And then it was time for the cross-examination. The DA started kind, gentle, even. He ran her through the events of that night. Asked her a million questions. Pointed out she had a history of violence. Postulated that Aubrey had been drunk, so drunk and out of control that in a fit of rage she’d murdered Josh and didn’t remember doing so.
She told him wearily she hadn’t been drinking, not until the G&T at the bar.
With a smile that said he was about to nail shut the lid of her coffin, he said he had just been informed of two new witnesses, waiters who claimed they’d seen her drinking the bachelorette party’s signature pink piña coladas.
Her defense attorney quickly raised a polite objection, pointed out Aubrey had a severe, well-documented allergy to coconut. He calmly explained that a woman in the grips of both a violent drunk and anaphylactic shock could hardly manage to kill her husband and disappear his body off the face of the earth so effectively that no trace had been found outside of the blood in their living room, which was ten miles away. Without a car, without a taxi arriving at the hotel to take her, without a friend who would admit to driving her to her assignation, and without an EpiPen to counteract the effects of the coconut. It was just too preposterous to imagine.
The jury agreed.
If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.
It had always been a long shot, a circumstantial case. They simply didn’t have any proof.
The DA, who’d outkicked his coverage with his Hail Mary piña colada accusation, was forced to withdraw the charge of first-degree homicide. He tried to get Aubrey to plead to manslaughter. She refused. A not-guilty verdict was returned in under an hour, the jury thanked for their service, and Aubrey sent blinking into the light of freedom with her reputation sullied but not entirely smeared black.
Today
Aubrey stretched, curled her legs underneath her. “And that’s the whole story. Linda gave me my job back, I endured the whispers and stares, and then, people . . . forgot.” She played with her now empty teacup. “I never did,” she whispered.
Chase leaned over and gave her a supportive kiss. “Troublemaker.”
He had a knack for making her feel less pitiful about the whole thing. “I guess I was.”
“What did you do when you were a kid, to get into so much trouble?”
But Aubrey heard something, looked up. “What in the name of God?”
CHAPTER 24
Daisy
Today
Daisy stared at the gaunt face in the mirror and wondered when she’d gotten so very old. She had a tennis game this morning, then an appointment with her lawyer to finalize the paperwork for contesting Josh’s life insurance policy. It had started as a simple $50,000 underwrite. Something the bank suggested she and Tom do for Josh while he was a child. He could cash it out when he was thirty-five, and it drew a bit of interest each year.
Two weeks before he disappeared—died, Daisy, died—Josh had changed it to term life, upped the policy to $5 million. And put Aubrey’s name on the beneficiary line.
Five million dollars. And he’d left it to that tramp. Well, she wasn’t going to get any of it if Daisy had her way.
Daisy needed the money. It could give her an escape. A divorce. A new life in a different city where no one would recognize her, no one would know that she was the mother of a missing boy. Where no one would talk behind her back and be solicitous to her face to the point of arrogance. Where no one would pity her.
Tom wouldn’t fight her. He’d probably be relieved. They hadn’t been happy for a long, long time, and Josh’s disappearance—No, Daisy. His death. Josh’s death—had made things that much worse. Tom didn’t approve of the fact that Daisy felt she should keep the money. They’d gone rounds over it, but Daisy would always have the last word.
“Josh would have wanted me to have it,” she told him. “After everything I’ve done for him, he would want me to be happy. He made me the beneficiary, after all. It was a technical mistake by the bank that put that girl’s name in my place. We have to correct the mistake, is all.”
Oh, screw Tom and his judgment. Josh was her son, hers, not his.
She slipped into the kitchen and grabbed an apple and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She tried not to think about the vodka bottle in the freezer, just inches away from her hand. But the second her consciousness acknowledged it, her brain remembered the feeling of numbness, the oblivion it could bring, how good the chilled bitter liquor felt sliding down her throat, and she could think of nothing else.
No one needed to know.
She opened the freezer, pulled the bottle from its shelf, and took a belt. The glass was freezing on her hands and lips. She took one more shot for good measure, let the strong taste flood her tongue. She swallowed, then raced back upstairs and brushed her teeth. Wouldn’t do to have the women at the club smell vodka on her breath, though God knew how many of them were doing the same thing right now.
Hypocrites. They were all a bunch of flaming hypocrites.
She slammed back down the stairs, grabbed her bag, and threw it in the back of the CLK. The bag tipped sideways, dumping yellow balls and her locker key on the floor. She’d worry about it when she got there.
She whipped the car out of the garage and headed toward Richland Country Club. Spring was beautiful in this part of town, with the wide, hilly lawns, the centuries-old trees leafing out, languorously shading the huge, multilevel brick homes. Radnor Lake was only a few miles away. She used to take Josh there, to walk around the beautiful nature preserve. He’d hold her hand and pick up rocks for her to admire.
She wasn’t going to escape the memories of her son this morning, so she let them in and wiped her eyes carefully when she was finished.
She was nearly to the club when her cell beeped. She hadn’t noticed that there was a message—sometimes they got no reception in the house. She played the voicemail: Bobbie, her tennis date, had to cancel. She’d just gotten an emergency call from her daughter, who needed her to go babysit.
Well.
Now Daisy had the morning free. Most everyone else she knew was attending church services—that’s what people who still had something to believe in did in this city on Sunday mornings—so there wouldn’t be a pickup game to be had at the club, not yet. Tom would still be on the course, playing his weekly round with his buddies. She had no one. No one to be with. No one to count on.
She could go to the lake, take a walk around.
But even as she thought it, she aimed the car downtown. Ten minutes later, almost without thinking, she ended up on West End, across from Centennial Park, in front of one of her favorite restaurants, Tin Angel. Almost without thinking, because one small part of her knew that they had a lavish Sunday brunch with pitchers of delicious mimosas.
The valet greeted her like she was an old friend, even though she’d never seen him before in her life. There was a line—there was always a line; Tin Angel didn’t take reservations—but she bypassed the waiting horde and went to the hostess stand.
“I’m just going to the bar,” she said.
The girl, long brown hair with a deep purple streak, and innocent, so innocent, smiled winningly and waved her through.
The first glass of chilled champagne and fresh squeezed orange juice went down smoothly. The second followed on its heels like it was afraid to be parted from its friend.
When had this become her life?
She was getting light-headed, but she poured a third glass.
“Can I get you something to eat, ma’am?” The bartender must have noticed she was weaving in her seat a bit; he had his arms crossed disapprovingly.
The idea of food made her want to vomit, but she played along. “Just some fruit and toast, please.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Just being friendly. No eggs?
We have a great omelet on special today. Goat cheese and arugula.”
Arugula. Arugularugularugala.
Pull yourself together, Daisy.
“No, thank you. Just the fruit.”
When he turned away to put the order in, she hurriedly drank the rest of the mimosa, tossed a twenty on the bar, and left.
The valet had put her car in the slot closest to the door, well aware that if something happened to an expensive vehicle on his watch he’d be paying for it out of his own pocket. She took the keys from him in exchange for a five, got in the car, and locked the doors.
She hadn’t liked the way the bartender was looking at her.
As if he’d known.
The day was fine, the traffic somewhat light. She had another hour to kill before meeting her lawyer—he being one of those tethered to the confines of the pulpit on any given Sunday. She put the car in gear and pulled away, headed down West End toward Lower Broad, toward the river.
The Sunday morning streets teemed with visiting tourists, almost all families. It hurt her, stabbed her insides to see them walking along with their children in tow, so happy, so carefree. She wanted to scream at them: Don’t you know they could die? Don’t you know they can be stolen from you? How dare you not be worrying about keeping them safe?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to precede your children into death.
She consoled herself with the thought that sometime soon she’d have a hefty check in her hand. She’d fill a bag, gas up the car, and head onto the open road, without a word to anyone. She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go, only knew she wanted away. Away from Nashville, from her memories, her very life.
Daisy fumed and plotted and dreamed and wound around the downtown streets—Broadway, Church, State, Union, Broadway again, left on First—then turned left again and headed back out toward the capitol, careful to drive slowly and responsibly by the police station on 2nd Avenue.
She somehow ended up behind Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. She’d driven in a big circle, and realized she was only a few streets away from Aubrey’s house.
This was all Aubrey’s fault.
Daisy turned off Blakemore onto 25th Street. She had no intention of stopping. But what would it hurt to drive past? Little bitch probably wasn’t home anyway. She was probably at brunch with her own group of friends. Daisy had seen her last week, with that woman who owned the coffee shop, their heads together, laughing over a private joke. Aubrey had moved on.
Aubrey’s house was at the end of West Linden, where it met the plain dead-end street. It should have been a cul-de-sac, but the builders had gotten lazy and there was no half-moon to delineate it, so the street ended abruptly in a dirty guardrail. Daisy turned down the road and could see the shabby little bungalow. Its dormer windows stared at her accusingly.
Aubrey was sitting on the front porch, the dog—Josh’s dog—frolicking off his lead in the dormant, nubby grass. There was a man sitting next to her.
Daisy drove closer. Her heart sped up. The way the man sat, his hands loose between his legs, his shoulders cocked forward, his head titled to one side . . .
Josh!
Daisy floored the accelerator. The Mercedes, unhappily goosed, leaped forward, and Daisy struggled to keep it in check. She went for the brake but missed somehow. The car continued to accelerate. Daisy held on tight to the steering wheel, her mind not moving fast enough to force her hands to turn it, just so overwhelmingly happy he’d come back at last, before she slammed across the curb, over the sidewalk, and directly into the corner of Aubrey’s house.
CHAPTER 25
Aubrey
Aubrey saw the car coming, recognized the lashes on the headlights, realized who was driving, all in the fragment of a moment before the car jumped the curb and barreled directly into her living room. There was no slow motion, no dawning realization that the accident was going to occur. The car appeared one second and smashed into the side of the house the next.
Winston began to bark, howling and frantic, and something mechanical in Aubrey kicked in. “Call 9-1-1,” she shouted at Chase, then ran around to the driver’s side of the car. The air bag had deployed. Aubrey could see Daisy leaned back into the seat, eyes closed, mouth agape, blood streaming from her nose. She was not wearing a seat belt.
Her hands were deathly still in her lap, and Aubrey was filled with foreboding. She tugged at the door, but it was locked. She ran to the passenger side—it, too, was secure.
Chase was talking into his phone, looking over at her wildly. She ran the ten feet back to him.
“Tell them we need an ambulance. She’s hurt really bad. The doors are locked, I can’t get in to help her.”
The car was still running, the purr of the engine altered, sounding more like a spitting, snarling beast. Daisy’s foot was jammed on the gas; the tires tried to gain purchase, grating the grass beneath them into a muddy mess.
“Hammer?” he shouted at her.
“In the garage.”
Chase tossed the phone to her. “Stay on the line, they want to hear more details.”
He ran back in the house. Aubrey put the phone to her ear.
“Please hurry,” she said. “I think Daisy’s badly hurt.”
“Do you know the woman in the car, ma’am?”
“Yes. Her name is Daisy Hamilton. She used to be my mother-in-law.” Aubrey heard the thin wail of sirens bleeding into the air. “They’re coming, I can hear them.”
“They’re only a minute away, ma’am.”
Nashville. An ambulance was always only moments away.
Chase dashed out of the house and down the stairs toward the car. He had a hammer in his hand.
“Wait, Chase.”
He glanced back up at her, and she pointed over his shoulder. The heavy grinding of the fire truck’s engine preceded the vehicle, and a moment later the wail of the siren grew to a fever pitch, and they pulled onto the street.
Neighbors were popping out of houses like groundhogs, eager to see what was happening. Aubrey heard murmurs and shouts and barely noticed that Chase had ignored her and plunged the hammer through the passenger window. The glass shattered, showering Daisy with small shards. She looked like she was covered in diamonds. Chase reached in and pressed the button that controlled the engine. The engine cut off, the growling stopped, and just as quickly, a fireman pulled him away from the car.
An ambulance rolled into the street, along with a white-and-blue patrol car.
Aubrey took Winston by the collar and dragged the panicky dog into the house.
“It’s okay, baby,” she crooned. “It’s all okay.”
She caught a glimpse of the living room. The car hadn’t torn a complete hole but had wrecked the wall. The lamp had fallen on the floor, and the sofa was five feet into the center of the small room.
“Stay, Winston.”
She went back out onto the steps. Chase returned to Aubrey’s side and put his arm around her shoulders. She couldn’t help it; she moved in closer. It felt so good to have someone hold onto her again.
They watched the melee. Daisy was fitted with a hard neck brace, brought gently from the car on a backboard, set carefully on a stretcher. Her eyes were still shut, the front of her tennis whites covered in thick red blood.
A patrol officer came to the steps and barked, “What happened here?”
Aubrey had to drag her attention away from Daisy—they were putting something down her throat and attaching IVs to her veins—to the officer.
“Is she going to be okay?”
The officer softened a bit. “They’re doing all they can. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know what she was doing here. She never comes over here. There was no reason for her to be here anymore.”
Chase tightened his hold on Aubrey’s shoulder.
She was babbling, the shock of the accident taking over. He spoke in her stead.
“The car came flying up the street, directly into the side of the house. She didn’t brake, didn’t slow down at all. Almost as if she was aiming at it.”
The patrol officer frowned. “You sure she wasn’t aiming at you and changed her mind at the last minute?”
“That could have been the case,” Chase said gravely.
Daisy disappeared into the back of the ambulance. Aubrey tore her gaze from the scene and looked back at the officer.
“No. No, not at all. She was going too fast, the car was flying. She just gunned it and went into the yard. She lost control. She had to be going sixty or so when she hit.”
The cop turned to Chase. “Sir, you killed the engine?”
“I did. I was afraid the engine might blow. I could smell gas.”
“Wouldn’t have happened like that, but good thinking regardless.” Aubrey saw the cop’s nameplate and felt a small a spike of fear. B. Parks. God, was he related to that asshole who’d arrested her? It was a small town—he must be. Her wrists started to itch; just the thought of the cuffs on his waist made her jumpy.
He was talking to her again. “You know the woman driving the vehicle, ma’am? Dispatch said she’s your mother-in-law?”
“Ex. My ex-mother-in law. Her name is Daisy Hamilton.”
“And your name is . . . ?”
“Aubrey Hamilton.”
The officer started to write in his reporter’s notebook, then stopped and glanced at her curiously. Aubrey recognized that look. She’d been on its receiving end many a time.
She closed her eyes for a brief second and sighed. “Yes. That Aubrey Hamilton. Do we have a problem?”
“Aubrey,” Chase said, a note of warning in his voice.
The officer shook his head. “No problem at all. I just need to get a couple of people on the horn.”
“Like who?” She heard the edge in her voice. Daisy had run the car into her house, and already people were starting to act like Aubrey had done something to cause it. A ripple of aggravation drove through her system. Something in her expression gave her away because the officer leaned forward with his hand on his weapon.
No One Knows Page 13
