by Greg Iles
I’m on dangerous ground here. “I don’t think so. I think that after this craziness settles down, there’ll be a way to tell the truth—or some less cruel version of it—and still get what we want. Without damning ourselves for all time.”
In the silence that follows this exchange, I look back at the woman who at fourteen appeared to me as an earthbound angel. She’s almost as beautiful now as she was then, but I no longer see an angel. Of course, angels don’t exist. They’re the personification of wishful thinking by desperate humans. And that’s what I see before me now—a woman at the end of her rope.
My iPhone pings. Taking it out, I see a text from Nadine. It reads: I’m outside. Someone broke into my mother’s house. I freaked out and came here. I tried to call but you didn’t answer. Was going to use the key, but I heard voices. Should I leave?
“What is it?” Jet asks.
There’s no point lying now. “Nadine Sullivan’s outside.”
Her eyes widen. “At your gate? Or right outside the house?”
“The house, I think.”
“She has your gate code?”
“I gave it to her last night. Somebody broke into her store during the Aurora party, so she stayed here.”
Jet sits utterly still, but she’s sifting through the possibilities. “Nadine can’t see me here,” she says finally. “Not today.”
“No.”
“If I hide in the back bedroom, will I be okay? Or should I slip out?”
The coldness in that voice . . . the underlying pragmatism. “You’ll be okay. Hide in the bedroom.”
Her tongue skates along the edge of her top teeth as she thinks my answer through. “Okay.” She gets to her feet. “We’ll finish this conversation after she goes, if I’m still here. I can’t get stuck.”
“I don’t think she’ll be long,” I reply, then instantly regret it. I have no idea how long Nadine will stay, or expect to.
As Jet walks toward the hall, her wineglass in her left hand, I text Nadine to come to the garage door.
“If we don’t talk again,” Jet says, “wait for me to contact you. Don’t risk calling me.”
“I know. And you don’t do anything crazy. About the Seychelles or Max’s cell phone. Okay?”
She holds up her free hand in a limp wave that communicates deep sadness. Then she turns and walks down the hall.
Chapter 26
When I open the garage door, I find Nadine standing very straight but looking harried and pale. She has her mother’s pistol in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
“Did I mess up?” she asks. “You told me I could come if I felt afraid. I don’t trust the damn police in this town.”
“You didn’t mess up. Come in.”
I step back and she slides past me, then glides into the kitchen.
“I thought I heard voices,” she says. “I thought somebody was in here with you. I didn’t see a car, though.”
She must not have seen Jet’s Volvo parked in the woods. “I was talking to Jet on speakerphone. That’s why I ignored your first call.”
“Oh.” Nadine nods to herself. “What’s going on with her? If she’s defending her father-in-law for killing his wife, I guess she’s having a busy day.”
“She just wants to be kept in the loop on Buck’s murder. How do you know somebody broke into your mother’s house? You went over there?”
“About forty minutes ago.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I took the gun and some pepper spray.”
“Christ, Nadine. You know better. What did you see?”
“The house wasn’t torn to pieces or anything. But somebody had been there, I could feel it. They’d been through the drawers, looked under the mattresses, gone through the books.”
“I don’t get this. What are they looking for?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, they think you have something. They obviously know you’re living at your mother’s house. So either they know you, or they’ve followed you home before.”
A little fear shows in her eyes. “May I have a glass of that wine?”
“Sure.” I pour her one, recalling Jet taking her glass with her when she went to the back. “I think you’d better stay here again tonight.”
“Oh, I called my friend. He’s got a bed ready for me.”
“You’re safer here, behind my gate and with no neighbors nearby. If we see somebody prowling here, we know they mean us ill. That’s not true in town. You might be reluctant to shoot to defend yourself there.”
She accepts the glass and takes a small sip. “Do you really think it’s going to come to that? Shooting somebody?”
“Two people we know have died this week. Do you have some special immunity to bricks or bullets?”
She answers in a tone of surrender. “No.”
An audible clunk comes from the back bedroom. Nadine’s head pops up. In her anxious state, she’s hypersensitive to every stimulus.
“What was that?” she asks.
Jet just left the house. That clunk was the exterior door in the master bedroom, which sticks about half the time you try to open it. “The bedroom AC makes a loud noise when it kicks on back there. I haven’t done much to improve the place.”
She watches me for a couple of seconds, then looks away. “I’m surprised you live so far from town. You know, from the newspaper.”
“I like the isolation. It’s turned out to be a good thing, given public reaction to my dad’s editorials.”
“I guess it would be.” She takes another sip of wine. “Can I have something stronger?”
“Sure, what do you want?”
“Vodka?”
I go to the freezer and grab a bottle of Crater Lake, pour three fingers into a glass. Nadine walks over and drinks off most of it in one gulp. “Yes,” she says with obvious relief. “Thank you. Look, there’s another reason I came out here.”
“What’s going on?”
“Has Jet told you anything about Max’s alibi? About the woman he supposedly slept with? The friend of Sally’s? The paramour, as they say?”
“No. I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me who it was.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But the name’s gotten out somehow.”
“Who is it?”
“Max claims it was my mother.”
A sense of unreality descends over me. “Your mother?” I don’t believe that. Margaret Sullivan? And Max?
Nadine nods hopelessly.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s all over town. It’s probably on fucking Facebook by now. Three or four women have been mentioned as the possible alibi, and Max probably screwed them all. But my mother’s name was on top of the list. And twenty minutes ago, a friend of mine heard a deputy’s wife confirm it. Max named my mother in his initial interview.”
I can’t imagine the furor this must be triggering in the social circles of Old Bienville. “I just . . . I don’t know. Max might have told them that, but do you believe it’s possible?”
Nadine points at the vodka bottle, and I pour her another glass.
“Possible?” she echoes, swallowing another shot. “Sure, it’s possible. It’s sex, right? You know how these things happen. A lot of husbands want to nail their wife’s best friend. A lot of divorces start just that way.”
“I can’t see it. Your mother and Max.”
“Diametric opposites, I know. But you know what they say . . .”
“This whole mess is getting crazier by the hour. Did your mother ever give you any hint that something like that had happened?”
A look of uncertainty comes into Nadine’s face. “Not directly, no.”
“But?”
“There was a short period when Sally stopped coming to Mom’s book club. Three or four weeks in a row, she always had an excuse. The first two weeks, no one paid any attention. Then the other women noticed.”
“Did Sally eventually come back to the meetings?”
> “She did. I checked my old club schedule. Yes, I’m OCD like that. Sally came back the fifth week.”
“Do you know whether the two of them talked privately before she came back?”
“No. But I wouldn’t necessarily have known. They could have spoken on the phone, or Sally could have come by when I was out shopping or even out of town for a day. Now and then our old maid would come over and stay with Mom and give me a night in New Orleans.”
“I see.”
Nadine starts pacing around the kitchen and table. “I’ve been thinking about the last couple of weeks before Mom died. She went through a period of deep depression. She cried a lot. Mom and Sally had been close since they were little girls. When I asked about her crying, she talked about forgiveness. How hard it was, and how rare. She said very few human beings ever forgive anything. They just shove the hurts down deep and pretend they never happened. And they stop trusting.”
“Do you think she was talking about herself and Sally?”
“I didn’t at the time. She also said something about men bringing out the weakness in women. At the time I assumed that had to do with my father. But now . . . I suppose she could have been talking about Max.”
“But from what you’ve told me, whether Sally forgave your mother or not, it sounds like she knew the affair had happened.”
“I guess so.”
“If she did, that means Max’s suicide story is bullshit. Sally didn’t just find out that your mother had slept with Max. She would have known for, how long? Two years?”
“At least.” Nadine nods thoughtfully. “I suppose Sally could have brooded over it all that time. But still . . . that’s not Max’s alibi, right? He’s lying about an affair being the suicide trigger. At least about my mom.”
“Oh, he’s lying. I’d lay a million dollars on that.”
“But why would he risk that? If Sally already knew about the affair? Why not find a better lie?”
“Maybe Max didn’t know Sally knew.”
“You think Sally wouldn’t have given him hell for sleeping with my mother if she’d known about it?”
“She might not have wanted to give Max the satisfaction. Maybe by ignoring it she spared herself getting down in the mud with him.”
“Maybe.”
“Think of it this way. Sally was sixty-six. And your mother, what?”
“Sixty-four when she died. Same age as Sally, same school class for fourteen years.”
“Max has been cheating on Sally since their honeymoon. God knows what hell she’d been through all these years. Your mother was her best friend. Max would have known just how to manipulate your mom into sleeping with him, and Sally would know that. I can imagine a situation where Sally saw your mother as a victim as much as a transgressor.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“No. I want to get to the truth. You said Sally stopped coming to book club for a month, right? Then she came back. So she agonized for a month. But then she and your mom made up.”
Hope shines in Nadine’s eyes. “You really think so?”
“Your mother was terminally ill. Sally had no illusions left about the man she’d married. I’ll bet all she cared about in the world by then was Paul and her grandson. Not where Max dipped his wick.”
“God, I hope you’re right.”
“I am. The problem is we can’t prove any of that. Not unless we turn up a long-lost diary or something.”
“That won’t happen. Mom never kept a diary.”
“Something just hit me,” I murmur. “What if these break-ins don’t have to do with you, but your mother?”
“The break-ins? What could my mother have had that anybody would want?”
“I don’t know. But if she had a secret relationship with Max, then who’s to say? Maybe Max asked Margaret to keep something for him.”
“No way. Mom might have slept with Max once or twice, but she didn’t like him. Or even trust him. In fact, in a lot of ways she despised him.”
“I’m sure. But this makes a lot more sense than you having something the Poker Club wants.”
Nadine looks up sharply. “Why do you think the Poker Club is behind the break-ins?”
“There’s something going on under all this that we don’t understand. Buck’s death, I get. But Sally’s? No. The break-ins at your store and house? And at other lawyers’ offices? I don’t get that, either.”
“They don’t all have to be connected. Do they?”
“In one little town? Sure they do. There’s one other thing. Your mother wasn’t the only one who was sick. It turns out Sally had a terminal illness, too. Dr. Kirby told me in confidence this afternoon, and he went to the police after that.”
Nadine stops pacing. She looks overwhelmed by this revelation. “Who else knew about that?”
“Only Sally and Dr. Kirby. She didn’t want anyone to know. Not even Max.”
“But . . . you think she really killed herself, then?”
“The illness is certainly grounds for a depressive state.”
“How long had she known she was ill?”
“I’m not sure. But she wouldn’t have known about it while your mother was alive. What are you thinking?”
Nadine is hugging herself, her brow knit with worry. “Knowing that makes me wonder if my mother being with Max might have been a trigger after all. If she was already depressed, I mean. Maybe Max taunted Sally or something. You know how cruel couples can be when they fight.”
“I guess . . . I see your point.”
“What does Jet think?” Nadine asks. “And why is she even defending that son of a bitch?”
While I try to think of a suitable answer, a loud banging echoes up the hallway. Three hard raps. Then a fourth. I was sure Jet slipped out by the back bedroom door. Has she come back?
The rapping sounds again, harder this time.
“That’s the front door,” I say, wondering who the hell it could be and how they got past my gate.
“You’re not expecting anybody?” Nadine whispers.
“Hell, no. And the gate’s locked.”
With my heart racing, I grab my pistol from a kitchen drawer. Nadine watches me with a deer-in-the-headlights look. That’s got to be Jet, I think, reaching instinctively for the burner phone in my pocket. But I don’t take it out in front of Nadine.
This time the knocking rattles the front wall of the house.
That’s a man’s hand, I realize. Paul’s?
“Open up, McEwan!” shouts a muffled voice that could be Paul’s. God, I hope Jet got away clean.
Walking to my little front foyer, I call, “Who’s out there?”
Nadine touches my shoulders from behind, and I jump.
“Max Matheson!” comes the reply. “Your best friend’s old man! Your ex–assistant football coach.”
Nadine spins me around, her eyes asking the same question I am: What the hell is Max doing here?
“Open up, Marshall! Goddamn it. I’m not armed.”
I grab Nadine and fast-walk her up the hall, whispering as we hurry toward the back bedroom. “I don’t know what Max is doing here, but I’m going to find out. I don’t want him even laying eyes on you. Either he broke in through my gate or he walked in from the woods. Either scenario’s bad.”
We move into the bedroom.
“Should I slip out the back door?” she asks.
“No. We don’t know he’s alone. Hide in the bathroom with your pistol. You’ll be locked behind two doors.”
Max bangs on the front door again.
Nadine lets me lead her into the master bath.
“This is it,” I tell her. “Lock the bedroom door after I go out, then come in here and lock this one.”
“I will.” She catches my wrist. “Ask Max who told Sally that he slept with my mother. If it really was a recent revelation, the bastard ought to know that.”
Nadine’s eyes are flashing with anger and determination.
“I
will,” I promise. “Now focus. If anybody tries to force open this door, shoot them.”
Her eyes go wide. “Seriously?”
“Max is out on bail for murder. We don’t know what’s going on, and we can’t take chances.”
She nods uncertainly, her face pale.
“Can you do it?” I press. “Can you shoot through a closed door?”
Nadine nods once more, her jaw set tight.
I almost believe her.
Chapter 27
When I open my front door, I find Max Matheson standing in jeans and a bright red button-down shirt with a crawfish embroidered on the pocket. Though I’m an inch taller than Max, his cowboy boots put us at eye level. I’ve known those eyes since I was a boy, and in this moment they are reading my soul.
“You gonna ask me in or what?” he says with a friendly grin.
“How did you get into my place, Max?”
“Parked at the gate and walked. I wanted to observe the property in its natural state.” The light dancing in his eyes is hard to describe, but it makes plain that he’s enjoying himself.
“I don’t know what we have to talk about,” I tell him, not moving out of the doorway.
“Oh, I think you’re gonna be surprised, Goose.”
And with that he turns sideways and pushes between me and the doorframe, then walks toward my kitchen. My only options are to fight him or let him stay, and at sixty-six years old, Max could beat the hell out of most men I know in their forties. He doesn’t spend his time in the gym or running marathons. He’s simply a natural athlete who has remained active all his life. From a distance, his rangy frame and long muscles give him the look of a much younger man, and this, along with the handsomeness that marks all his family, is surely part of what has pulled so many women to him. But what makes me engage with Max today is my need to know what he knows—and what he wants.
I find him standing by my kitchen table with one hand on the back of a chair. “Well, you’re in here,” I tell him. “Let’s hear your pitch.”
He smiles, a poker player holding all the cards he needs to win. “Gratitude’s a rare thing, Marshall. Like loyalty. And to my surprise, you’ve turned out to have neither.”
“How do you figure that?”
