“Hi, my friend rented a sailboat, a catamaran, last Wednesday, for an overnight trip. She lost a ring, and I wondered whether it had been found?”
“A ring? Can’t say that rings any bells,” he quips. It takes me a moment to get the joke. I smile. “Let me take a look out back. What kind of ring was it?”
“It’s a thin silver band with some sparkles.”
“A diamond ring, is it?”
“Fake diamonds, lots of them, all the way around. It’s not valuable, only sentimental.”
He turns away from me and opens a drawer at the back of the room.
“Nope, no ring. Which boat was it?”
I describe it to him. He goes back to the ledger.
“What name?”
“McCready. Carol McCready.”
He flicks a couple of pages back, runs a weathered finger down the page, then across the line.
“McCready?”
“That’s right.”
“Nope, there’s no McCready that’s taken out a boat last Wednesday. Sure that’s your friend’s name?”
“Could you check under the name Fern?”
He takes another look, his finger repeating its journey down the page. “Ah, looks like we have a winner,” he says. “Yep, Emma Fern. That your friend? How many names does she have?”
I expected it. I knew she would have done the same thing here, reserved the boat under my name. And yet, when I hear it from him, it still makes my legs buckle a little. My head is spinning, and I find myself gripping the counter.
“Different friend,” I say. “Can I take a look at the boat? In case it fell in there, somewhere?”
“I think we’d have seen it when we cleaned it, a shiny ring like that, but let me see what I can do.”
He goes over to the computer farther down the counter and presses a few keys, one at a time, looking back and forth between the screen and the keyboard.
“Ah nope, can’t help you there, the boat’s out today.”
“All right, thanks anyway.”
I turn to leave and he says, behind me, “That’s a shame about the ring. I’ll keep an eye out for it. They seemed like a nice couple, Mr. and Mrs. Fern.”
I turn back to face him. I’m clenching my jaw, my body, my fists, to stop myself from shaking.
“They came together?”
“Yes, when they rented the boat, your friend and her husband. When she dropped the key off, she said they’d been through a rough patch. She said they really wanted to get back on track. ‘On an even keel,’ I told her,” and he chuckles again. I gather there’s a boat-related joke in there somewhere.
I come back to the counter, and I ask, “Did she pay over the phone?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Sorry, it’s my friend. She’s confused about losing her things. She lost her wallet too after she came back, not here I mean, but later that day; maybe she lost the ring then, at the same time. It would be good to know what the last thing was that she bought on the card.”
He really shouldn’t be working in a customer service capacity, this man, because clearly he will swallow whatever lies any stranger tells him, no matter how preposterous. Sure enough, in the next instant, he’s back at the computer, typing one finger at a time.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just as I remembered.” He taps the screen with his finger.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“What is it?”
“It was paid for over the phone, yes.”
“Thank you.” Just as I thought.
“With Mr. Fern’s credit card. So you can tell your friend, her last purchase, it wasn’t here.”
I stand very still, I don’t breathe. Then, just as he asks, “Was there anything else?” I turn around silently and tell myself to put one foot in front of the other and get to the door.
“I hope it works out for your friend and her husband. She looked happy when she came back. She said the trip was a success. It’s good to take time out to talk over things, I always say.”
I’ve opened the door, I’m almost outside. “She’s got some sense of humor, your friend,” he says behind me. “I asked her if Mr. Fern had a good time and she laughed and said, ‘Oh, he did, until he got what was coming to him.’”
I feel a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. I think it’s called fear.
I leave the office, keeping my head down, and walk toward the pier anyway. I want to go back to where the boat was moored. I wasn’t really expecting the rental to be under Carol’s name at this point, I knew it would be under mine, but it still shocked me when I heard my name. But paying for it with Jim’s card? That’s a stroke of genius on her part. I won’t have to wait very long before I hear from the police. They’ll know exactly where I’ve been, since it’s also the last transaction on Jim’s credit card, and, as far as the rental office is concerned, I was with him.
I walk back up, past the spot where I leaned on the wooden barrier waiting for Carol. It’s even more crowded than it was that day, and yet it’s an easy line of sight along the pier. If you walked back this way, you couldn’t miss me. It’s not far, and there isn’t another way to go from the boat back to the office. So Carol must have come this way, and I didn’t see her. Granted, I had my head down most of the time, but still, I believe I would have spotted her on the way back. Unless she changed her outfit, wore a completely different hat, different set of sunglasses. I wouldn’t have been checking for a different outfit.
It floors me, the deliberate treachery that Carol has engaged in. It reeks of resentment and contempt. She must really hate me, to do this to me. Get me to do her dirty work, and then make sure I take the fall.
I make my way back to the LIRR and wait for the train. I feel like I’m outside myself, watching from above. I’m so frightened. The police are going to come for me and they’re going to put me in jail for murder. They’ll put me away for a very long time.
It occurs to me that this is what Carol is waiting for, before she goes to the cops. She’s waiting for Jim’s body to turn up, to be washed ashore. It’s bound to be easier to frame me for his murder if there’s a body.
All I can hope for is that the sharks were hungry that day.
I remind myself that I am one step ahead of Carol: she set me up to take the fall for Jim’s death, and as far as she’s concerned, all she has to do is report Jim missing and my downfall will soon follow.
I don’t think Carol knows how much I know at this point, but she must believe I have her phone.
Her phone. We exchanged texts on that phone. We discussed meeting times and places. When they haul me off to jail for the meticulous planning and carrying out of my husband’s murder, does she think I’m going to keep my mouth shut? How is she going to explain those texts?
I stored that phone, still wrapped in plastic, in a drawer in my bedroom. It’s still there when I go to retrieve it. Why wouldn’t it be? I unwrap it, consider for a moment whether I should wear gloves before I handle it, so as to keep Carol’s prints on it intact, but frankly it’s too hard to operate a touchscreen phone with gloves on. What difference does it make anyway? I’ve already held it.
It’s still on, but the battery is low. I’ll need to check if my charger will fit this one, otherwise it should be easy enough to purchase another.
I press the home button and I’m greeted with a grid of numbers. It’s password-protected. I angle the screen toward the window, trying to see whether there’s an obvious pattern of greasy fingerprints, but no such luck. I stare at it for a while, trying to remember if Carol ever mentioned anything I could use, like, Hey, guess what! It’s my birthday today, and I always use the first four digits of my birthday as a passcode! Isn’t that a coincidence?
I try “1 2 3 4,” but it doesn’t work. I try “1 1 1 1.” I even try my own passcode, and when I get the alert that says I only have three more attempts, I stop. I just stare at it.
She texted me on this. She used it to plan our little assig
nation. I have to see what’s on it, because it’s all I’ve got.
When it rings, shrill and loud, I drop it to the floor as if it were on fire.
“Sam?”
“Hey, Emma Fern, I’ve been thinking about you. I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.”
“Yes, sorry, I’ve been busy.” I pause. “I was just calling to . . . umm . . .”
“Everything okay?”
It’s reassuring to hear his voice. It grounds me. When Carol’s phone rang, I figured it must be her, so I didn’t answer it. And now I feel uneasy, alone in this apartment. I need to get out. I wonder what Sam would think if I asked to stay with him.
“Are you free tonight? I was wondering if we could do something together,” I ask.
“I’m having dinner with two of my closest friends. Come with me. Would you come along and meet them?”
“I’d love to join you and your friends for dinner.”
“That’s great, I’ll let them know, and shall I pick you up at seven?”
“Yes, please. Thanks, Sam.”
As I get ready for my evening out, it occurs to me what a big step it is, to take your lover to meet your closest friends. I guess Sam and I are moving forward, and it’s a nice feeling.
“Our first date,” he says, smiling, when I meet him downstairs. I point out to him that means we had sex not on the first date, but before our first date, and he laughs, blushing slightly.
“Tell me about your friends,” I say, when we’re in the taxi.
He puts his hand on my knee. “Well, Lisa and I went to college together, and—”
“Wait.” I sit up abruptly. “Do they know anything about me? What we’re doing together?”
“No, of course not. I told them your name, but that’s about it.”
I lean back. “Okay, sorry, keep going.”
“Lisa has her own marketing business. Don’t ask me what she does exactly, because I don’t know. Something to do with social media campaigns. Akil is a lawyer. They’ve been married for—oh, I don’t know exactly—almost twenty years.”
“Wow. Any kids?”
“One. Noel, who’s sixteen. No, wait, seventeen.”
Sam leans closer and tilts my head toward him, with one finger, then he kisses me. A long, sweet, gentle kiss. I put my head on his shoulder, trying not to think how strange this is. But I’m happy. When all this is over, I want to be with someone kind and loving, just like Sam. I want to fill my life with people, new friends, and reconnect with old ones. I can’t wait to meet Lisa and Akil.
Lisa is lovely and warm when she greets me. She hugs me, which I love.
“What a charming home,” I tell her, walking over to the big square windows. Their loft is on the corner of the building, so they have windows along two walls of the main room.
“Not much of a view I’m afraid, but it’s nice and light during the day.”
Akil however, just shakes my hand and it feels a little cold. Perfunctory, even. Especially after he hugs Sam, and the two of them engage in a ritual of backslapping and cheek-pinching. I hide my discomfort by scanning the large photo arrangement on the wall. They make me smile. They’re charming. There are a handful of wedding photos where the happy couple and two friends are jumping in the air on a beach somewhere. I realize suddenly that one of the goofy and happy friends is a very young Sam. I turn to look at him, smiling. He’s chatting animatedly, and I feel a warmth come over me. I want to get to know him better, and his friends too.
Going back to the photos, I realize with a start that among the many photos of Noel and his parents at various ages, there are many others with Sam, his arm around a petite woman with a dimpled smile. Happy snaps in a variety of settings. In one they’re at some kind of ski resort, the four of them together, grinning in the snow, arms on each other’s shoulders. In another they’re on a boat, champagne glasses held high. I don’t want to look at a boat, let alone at Sam’s ex-wife in a bikini.
I turn away and Akil catches my eye, but his face remains blank. He hands me a glass of white wine and indicates an armchair for me to sit on. Sam takes the other one and Akil and Lisa sit together on the couch.
“Is that my phone?” I hear it ringing in my bag, which I’ve set down next to the couch. I start to get up.
“There you go,” Lisa says, bending down to pick it up and handing it to me.
I pull the phone out, ready to turn it off.
“Everything okay?” Sam asks. I realize they’re all looking at me.
“Yes, why? It’s just a phone call.” It’s a private number again. I’ve had a number of missed calls like this over the last few days, displaying “private number” instead of the usual caller ID, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s Carol, trying to get in touch with me. I put it on silent.
“So, how did you two meet?” Akil asks.
I turn to Sam.
“At a book launch,” he says, and I breathe silently with relief, grateful for his quick thinking.
“That’s nice,” Lisa says. “Whose book was it?”
“Nicholas Hackett,” Sam replies, as I take a sip. “He’s a friend of Emma’s.”
I snort, spraying wine all over my hand. “Sorry, he’s not a friend exactly, just someone I know through my publisher.” Lisa hands me a small napkin so that I can wipe my hand.
“Oh, you told me about that book launch,” Akil says. “That was just the other day, wasn’t it?” he adds, looking at me.
I don’t know what to say. I just smile at him, feeling a crimson blush rising in my cheeks.
“Yep,” Sam says, “and we couldn’t be happier.” Which makes everybody laugh and lightens the moment.
The dinner is delicious, and I start to relax. I chat to Lisa about her work and then I hear Akil say to Sam, “We got a long email from Barbara the other day. Did Lisa tell you?” and Sam mumbles that yes, Lisa did, and I realize with a start that Barbara must be Sam’s ex-wife.
“She’s coming back next month. I can’t wait to see her; to hear all about her travels,” Akil continues.
Lisa shoots me an apologetic glance, and puts her hand on her husband’s arm.
“We’ve got tickets to Hamilton,” she says brightly, to everyone. “The musical. I have no idea what it’s like, but we got free tickets. Have you seen it, Emma?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“We’ll let you know if it’s any good. Maybe you and Sam would like to see it too.” She stands up and starts to clear the table.
“I’ll give you a hand,” I say, pushing back my chair.
“No, please, Emma. You’re our guest. Sit, sit. I’ll get the cheese plate.”
We watch her go into the small galley kitchen and Akil gets up, grabs a bottle of red wine from a rack nearby, and opens it.
“I was thinking maybe Barbara would like to come with us, Lisa,” he says to his wife, who has returned with the cheese. “It would be great to see her. She’ll be back by then.”
I put my glass down on the table, my jaw tight. “Is there a problem?” I ask Akil. Sam gives me a pleading look.
“No. Why? Something wrong?” Akil replies, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.
“I don’t understand why you asked me to come tonight. I don’t think—”
“We didn’t ask you, Emma, I’m sorry,” Akil says. “Sam did. Not me.”
I turn to Sam, who rubs a hand over his face, but remains silent.
“Akil, stop,” Lisa says, finally.
“Why?” He turns to me again. “I’m sorry, Emma, it’s nothing personal.”
I smirk. “Really?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t throw away sixteen years of marriage just like that.” He clicks his fingers, looking at Sam. “You two have only just met. I don’t want to—”
“Never mind,” I say, standing up. I turn to Lisa, who looks crestfallen. “Thank you, Lisa. The dinner was delicious.”
Sam gets up too, thank God, because for a moment I
thought I’d be leaving by myself, leaving the three of them behind to pick over the remains of my total humiliation.
When we’re outside in the balmy air, I don’t even look at him. “You shouldn’t have brought me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You just sat there pretending none of this was happening. You made me feel like a complete idiot, Sam.”
“I was waiting for it to blow over. He would have let it go, Emma, I swear.”
A few days ago I was gushing over him like a schoolgirl, but not now. Now I regret our intimacy. I should have waited until after the novel is finished. I don’t want to let anything get in the way of that novel.
Sam hails a taxi and says, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
He opens the door, and before stepping inside, I turn to him and say, “No, I’ll go home on my own. I’ll you call tomorrow.” And I close the door.
The apartment is dark and silent when I get back. I go straight to my bedroom and turn on a lamp. I throw my coat over a chair, not bothering to hang it up, and I sit on the bed and cry. My cell phone rings in my purse, but I know it’s Sam. He has called three times already, but I let it go to voicemail each time. I don’t want to talk to him yet.
I’m so tired, and so confused. Not once did Sam speak up to stop his friend from embarrassing me. I feel ridiculous. Did I overreact by leaving so abruptly? I don’t know. But right now, I can’t bear to see Sam again, and as I drop my head in my hands, feeling so stupid that I engaged in an emotional relationship with this man, all I can think of is: How am I going to find another ghostwriter now?
My phone rings again, so I get it out of my purse and turn it off. I catch sight of the other phone, Carol’s phone, blinking on the chair. I go and pick it up. It’s almost out of battery, so I plug it into my own charger. I’m about to turn it off too, but then, I don’t know why, almost without thinking I try one last password: Jim’s. I know his password just as he knows mine: “0 1 1 2.” The first four Fibonacci numbers, or so he says.
After He Killed Me (The Emma Fern Series Book 2) Page 19
