible but extravagant, and my father was not an extravagant man.

  The most obvious answer is that he had a girlfriend. Maybe he wasn’t ready to cohabitate with her but still felt some sense of obligation or commitment. Or maybe he’d been planning to move in and put the house on the market and just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Still, I found it strange that there’s no trace of her—or any other visitor, really—at the house on Dune Road. No extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, no women’s nightclothes in the bureau, not even a bottle of wine or soda in the fridge. Just my father’s things: my father’s bourbon, my father’s scotch. My father’s clothes, my father’s arsenal of weapons. My father’s house, and his alone.