I hope this letter reaches you, but I don’t even know if it will. Your mother’s being really nice by the way. I went to look for you that night. I wanted to fix things, I drove everywhere, I couldn’t find you. I ended up at the Sundial, I wanted to see if I could spot your car from the top. I know it sounds crazy, but I was completely freaked out. I couldn’t figure where you’d gone. It kills me that I still don’t know what happened!
I’ve been staying with Alex, she and Meg are really worried about you, too. Meg called the police station. They said you’re not allowed anything for now besides visits from family or your lawyer. I swear I’d be there every second if I could, I’ll do anything I can to help you.
Anyway so we came up with a plan, that I’ll write letters and give them to your mother and see if she can sneak them in. And if this one doesn’t reach you I’ll just write another one, I’ll write a hundred, whatever it takes.
Do you remember when you wrote me that letter after we met? I thought about it this morning. I woke up so happy. I had dreamed you were here with me, we woke up in bed like we used to. We both got dressed and ate breakfast. It was so so nice. Then I woke up.
I’m so worried about you, I’m engulfed. I don’t care what happened. Not that you can’t handle anything, I know you can but don’t forget how truly special you are. You’re a man, the best one I’ve ever met, and I’m here for you, even if you don’t need me to be. I want to be with you so badly. I think about you every second.
I feel so alone. I probably shouldn’t write things like that to you, I should only send you positive things, but I have no one else I can tell, I really don’t. I still don’t even think you’ll get this letter but who knows. I think not withholding from you is the most important thing right now.
Don’t worry, I’ll be strong for you, I just want the emptiness to end. I don’t have any idea what you’re going through, and I don’t know what part my father has in all of this, but I am so, so sorry for anything he’s done, anything I did. I know whatever you did, you did for me, for us and our future. That makes it so much worse. But I love you to the point that it’s really overwhelming me right now!
Being with you is the best feeling in the world. Being without you is the worst feeling in the world.
God I am really depressing in this letter.
If you can send any kind of message to me please do it but don’t feel obligated. I love you. You’re in all my thoughts.
Love,
Emily
* * *
The work begins: Monday afternoon, Martin rides shotgun on the face-to-face. The kid recognizes him, naturally, and is spooked off the bat. But doesn’t say anything until the attorney finishes with how a discovery phase works.
“I don’t get why he’s here,” Nick interrupts. “I thought you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. We’re both on your side,” the lawyer says. “As weird as that seems.”
“I retired,” Martin says. “I’m here in an unofficial capacity. I care about your case.”
Which is true, actually. Two hours earlier, he’d said as much to the lawyer. They met for lunch. Maria Brenner. Small frame, big hair, cheap suit, pricey glasses. With a pebbly veneer of acne beneath her makeup.
She ordered for both of them. He hadn’t even opened the menu yet. “Tuna melts with chips,” she told the waiter. She turned to Martin. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you? Gluten-free?”
“Fish is fine.”
“Oh boy. So do I call you Marty?”
“It’s Martin.”
“Thin skin, I love it.” She laughed. “I’m going to call you New Jersey. Honestly, there’s nothing else in this place worth eating. Call me Brenner.”
Parents from Mexico, Monterrey, who currently reside outside Boston, retired, in panting expectation of grandchildren. Dad had been an engineer. Mom was a pharmacist. Brenner and her little sister were first-generation, so her sister was the lucky one who got to be the screwup, whereas Brenner, firstborn, needed to please. For career, one of her grandfathers had been a judicial clerk, he’d sent her books all her life, a box every couple months, with a sheet of reading instructions. Philosophy. Poetry. Law. It wasn’t until ninth grade she figured out he was dismantling his personal library, to transmit his education to hers.
“Of course I don’t remember ten percent of it.”
“Maria, tell me—”
“It’s Brenner, please. Even the fiancé doesn’t call me Maria.”
“Got it. And congratulations.”
“Yeah, I never get that. People want to congratulate me, they should wait and see if I go through with it.”
He’d laughed. “Is there a problem?”
She smirked. “Are you kidding me? He runs a Honda dealership, he doesn’t hate my cats. I’m not stupid. What were you going to say?”
“The point is,” Martin said, “am I the only one who thinks there’s something seriously wrong with this kid’s story?”
“No, New Jersey, you’re not.”
At that point, she only knew what she’d heard and read, she said, so she wanted to know his impression. He told her he thought the confession was a crock. She said she was still waiting to get ahold of it from the sheriff’s office. Which was when Martin pulled out a thumb drive from his pocket.
She spun it around with a finger. Then tucked it away.
“Remind me again what you’re doing up here.”
“I’m on vacation,” he said.
“You’re retired. Retirement’s not vacation.”
“I’m sentimental. Come find me at Christmas. The kid’s not your guy.”
“Yeah, and shit happens. So why him? Why now?”
He’d had enough of the inquiry. “Here’s the thing. You’re going to do your investigation no matter what. Which means you need someone to dig around. Ideally pull noses without local relationships getting in the way.”
Not to mention that maybe he needed a couple weeks away from home.
Brenner shrugged. She could tell there was more. “It’s appealing, obviously. The chief who took the kid’s confession now says the kid’s innocent, that’s pretty solid jury appeal. You are willing to say that in court.”
“Of course.”
“Small town, all the tourist dollars, the prosecution wants a conviction fast and clean. Trust me, they think they’ve got a slam dunk. The woman who runs point, we’re friends, we get dinner. But she’ll come down on this hard.”
“Here’s what I want,” Brenner added. “You work for me. On my orders. I don’t need you riding around wild.”
“I get it,” he said. “One-way street.”
Then she stared at him. A long stare. Few normal police officers dismantle homicides. Definitely not ones with captain bars. She bit off a chunk of sandwich and nodded at her plate a couple times and swallowed.
“First thing they’ll try is to get you removed, conflict of interest. I’ll take care of that. The only thing that took place in New Jersey was the car crash, we should be fine. After that, who knows?”
“They’re going to hate you,” she said after a second.
Later, in the room, he hunches his shoulders while Brenner walks the kid through all the jargon. Introductions. Arraignment. How the next couple weeks play out. The kid can’t sit still. He interrupts with specific demands: he wants pen and paper, he wants his mother to be granted twice-daily visits. He looks even skinnier if that’s possible. Neck so transparent it could be a flower petal.
“Like I said, Mr. Krug is going to be assisting with the investigation,” Brenner says. “We’re allowed to reinvestigate everything the police looked at, to see what they got wrong.”
“But why’s a cop doing it?”
“Not a cop,” Martin says. “I don’t even have a badge anymore.”
Not true, in fact.
“Whatever.”
“Nick,” he says, “I believe you’re innocent.”
But the kid won’t even look him in the
eye.
When they leave, he gets an uneasy feeling, an old feeling. The kid’s got too much fear. Of the wrong kind. To the point that it’s unwarranted in some way, given what Martin knows. Which means there must be things he doesn’t know. Big things.
Ten minutes later, he and Brenner stand on the sidewalk, chatting, about to go their separate ways, when a Dodge Charger slows to a stop. The window rolls down. The sheriff stares at them a moment, lips in a single straight line.
“Chief Krug. What are you doing here?”
“Retired, actually. It’s just Martin now.”
“Well, that was quick.”
“You’re telling me.”
“So, what brings you to Claymore?”
“Same as anybody,” he says. “I needed a vacation.”
“That’s what he told me,” says Brenner.
The sheriff’s mouth stays fixed.
“Ms. Brenner,” he says. “I take it you two are working together.”
“Mr. Krug’s helping with our investigation.”
“Well that sounds like perhaps a conflict,” the sheriff says.
“Your colleagues agree with you. We think they’ll change their minds.”
Martin asks, “You don’t play racquetball, do you, Sheriff?”
“Try the Parks Department. Building over there on the corner,” the sheriff says after a moment. Then stares through them both before he drives away.
* * *
First, how do you scare a middle-aged woman who’s already panicky by default, inclined to paranoia, self-mistrust—and probably too smart for her own good—or quite singularly stupid—also prepared by life thus far to counter the littlest problems with exaggerated primal reactions, sharpened tooth and yellow nail, despite the high manner she’d been raised to uphold—how do you scare a woman like that witless?
Stick her only child in jail for murder.
Second, it’s not funny, nothing’s funny. Each night is a contest of nightmares. All day long the landline rings. She feels trapped in her old house—she wants it sold. Anywhere she goes, people glare. Her feet cramp, her breasts ache that week, the discomfort carries her mind at bewildering moments to her life’s other slow-motion abandonments—her deceased parents, the husband who vanished.
But this is all so much worse for being … how much worse? She can’t begin to comprehend.
The doorbell screeches. It can’t be a student. She canceled all her lessons that week. Suzanne peers out the window—it’s the girl, Emily. She forgot completely. Coincidentally arriving at the exact same hour that the girl used to take her piano lesson.
She pulls her in with no words, a hug, tells her to make herself comfortable. The girl sits on the couch. A cotton dress over jeans. Composed, but impatient.
Suzanne offers iced tea, coffee, herbal tea, LaCroix—wouldn’t Scotch be more appropriate?—and at the same time can’t help but wonder what the girl knows that she does not.
“Tea, please,” says Emily.
“Sugar or milk?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Toussaint.”
Kitchen, kettle, stove. And a quick twist for her nerves. And one for the road. The kettle dings. She doesn’t hate the girl, in reality she admires her—to have such presence at sixteen. It’s obvious her feelings for Nicky are real. The age difference notwithstanding, she even likes them together. But the girl’s not her concern—except as a source of information.
She holds out the mug. Her own glass clacks with ice.
“We need to be strong for him. I know it’s hard.”
“It’s not,” the girl says emphatically. “I mean, I know. I’m being strong.”
“Of course,” says Suzanne. To soothe both of them. “And I know how it sounds. But I do think it’s worth saying out loud. Right now, we’re all he’s got.”
“I know that,” the girl says forcefully, and takes the mug.
Suzanne lowers herself to the settee and smokes. The poor girl’s trapped in the emergency, she doesn’t know how yet to put on a brave face—and to figure this out actually pushes Suzanne into a calmer, more empathetic state, because it makes sense when the girl’s so young. And she needs at least a few things in her life right now to make sense. You can’t just yell all day. Don’t they have things in common? Both of them conscripted by the situation in which they find themselves. Suzanne half smiles. This poor girl. Why love a boy when he can vanish?
“Let’s start over,” she says quietly. “You’re the one who’s closest to him. Strange as it is for me to say it, Nicky’s going to look to you first. Can you do that, can you support him?”
“Mrs. Toussaint, I just said—”
“I know you’re struggling, Emily, we’re all struggling. But you can do that, right? Please, call me Suzanne. May I ask you a favor?”
“What is it?”
“So now, when you write to him,” she says, “I want you to remind him that he has us, all of us, for anything. He needs to know there’s a community out here, all right? He doesn’t listen to me.”
The girl stands. Putters around.
“How long is this going to take?”
“What. Right now?”
“All of this.”
“I don’t know. How would I know?” She adds, less defensively, “We don’t know what happened, do we?”
“No.”
“Because if you did know anything…”
“What?”
Suzanne leans forward, arms on knees, one woman to another—but the girl’s halfway across the room, staring into the kitchen.
“Emily, you have to be honest with me. If you know anything, about what happened that night between the two of you.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“But maybe Nick said something. He must’ve told you something.”
“He didn’t,” the girl says darkly.
“We don’t have to talk about it. Just walk me through it again. For my own peace of mind.”
“We were hanging out.”
“At your house. It’s okay, I’m not a prude.”
The girl flinches. “He walked out. He just got up and left.”
“But why?”
“He had something to do. That’s all.”
“And then came everything else,” Suzanne says.
“Yeah.”
“But before that, you’re at the house, you’re hanging out. You’re sure nothing unusual happened.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. We’re all adults here,” she adds, then realizes that’s not true at all. Why must she cede ground to a sixteen-year-old? “But I don’t understand, Emily. There must have been something. To make him run out like that.”
“He didn’t ‘run out.’”
“But something must have made him leave.”
“There wasn’t.”
“There has to be!”
The room’s silent in the aftermath. The girl puts down her tea, too hot to drink.
“I’m going to go now.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“I need to go.”
“Well, if you say so.” Suzanne rolls up her sleeves. She wants to laugh. She wants to claw her own ears off. “This was good,” she says woodenly, and automatically walks the girl to the front door, like she’s a student who just finished her lesson. “So the plan is just stick to what we’re doing. No matter what anyone says. Nicky did nothing wrong. We need to trust. Trust in the law, and the truth. It’ll be hard. It’ll be really hard. But then this will all be over.”
But the girl doesn’t respond and doesn’t move a muscle when Suzanne embraces her. So she’s the one who’s trembling.
* * *
Dear Nick,
Please write me if you can but I understand if you can’t. Your mother says you’re doing okay. It makes me feel better. I worry about you but honestly I’m really happy that you’re able to receive
these letters, it makes a huge difference to my own state of mind. Love and love 4EAE.
I don’t know what you hear in there but they say you killed two people and drove them to New Jersey. We know that’s insane, your mom and I talk about it all the time. You have a ton of people out here who support you and know that’s all lies. We love you so much. We are your champions and we’re sure you did the right thing no matter what happened, we can’t wait for everyone to know the truth.
I think about that night a lot. It drives me crazy when I hear people talk. I tell myself, you need to be strong and not stupid, imagine how hard it is for Nick.
I don’t really share my feelings with other people, I don’t want to know what they think. I just walk around like a rock. Alex and I watched TV last night. They didn’t have anything new, they just talked about all the stuff that’s bullshit. We turned it off and promised not to watch again or listen or look into anything online. It just makes me so mad. What happened to innocent before guilty? Meg had a good point, she said that a small town like ours is full of idiots, but to expect people who are idiots to behave not like idiots is being just as stupid.
I never wanted to get you in any trouble. I’m so sorry. No matter what don’t lose hope, and please don’t worry about me. I’ve moved full-time to Alex’s. Father hasn’t said anything about it but I’m not surprised. Whatever you do, please don’t think badly about me, all I do is think about you. I love you so much. Soon this will all be over and we will do exactly as we planned.
Love, love, love,
Emily
* * *
By the time she met Nick, Emily had known Alex Rosenthal for a little over a year and a half. When they first became friends, Alex was a junior, a popular-unpopular who floated between groups. Emily was a freshman. To adjust from middle school wasn’t easy. Classes were much more difficult. The schedule confused her. She got tongue-tied and flustered. Girls were snobbier. Boys were more unpredictable, also more predictable. Eleven hundred kids total, and she felt like everyone was staring at her, like she was an exotic animal, to be viewed behind protective glass. Even her backpack was wrong.
The Last Kid Left Page 6
