by E. G. Scott
“She sent my husband pictures of herself, and he sent a few of himself, but he told me that was the extent of it. I believed him. I didn’t dig too deeply.”
Both men look uncomfortable with my light sobbing as our soundtrack and I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Wolcott leaves the room, presumably to get some Kleenex.
“I’m sorry. I’m such a mess. This has all been incredibly painful to rehash and I’m not sure I can keep doing it.”
Silvestri nods. “Of course. Apologies for being too hard on you.”
“Detective, are you married?”
“I was. I’m not anymore.” This answer is not without pain.
“Then you can probably understand that this whole business with Sheila is something that Paul and I just want to put behind us. And I hope I don’t ever have to tell Paul about Mark. We’ve done a lot of work on our marriage and we are finally in a place of healing.”
“Of course.” He softens slightly. “I can understand that. But we may need to speak to you again.”
“I just wanted to do the right thing, Detective. That’s why I came in.”
“Well, we certainly appreciate that you did,” Wolcott says from behind me as he places a box of government-grade tissues on the table. I pull one from the box and thank him with a look. It is hard on my face as I blot my cheeks.
I make a move for my jacket, and my phone vibrates on the table. I can’t read it upside down. Silvestri slides it across the table. “We’ll let you get on your way, then.”
I scoop the phone up and exit as quickly as I can without appearing like I’m going to make a run for it. I blanch when I look down and see Mark’s name and three texts in quick succession.
What is taking so long?
Is it done?
We had a deal.
I hold my breath as I wait for one or both of the detectives to read me my rights and cuff me to the table. But Wolcott just smiles and sees me out the door.
forty-six
SHEILA
I DIDN’T SEE the end coming until it was too late. In retrospect, I regret letting myself into his house uninvited and sneaking into his office, the one room we had yet to fuck in.
Paul seemed to be cooling on me a little bit and I wanted to heat things up. I picked a time for my surprise when I knew his wife would be gone. I’d imagined a sexy-secretary scene and let myself in through the back door, which I’d noticed never seemed to be locked.
He was in the shower upstairs when I entered, so I made my way to his office, changed into my costume, and positioned myself behind the desk in a come-hither posture. I couldn’t wait to see his face when he discovered me in stilettos, legs up on his desk, and nothing else except for one of his ties. I’d nabbed it a few weeks earlier.
He was taking a long time to finish his shower and come downstairs, and I got curious. I wanted to know everything about Paul, and he was not very open with details. I didn’t think snooping around a little would hurt anyone. I only got as far as the top drawer, when I saw the bandanna-wrapped gun, before he caught me. He was not as happy as I’d hoped he’d be; in fact his face was so full of rage that I worried he might scream at me. But luckily my outfit diverted his anger into desire. He bent me over his desk and enjoyed the act thoroughly, but as soon as we finished I could sense that something was wrong.
“Sheila, we can’t do this anymore.” His voice was without emotion. I was naked except for his tie.
“Paul, I’m really sorry I snuck in. I won’t do it again. I thought you’d like it.”
“This isn’t because of today. I think this has run its course.”
“I thought we were getting closer. I think we have something really good here, Paul.” I was struggling to keep the panic out of my voice.
He reached his arms out to me in what I thought was a gesture of affection until he loosened the knot on his tie and slid it over my head. “My wife gave this to me.”
I deflated. I’d gone too far. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s part ways before things get too complicated.”
I was stunned and didn’t protest. I held back the tears and conjured a brave face, but on the inside, I was dying.
When he walked out of the office to let me get dressed, I helped myself to the key labeled “front door”in his desk. I would add it to my collection of Paul artifacts, knowing it would give me unrestricted access.
I was destroyed in the days following our break-up. I was manic without him and was still infatuated beyond function. Every day that he didn’t call or text, I became less grounded. I walked Molly for hours, waiting to run into Paul and Duff. I believed if he saw me, he would change his mind about us. I pedaled daily and furiously next to Rebecca, who seemed to be in a perpetual trance. The sight of her, and knowing she was going home to Paul, ripped my heart out day after day.
I watched them. I saw him pretending to be in love with her. They were everywhere. Talking, laughing, holding hands. I knew he was looking at her and seeing me. This was a game he was playing and I wanted to play something else. I was losing the grip on where I had fit in his life. I needed to know he had been real and I hadn’t made it all up.
I still loved him so much. I sent him reminders that I still existed from a new phone when he blocked the old one. I would be unrelentingly persistent until he came around. I couldn’t let him forget me and that I had been his and he’d loved me.
Molly left me too. She ran away one day when she was untethered at the beach. I didn’t have the energy to run after her. I didn’t expect she’d return. I was well versed in being abandoned.
I walked into the ocean up to my waist, pulled off my engagement and wedding rings, and threw them into the surf. The farther I tried to walk out, the more the tide pushed me back to shore. The ocean didn’t even want me. It had already taken Daniel.
I let myself into their house after I watched them drive away together one day, her head resting on his shoulder as he passed me, clueless that I was there.
In their house, I looked for the most meaningful thing of his I could take. I had his key, a set of cuff links, a childhood photo of him taken off a pegboard. I needed something more substantial. Something that would send a message about how I was feeling.
I knew what I wanted. In his desk I found the gun right where I’d seen it the first time. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with Paul’s gun, but his text had pushed me about as far as I could stand. I put it in my purse and immediately felt better.
forty-seven
PAUL
I WALK THROUGH the door.
It’s a rush to see the place in the stage where one can start to envision it as an inhabitable house. The plumbing is coming along, and the electrician is lined up to be on hand as soon as the pipes are all laid in. I’ll assist Javier and his crew with the drywall and flooring, and we’ve got an ace painting team ready to go.
I’ve long been able to see the final product in my head, but my other senses are kicking in. Standing within these walls, I can smell the floor wax and feel the warmth from logs burning in the fireplace. I can hear a bath being drawn upstairs as I taste the tomatoes that we’ll grow in the garden outside. She’s going to love it.
I’m feeling butterflies in my gut, and I’m finding it to be a truly invigorating experience. I can’t remember the last time I had a case of nerves with regard to a property, but this isn’t just any property. This is a burial of the past and an eye toward a beautiful future with the woman I’ve come back to after all these years.
Not that there aren’t a few chainsaws to juggle. Wes is nipping at my heels about gearing up for the fall real estate season, and he’ll only become more persistent in the coming weeks. But the plumber being on-site gives me some leeway, and I’ll have another pocket of time with the electrician, then again with the painting crew.
My explanation of
the Keystone Cops’ ineptitude seems to have calmed Rebecca down for the moment. She hasn’t appeared as nervous or distracted over the last couple of days, and I pray that she’s finally getting some sort of handle on her meds. She needs to hold it together, for both of our sakes.
Dana has been a godsend. I really don’t know how I could have made it through these last months without her. The universe seems to throw things our way when we most need them, and this has been a time of great need. And it looks like we might have some bites on her house in what is generally a slow season in the business. It’s tempting to think that this all might work out in the end.
A quick spasm in my lower back shakes me out of my daydream. I reach behind and work my thumb in circles between two particularly tense strands of muscle. My body will thank me when this construction is wrapped up. It needs some downtime to recuperate. Dana has been all over me to go to a massage therapist, and it’s getting harder to argue against it. The heat patches are doing as much as they can, but these old bones are really starting to howl.
As I knead the muscles in my back, I think of Rebecca. It’s the night of the incident, and I’m tending to the flesh wound on her shoulder. A new wound atop an old wound. The pain of both, and the masking that’s followed, the suffering that’s still buried, the pills that have ravaged her body while managing her pain.
I’m a kid again, in the back seat of the car. My dad’s driving, and my mom is turned to me. “Paul, honey. It’s just for the weekend. Mom and Dad need to take care of some things. You’ll have fun at Uncle Nick’s.”
“But I don’t want to go there. I want to stay with you guys,” I protest, tears welling. “Don’t leave me there!”
“Oh, honey.” My mom laughs. “We’d never leave you there. We’ll come back for you, silly.”
“You promise?” I plead.
I can hear the irritation in my dad’s voice as he turns his head to look at me. “Paul, I need you to get it together. Okay, bud?”
I see the brake lights of the car ahead of us, but I can’t speak. I watch as we careen toward them. I can’t say a word. I can only watch.
A shot of pain runs up my side, pulling me back to the moment. My shirt is drenched in sweat, and there are tears burning my eyes. I can’t do this anymore. It can’t fucking go on. This needs to end. I ball up the fabric around the neck of my shirt, stuff it in my mouth, and let out a scream. I breathe deeply and feel a semblance of calm come over me as my eyes scan the house. I take a moment to steady myself before stepping outside and heading in the direction of the Cherokee. It’s about time to grab lunch, but first I’ll need to apply another ThermaWrap patch, check my phone, and make sure there are no fires to attend to.
forty-eight
WOLCOTT
“WHAT’S BURNIN’ your ass, pal?”
Silvestri has a look in his eye that’s new to me. It appears to be a mix of determination, agitation, and sadistic delight. Plus, he’s driving a bit too fast through suburbia.
“I don’t like bullies,” he answers.
“No one does. Something eating at you?”
“Mark Anders is a bully. I’m looking forward to getting in a room with that guy and taking him apart.”
“Easy, tiger. We need to soft-glove him for the moment, until we can figure out how we’re going to jam him up.”
“Did you see what kind of shape Rebecca Campbell was in? Far as I can figure it, he’s got her good and doped up, and he’s either using the drugs or the affair as leverage to keep her doing his bidding. I mean, that alibi?”
“Okay, and which part of that are you going to prove at this moment?”
“The guy’s arrogant, pushy, and not all that smart. We’ll get him.”
“Of course we will,” I say. “Just be patient. Better to walk over the drawbridge than swim across the moat. Know what I’m saying?”
“Aristotle?” he cracks.
“Something like that. And slow down. You’re scaring the squirrels.”
* * *
WE APPROACH ANDERS’S garish spectacle of a home. My partner slows down to a crawl, then pulls into the driveway.
“Couldn’t help yourself, eh?”
He winks and offers me a self-satisfied grin. “It’s the little things, Wolcott.”
We get out of the cruiser and approach the house. Before we’re close enough to knock, Mark Anders has swung the door open. He stands in the doorway, looking half-crazed. The stench of sour booze wafts off him, and the mangy bathrobe he’s got on looks as if it could stand up on its own and take a few laps around the place.
“Top of the day to you,” offers Silvestri. “How goes it, Mr. Anders?”
“Well, my wife’s dead, and now I’ve got you two characters standing at my door. So, you know. How goes it with you?”
“Busy investigating your wife’s case, in fact.” My partner holds Anders’s stare. “We have a few follow-up questions. Hoping to hammer out our timeline once and for all. May we speak with you inside?”
Anders shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” He lazily waves us in.
The living room resembles a bomb shelter. It’s a grim scene in there. Anders sees us eyeing the place.
“I gave the cleaning lady the week off,” he says. His tone sounds matter-of-fact.
There’s a tower of pizza boxes that looks poised to topple at any second and a collection of empty booze bottles strewn about the room. The blinds are all drawn, and the low hum of the air conditioner drones on in the background. The house gives off all the charm and ambiance of a dank cave.
“Gun!” Silvestri announces.
My hand instinctively goes to my holster. I follow my partner’s eyes to the coffee table. In the low light, it takes me a moment to make out the pistol sitting on the stack of magazines. My eyes dart to Mark Anders, who stands still, seemingly untroubled by this new development.
I draw a handkerchief from my vest pocket and use it to retrieve the gun from the table. “Mr. Anders,” I say. “Why do you have a Glock 19?”
“Um, some asshole murdered my wife,” he shoots back.
“Well, well. A matching set,” says Silvestri, indicating our department-issued weapons. “Got a permit for that, Mark?”
Anders looks at my partner coldly. “I don’t need a permit, genius. It’s in my home.”
Silvestri doesn’t hide his grin. He snaps the cuffs off his belt as he approaches Anders. “Mark Anders, you’re under arrest for unlicensed possession of a firearm.” He cuffs our irate friend, who attempts to slither out of the bracelets.
“What the fuck are you idiots doing? I’m going to sue you for false arrest.”
“You may want to brush up on your legal statutes, Mark.” Silvestri is enjoying this.
We walk Anders out of the house, kicking and screaming the whole way. He hits us with a flurry of angry insults and empty threats as we steer him toward the cruiser. Various neighbors who are out in yards and jogging through the development stop and stare at the free entertainment. He eyes them defiantly as we pack him into the back seat and drive off.
* * *
I’M AT MY DESK when Silvestri approaches. He sits himself down on the edge and nods at me.
“Yes?”
“Wolcott, you ever use Venmo?”
“The payment app? Can’t say that I have.”
“There’s an interesting feature with Venmo that people aren’t necessarily aware of. Unless you change your setting to private, it displays your transaction history for anyone to see.”
“This is fascinating trivia, partner.” I can see in his eyes that he’s warming up to something.
“You remember that twerp out in the Hamptons who got busted a little while back? Morgan Kaufman. The ‘Trust Fund Dealer,’ the papers called him?”
“Oh yeah. They ripped the house apart. Found all kinds of shit in the wa
lls.”
“Bingo,” he says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen, and hands it to me. I’m looking at the Venmo page with Mark Anders’s transaction history. “Now, here’s the question of the day: What’s a known drug dealer doing sending payments to the head of a pharmaceutical company?”
“No shit?” I say. “Anders was supplying this kid?!”
“Looks like it. Guess Mark wasn’t happy with his day job. Needed a little sideline hustle to really get the blood flowing.”
“Son of a bitch,” I say. “Silvestri, you beautiful beast. Let’s get a warrant for Anders’s place.”
My partner offers a satisfied nod. “Already on the way.”
forty-nine
SHEILA
I HAD TWENTY-ONE miles to decide who to murder first.
I’d been dead for thirty-six hours as far as Paul and Rebecca were concerned. I’d come to in the early hours of the morning after my birthday, long enough to ascend the stairs and look at the sky before losing consciousness for most of the day on the ground floor of the unbuilt house. I was lucky they’d thought enough to throw my coat into the plastic coil, or else I might have fought my way out and up, only to succumb to exposure. The lot was remote enough that I went undiscovered as I drifted in and out of concussed sleep throughout the day. By nightfall, I felt stable enough to start my trip home.
My options homeward were extremely limited if I truly wanted to remain missing and dead. I knew that as soon as I used my phone to call for a ride, a traceable timeline would begin. I needed Paul and Rebecca to believe that they’d rid themselves of me for good, and for the police to believe that I had vanished. I used the last remaining juice in my phone to map out my trek before I shut it off and threw it into the thick wooded area on my way out of the property. I was grateful that I opted for leather riding boots over heels on my birthday night; the seven-and-a-half-hour walk from Cold Spring Harbor to Stony Brook would have been impossible otherwise.
