Alice’s heart fluttered, and she stood up, and said, “How about tomorrow, okay? I’m too tired to talk.” She knew what he wanted to talk about. She knew that the police detective bitch had said something to him, and now he wouldn’t want to live with her anymore.
“Hey, stop that,” he said, his voice too loud, like it sometimes got when he drank a lot. “Come here, okay?”
She came over and stood in front of him. She realized she was still in the robe she’d worn all day, and her hair was probably flat and greasy. No wonder he was kicking her out. “You want me to leave?” she said, and jutted out her lower lip.
“Alice, no. That is definitely not what I want. Sit down here.”
He patted his lap, and she slid on top of him as he carefully placed his drink on the glass-topped side table. “What I want,” he said, “is for you and me to have a conversation about how we need to be extra-careful from now on.”
“I didn’t say anything to Gina and her mother. They were trying to get me to say something about you, but I swear I didn’t.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m not talking about just you, I’m talking about us. We have to be careful about what restaurants we go to, and how we act, and eventually—not right away—you should get your own place. No, no, don’t worry. You should get your own place even though you can keep staying here most nights.”
“Maybe we should just let people know about us. It’s not illegal.”
“I know it’s not illegal but it’s frowned on. And I wouldn’t care except that I have a position at a bank that’s important. I advise people in this town on what to do with their money, and they’re going to lose faith in me if they think that you and I are together. They won’t understand.”
“What if we got married?”
“Alice,” he said, then took a long sip of his drink, placing the glass back down with a loud clink. “It wouldn’t make any difference. In fact, it would probably make things worse. It’s not just that you’re the daughter of my wife, it’s that I’m thirty years older than you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I don’t care, either, but other people will.”
“Fine. We’ll be extra-careful.”
“That’s all that I’m saying. We have to be very, very careful from here on out. People hate to see other people happy. Remember that.”
Alice went to bed first. She was exhausted, brushing her teeth for less than thirty seconds, then slipping out of her robe and under the covers. She wondered if she was exhausted because of the stress of being interviewed by the frizzy-haired detective, or if she was tired because she’d barely done anything all day. She hadn’t gone swimming since Friday night, the night that Gina couldn’t make it back. Tomorrow she’d swim again. There were only so many days left before it would be too cold, and then she’d have to swim at the Y with the overchlorinated water and the old ladies.
She lay awake thinking about swimming, then listened as Jake got ready for bed, standing for a long time in the bathroom applying his face lotion, as he always did. He climbed in beside her, naked, smelling of vanilla and sandalwood.
He kissed her, the type of kiss that meant he was tired, then said, “I was going to bring it up earlier, but I couldn’t find the right time.”
“What?” she said, her limbs tingling.
“I woke up on Friday night to get a glass of water. You weren’t in bed so I went downstairs to look for you, and I couldn’t find you anywhere. I was nervous, so I looked out the window. I saw you coming back from the beach. Your hair was wet.”
She didn’t respond.
“Alice?” Jake eventually said.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“When? That night?”
“Yes.”
“I guessed that it was something between you and Gina, and I didn’t want to bother you about it. I went back to bed. You came in and showered.”
“I didn’t—”
“Shh,” Jake said, his face pressed close up to her ear. “I don’t want you to say anything, but I wanted you to know that I knew. Don’t say anything, okay? We’re better off—much better off—without Gina in our lives. Just like we are better off without your mother.”
Alice’s limbs stiffened at the mention of her mother.
“Whatever you say,” she said.
“I love you, Alice. Forever and ever. No matter what happens.”
“I love you, too, Jake,” she said, and turned away from him.
After he fell asleep, Alice got up and went to her old bedroom, and got under the covers. She could hear the very faint sawing sound of Jake’s snoring through the condo’s cheap walls. She tried to sleep, but she kept thinking about what Jake had said. Why had he brought up her mother? She’d found her mother dead on the sofa, something she’d have to live with forever. And now she’d lost her best friend. She hadn’t been able to save her, and Jake was making it sound like she was somehow to blame.
She flipped over onto her stomach, even though she knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep. She thought about Jake, trying to erase the words he’d said to her.
Chapter 21
Now
The bed was moving, the twisted sheet tightening against his ribs.
Harry opened his gummy eyes. It was still night. He was cold, but a warm body was pressed against his back, and an arm had snaked over his shoulder. He heard Alice’s voice in his ear: “Just keep sleeping, Harry. I don’t want to be alone.”
Harry stayed as still as possible, wondering if he could just pretend to be asleep, but he knew that she’d felt his entire body tense when she touched him. She pulled in tighter. There was some kind of satiny fabric between his body and hers, but he could feel the press of her breasts against his back, the rough edge of a nipple. “Alice . . .” he managed to say.
“Shhh. Go back to sleep. You’re so cold.” She spread her hand across his chest, then brought her legs up so that her knees touched the backs of his thighs.
“I don’t think—”
“Just for me, okay. Go back to sleep.” He could smell the wine on her breath. She shifted her body back and forth like a bird settling into a nest. She pressed her forehead against the back of his neck.
Harry concentrated on his breathing, keeping it steady. He closed his eyes. It did feel good to have a body up against his, radiating warmth. He listened as her breathing became deeper; he could feel her breath against his skin. His heart rate began to slow.
When he woke, he was on his back, Alice hovering over him, lifting her nightgown past her hips. Harry started to speak, and Alice was kissing him, one hand against his neck, her other sliding down his stomach, and taking hold of his erection. There was nothing he could do to stop it from happening; his body was taking over, and soon they were having sex. Alice kept her head close down to his, her hair spread over his face, and he shut his eyes, the world reducing to darkness and sensation, Alice whispering his name in his ear again and again.
Afterward, he started to speak again, and Alice said, “Don’t. Let’s not talk about it.”
Harry, relieved, stayed quiet, and soon Alice’s breath became slow and rhythmic. He turned away from her and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the window had brightened with soft morning light. Alice was still breathing heavily, her mouth now pressed into the hollow between his shoulder and his spine, her lips against his skin. He moved his hips involuntarily, and Alice’s fingers fluttered against him. Harry made himself roll away, then sat up on the edge of the bed. He produced a low humming sound to make it seem as though he had just woken up. Behind him, on the bed, Alice stirred. He stood before she could say anything, aware of his nakedness, and quickly left the room, grabbing his jeans and T-shirt from the floor.
He went straight downstairs, where he got dressed, and pulled on the shoes that were still by the door. Then he stood still, listening for the sound of Alice getting up herself. He heard nothing. What had happened in the middle of the night now felt like a vagu
e, dusky dream. How drunk had she been? Was there the possibility that she hadn’t known what she was doing?
Harry opened the door quietly and stepped out onto the front step into the cool dawn. Birds were chattering loudly in the trees, and the front lawn was coated in dew. He sat on the steps, his mind replaying details from a few hours ago. His skin shivered and tightened at the memory. It had been a new experience, giving in to the will of someone else, her body taking control of his; she was smaller than he was, but she’d felt larger as she’d drawn him into her. Harry was desperately trying to file the experience into a folder that made sense, but he couldn’t. He’d had sex with his stepmother, less than a week after the death of his father. It felt halfway between a fantasy come true and the type of nightmare you wake up from drenched in sweat. He tried to stop remembering it, but kept hearing her whispering his name in his ear, the edge of her teeth against his earlobe.
He had no idea what time it was, but figured it was probably just around five o’clock. He decided to walk to the Dunkin’ Donuts over in Kennewick Center, get himself some coffee, maybe something to eat.
It was over a mile to Kennewick Center, but the walk felt good. He began to warm up, the sun rising, the mist burning off. Approaching the Dunkin’ Donuts, he wasn’t sure it was open yet, but when he got to the front doors, he could make out an employee moving behind the counter. He got himself a large regular—a coffee with maximum cream and sugar—and a blueberry donut.
He sat in a booth, watched through the steamy window as a pickup truck pulled in across two spots. A skinny man wearing a camo baseball cap jumped out of the cab, the truck still running, and strode into the shop. “Mornin’, Cody,” said the woman behind the counter as she got him a coffee and an apple turnover without asking him what he wanted. Harry kept his eye on the truck, spilling exhaust, and had a brief urge to race out of the shop with his coffee, steal the truck, and just start driving north, see how far he could get.
But he didn’t move. The man returned with his breakfast to his truck. Harry kept sipping at his coffee. He ate the blueberry donut, remembering, as he ate it, that it had been his father’s favorite. His thoughts shifted again to Alice, and Grace’s conviction that she had something to do with the murder. What if Grace was right, and he’d slept with his father’s murderer? His stomach flipped. He told himself to breathe, and thought of Occam’s razor, something he’d learned about in a probability course in college: The simplest solution to a problem is most likely the correct one.
What was the simplest solution?
Probably that his father had been an adulterer who liked to seduce younger women. He’d seduced a married woman and been killed by a jealous husband. Grace was just another girlfriend who had nothing to do with his father’s death. Alice was a betrayed wife who was right now trying to grapple with everything that was happening. And she was desperate for attention and affection. Wasn’t this the most logical solution? And if that was the case, then Harry had some responsibility because of what his father had left behind. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, looking for his phone, just to check if Grace or Alice had sent him a text, but he’d left it in the bedroom.
He left the shop with his coffee. The sun was higher in the sky, and there were a few cars along Route 1A now. He decided to walk back home; later he would get in touch with Grace again, make sure she told the police what she knew. He walked along the sandy edge of the road. There was a breeze from the east, and the air held the smell of the ocean. As he approached Kennewick Village he was about to veer off toward York Street and back to Grey Lady, but decided at the last moment to walk past the house where Grace was living. It was too early to visit, but maybe if he just walked by . . .
The house looked quiet and empty in the morning light. Harry glanced up at Grace’s second-floor window; it was hard to know for sure, but he thought her lights were on. He walked halfway to the door, thinking maybe he’d knock gently just in case she was up. But then he stopped; the door was open. Not by a lot, but it was cracked by about six inches. He almost turned back, knowing suddenly that something was wrong. He stood frozen for a few moments, then continued toward the door. He could peer inside, and listen. When he reached the door, he pressed his palm against it and pushed. The inside of his mouth was coated with the cloying taste of the sweet coffee.
Grace was on the floor of the foyer, her bare feet pointed toward the door. He knew she was dead but said her name anyway, his voice no louder than a croak. He stepped through the doorway. She was wearing the clothes she’d been in the night before. A striped shirt and jeans. One arm was flung over her head, the other down by her side.
“Grace,” he said louder, hopeful, but when he took another step inside the house, he could see what had happened to her. Her skull, on the left side, was collapsed inward, her hair sticky with blood. Her purple jaw didn’t line up with the rest of her head.
Bile rose in the back of Harry’s throat, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He took a step backward, felt the blood rushing from his head, and took hold of the door frame.
He touched his pocket, even though he knew he didn’t have a phone with him. He took one quick look into the foyer again, past Grace’s body, and saw a phone on a waist-high table. Keeping his eyes on the phone, he went to it. It was an old landline, squat like a toad, and he half expected it to not have a dial tone when he picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear.
Part 2
Black Water
Chapter 22
Now
Caitlin McGowan reread the e-mail for what must have been the fiftieth time. It was from Grace, her sister, and it had been sent probably just hours before she’d been murdered.
I know you’re going to freak out, C, but I’m in maine. I came up after I heard B died, just after we talked. I found an airbnb and drove up to go to the funeral. I just couldn’t stay in new york and pretend it wasn’t happening. I needed to see her.
Sorry, I know I’m not making sense. I’ll slow down. I’m exhausted and wired at the same time, and I’ve barely eaten today. B’s son Harry was just here. He came by to tell me that there’s now a suspect, that Alice told the police B was having an affair with someone in town, and she thinks this woman’s husband was the one who killed B. SHE’S MAKING IT UP, and that makes me think that Alice actually did have something to do with B’s death. First of all, B was not seeing someone else. I told Harry that and he looked at me like I was deluded, and you’re probably thinking the same thing. But he WASN’T. Alice made it up because she found a way to kill him, and now that the police know it wasn’t an accident, she needs someone else to blame.
The son is CUTE. He’s an age-appropriate B, right down to his pure emotional blockage. When I saw him at the funeral my knees literally buckled and then I saw the way Alice was hovering over him and I wanted to swoop in and save him. I went to the bookstore because I thought Alice might be there and I could see her up close but he was there, and then I was telling him I was looking for a job. I could tell he was into me, or maybe it was just that he could tell that I was lying about why I was there at the store. He texted me, and asked me out for drinks, like a real date. He told me all about his life, and I made up a story about coming to maine to get away from it all, but he didn’t believe it (you know I’m a lousy liar) so he came here tonight, and I told him EVERYTHING. And then all I could see was how he was blaming me for what happened to his father, that I started it all, and then I didn’t know if I was just projecting my own guilt onto him.
I feel like my skin is on fire I’m so anxious. I just decided to go to the police in the morning and tell them EVERYTHING. Who knows if they’ll care, but then I’ll be done with it. I have nothing to hide and no one to protect. And as soon as I do that, then I am hightailing it away from maine, and, look, I buried the lead (lede?): Can I come stay with you? Not forever, but for a few days. I’m done with new york, and I can’t stay here, and I really don’t want to move back in with mom, at least not r
ight now. I know you’ve told me in the past that I can come anytime but I still wanted to ask. I’ll be in boston tomorrow. You’re probably asleep but write me back as soon as you get this. xoxo g
Caitlin shut her laptop. She’d shared the e-mail with Detective Dixon, bringing it up on her phone at the station to show him earlier in the day. He’d read it, then asked Caitlin if she could forward it to him.
“What do you think about it?” she asked him.
“I wish she’d come to us earlier,” the detective said, and the words made Caitlin’s stomach hurt. It must have shown on her face, because he quickly continued, “But who knows if it would have made a difference? It’s not a smoking gun. Plenty of people have affairs and don’t end up being murdered.”
“But the fact that Grace got killed must mean that Bill Ackerson was as well, that it’s connected?”
“There’s no indication that Alice was even aware of your sister’s existence.”
“Why? Because she says she wasn’t?”
“Can I ask you some questions about Grace?” the detective said, hunching his shoulders forward like he had a kink in his back. Caitlin noticed that he had a scar above his right eye where his eyebrow didn’t grow.
“Sure,” Caitlin said, and settled back into the molded plastic chair. They were at a small conference table toward the back of the station, in a glass-encased room. There was a whiteboard that had been erased clean of all but a few random, smudged words: names, cell, separate. The detective had brought her here to show her photographs of Grace’s lifeless face for purposes of identification. Caitlin had received a frantic call from her mother early that morning, telling her that she’d just heard from the Kennewick Police Department, looking for identification of a body carrying a Michigan driver’s license in the name of Grace Ellen McGowan. Caitlin volunteered to drive up to Maine. During the hour-and-a-half drive, in a state of unreal shock, she’d alternated between bewildered grief and a desperate hope that it was all a misunderstanding. When the detective put the first photograph down in front of Caitlin, she had had a moment of pure relief wash over her. It wasn’t Grace. The face they were showing her was a young woman, but with fuller cheeks than Grace had, with puffier eyes.
All the Beautiful Lies Page 16
