by Margot Hunt
“Okay, maybe I deserve that.”
“Maybe?”
“But we need to figure out what we’re going to do. We need a plan.”
“What sort of plan are you talking about?”
“What do you think? A plan for getting away with this. For what we did.”
“My plan was to never come under police suspicion. You blew that when you decided to give the police a false alibi.” I gulped my wine, barely tasting it.
“I don’t think it’s necessarily as bad as you seem to think. Won’t the police assume I gave them the false alibi to cover up the...?” Will trailed off.
“Your affair? You were able to do it. You should be able to say the word.”
“Fine. My affair. But if they thought I seemed guilty, they’ll assume it was about that and not about Robert.”
I shrugged. He actually had a valid point, but I was too angry to agree with him. “I don’t know what the police think. I wasn’t there.”
“Do you think they’ll subpoena my phone records?”
“They’d need probable cause to get the subpoena. I don’t think they have it, at least not from what you’ve told me. But again, I wasn’t there. I don’t know what you said, or how it came across.”
“I know you think I shouldn’t have talked to them,” Will said. “But they already suspected me of being guilty of something. I had to give them a reason for that, other than the murder.”
“What murder?” Charlie appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. He was wearing plaid pajamas, his hair was still wet from the shower, which made him look even younger and more vulnerable than usual.
Will and I exchanged a startled, concerned look. How much had Charlie heard? My anger was making me careless.
“Nothing,” Will said, putting his hand on Charlie’s damp head.
“We were talking about a story on the news,” I added.
“A murder,” Charlie said.
“Yes,” I said, exchanging another quick glance with Will.
“Who was killed?”
“No one you know,” Will said. “No one we know, either.”
“You were yelling,” Charlie said, looking at me reproachfully.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Well, not yelling exactly, but you were using your angry voice. Are you mad at Dad?”
I looked at my son, who was wide-eyed with concern. I remembered being his age, remembered my own parents fighting—my mother acid-toned, my father grim—and how even though they were never violent, it was like the very air in the house became unsettled. As though the conflict was something tangible that could seep into every corner of every room. Charlie had been through enough lately. He didn’t need to deal with hearing Will and me argue, no matter how angry I was at Will.
“No,” I said, softening my tone. “Dad and I are fine. I was just upset about what I heard on the news, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Charlie looked relieved. “So what are we having for dinner?”
“Pasta. I was just about to start cooking.”
“Can I play on the tablet until it’s ready?”
“Fine,” I said, smiling at him. “But only until dinner, then no more screen time for the rest of night.”
“Yes!” Charlie held up a triumphant fist and hurried off before I could change my mind.
Will lingered, looking awkward. “Do you want help with dinner?”
“No,” I said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the ingredients for pasta carbonara. “I don’t. And we should probably be careful not to argue in front of Charlie.”
“I don’t want to argue at all.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” I pulled out a chopping board and began to mince shallots. “The person in the wrong never does.”
Will put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window, which looked out on our back deck and the yard beyond.
“I know I’m in the wrong,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done it. And I’m not going to make excuses for my behavior. But I will make an observation... We haven’t been happy for a long time.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“No, I know you do. I’m just trying to say...this didn’t happen in a vacuum.”
“See, that’s what pisses me off,” I said, struggling to keep my voice low and calm so that Charlie wouldn’t hear. “It didn’t ‘just happen,’ in a vacuum or otherwise. You made a choice. The wrong choice. Marriage is hard. Everyone knows that. It’s hard to stay connected when you’re dealing with parenting and work and all the crap that life throws at you. But there were things we could have done to improve it. Marriage therapy or trying to spend more time together, getting away for a romantic weekend occasionally. You didn’t even try.”
“And you did?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged helplessly, staring down at the cutting board. “Maybe not as much as I should have. Probably not at all.” I looked up then, pointing the knife in his direction. “But at least I didn’t start sleeping with someone else.”
“I’m not defending that.”
“Because it’s indefensible.”
“Yes. And because I’m sorry.” Will hesitated. “Do you think this is something we can move past? Will you be able to forgive me at some point?”
I looked at my husband’s tired, careworn face. The stress from the past few weeks had aged him. He’d dropped the glib manner I’d found so charming when we first met—and so grating as the years piled up. I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
* * *
After dinner, I took Rocket for a walk. It was already dark out, but my way was lit by the green glow of the streetlights. Nighttime dog walking was normally Will’s job, but I needed to get out of the house. I’d managed to keep up the happy family pretense for Charlie’s sake during dinner. Charlie had calmed down from his postkarate outburst. The conversation bounced around from favorite superhero movies, to an argument between two of Charlie’s friends over whether some internet celebrity I’d never heard of was lame or not, to which vegetable everyone hated the most. I did my best to keep up, to smile and stay focused, all while ignoring Will’s wounded puppy-dog looks. It was so typical that he was the one who’d had the affair, and yet suddenly I was the bad guy because I wouldn’t—couldn’t—immediately forgive him.
Rocket and I headed down our street at a fast clip. As I walked, I thought about all the times Will had been late coming home from work, claiming he was at a business dinner, and realized that he’d probably been with Jaime those nights. Then I remembered Laura MacMurray telling me that she’d seen Will paying attention to an attractive woman at dinner, and of course, of course Laura—whom I now despised—was the one who witnessed it, because the whole thing wouldn’t be humiliating enough otherwise.
And then I thought about Will fucking Jaime, and wondered what they had been like together. Had it been hot and adventurous or tender and gentle? And which was worse? Our intimate life had deteriorated to the point that on those rare occasions when we did have sex, it was always the same stale, workmanlike routine. We never even kissed anymore. When was the last time my husband had truly desired me?
Then I wondered where they did it. At hotels? Or were they so bold, so fucking audacious, that they did it right there at the office on a couch behind closed doors? If so, the support staff probably knew all about it, because nothing got past those women. How mortifying it would be the next time I ran into any of them. What did it say about me, that the most galling part of finding out about the fact that my husband had been fucking another woman was how embarrassing it was?
I was angry-walking now, powering forward, my hands fisted as I swung my arms. I thought about leaving Will. Actually, no, I wouldn’t be the one leaving. I’d return home and tell him with righteous anger to pack a bag and get out. That, I thoug
ht, would be a triumphant moment. It would feel good to see the hurt flash in his eyes, to watch as he finally realized just what his selfishness had cost him. He’d have to go live in one of those soulless corporate apartment complexes designed for divorced men, with utilitarian furniture and a small pool in the courtyard for when the kids stopped by for a Saturday visit.
“Nat?”
I’d been so caught up in my fury, I hadn’t noticed Jennifer Swain up ahead of me on the sidewalk. She was walking, too, but slowly while she smoked a cigarette.
“Jennifer. Hi.” I stopped, and tried to shore up my emotions, so that she wouldn’t see how upset I was. “How are you?”
“A little stressed out.” She gave a sad smile and held up the cigarette. “I haven’t smoked in years, but here I am. Smoking again.”
“Hey, I don’t judge.” I held a hand up in the air.
“Actually, speaking of judging... I think I owe you an apology.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“Yes,” Jennifer said, “I do. I was rude to you because you’ve defended sexual offenders.”
“It’s totally understandable why that would be upsetting for you.”
“But it’s your job. Someone has to do it, right? Why shouldn’t it be you? I’m sorry I was so unpleasant.”
“Well...thank you for that. How have you been?”
I’d been so wrapped up in first planning to kill Robert, and then dealing with the fallout, that I hadn’t stopped to wonder how the Swains would cope with the news of Robert’s death.
“Relieved. And, truth be told, I’m glad he’s dead. I don’t care if that sounds harsh. But...well.” She shrugged. “Tate’s having a hard time.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”
“How much time do you have?” Jennifer let out a humorless bark of laughter. “He’s acting out. A few days ago, he set a fire in the trash can in his room. Let’s just say it wasn’t the first time he’s started a fire, but it was one of the closer calls. The curtains caught on fire.”
“Oh, no.” I remembered the gossip that Tate had been the one who’d set fire to the school gym the previous year. “Was everyone okay?”
“Yeah, but it could have been bad. Luckily, Peter was home at the time. He was able to run upstairs with the extinguisher and put the fire out before it got out of hand.”
“Tate’s been through a lot,” I said. An image of Charlie flashed in my thoughts and I inhaled sharply as the now-familiar pain hit me. Charlie had been through a lot, too. And who knew how many other children Robert had hurt? “You think he’s acting out because of Robert’s death?”
“I don’t know. I thought it would make things easier. Tate won’t have to testify against him in court, after all.” Jennifer took a last drag off her cigarette and tossed the butt on the ground, grinding it under her foot.
“But?”
“His anxiety has been spiking ever since we heard the news. I don’t know why. Maybe he was looking forward to confronting that asshole in court. Or maybe it was just too abrupt an ending. I mean... I can’t think of anything better. Ding-dong, the monster’s dead. That’s a happy ending, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m not a thirteen-year-old kid. He’s processing it differently.”
“Right,” I said, feeling the faint stirrings of guilt. It hadn’t occurred to me that one of Robert’s victims might have wanted an opportunity to confront him. I’d been thinking only of Charlie and how much I didn’t want him to undergo the ordeal of testifying in court. How I needed to stop Robert from hurting any more children.
“Anyway, we’ve put our house on the market,” Jennifer said.
“You have? Why?”
“We’ve decided we need a fresh start. Tate’s adoption will hopefully go through next month. Once it does, we’re moving.”
“Where to?”
Jennifer lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Away from here. We’re thinking about Chicago. Peter’s company has an office there. He’s already put in for a transfer.”
“Wow, Chicago. That will be a big change.”
“It will. But I think it’s what we need. A fresh start. Somewhere where no one will know Tate’s history or have preconceived notions about who he is.”
I hoped Tate got over his predilection for setting fires by the time they moved. As long as he kept that up, no one would ever see him as a good kid. A normal kid.
“Good luck with everything. Tate, your house, Chicago.”
“Thanks, Nat. You, too.”
Jennifer turned away and walked back toward her house. I watched her light up another cigarette, the scent of the smoke carrying on the wind toward me. Rocket pulled on his leash, anxious to get moving, so we walked on, moving slower now. My righteous anger had faded into a bleaker sadness.
Could I really ask Will to move out now, when Charlie was already in crisis? True, he wasn’t lighting fires. Yet. But there was no point in pretending that his parents divorcing wouldn’t be a huge blow. And who knew how he’d react to our separating? He was already having uncharacteristic outbursts of anger. Would things get worse? Would Charlie’s anxiety escalate, or would he become destructive? It was hard to imagine my sweet-natured son setting a fire in his room. And yet...who knew how this would all play out? Charlie still had a lot of healing to do.
I did know one thing—as much as I wanted to return home and tell Will to pack his bag and get out, to go check into a hotel, I couldn’t. Not now, anyway. Not while our son was in such a fragile state.
Rocket and I walked the long way around the neighborhood before finally returning home. When he heard the front door close, Will came out of the study, for once not hiding away with his phone. I ignored my husband as I fed the dog and filled his water bowl. When I finished I turned to head upstairs. Will was wise enough not to follow me.
I showered and put on my favorite pajamas and got into bed with my laptop. After all the evening’s drama, I hadn’t checked in with work since leaving the office. There were a few emails I needed to respond to, and then I checked the court’s schedule for the next day. Finally, I pulled up the website that listed all the recent arrests in Calusa County. It was a habit I’d picked up from my early days of practice, when I worked as a public defender. Back then, I’d checked the list to see if there were any good cases coming up that I could request to handle. Now, I mostly checked to see if any of my previous or current clients had been arrested, which happened frequently.
I scrolled down the list, then stopped abruptly.
One of my clients was on the list. Rio Frey had been arrested the day before for revocation of his parole. No bond had been issued.
In the past Rio had always called me as soon as he was arrested.
The question was...why hadn’t Rio called me this time?
Chapter 29
I walked down the long hall toward Pod Three in the Calusa County jail where Rio Frey was being held. With each step, the clack of my low heels echoed off the cement floor and concrete walls.
The Calusa County jail was not a pleasant place. Visiting clients in jail was a necessary part of my job, but it was never a task I relished.
That was particularly true today.
I reached Pod Three and hit the buzzer. A disembodied voice sounded over the intercom. “Name?”
“Natalie Clarke.”
I had already checked in at the front, but it took the sheriff’s deputy a minute to check my name against the list that been had sent back before the heavy metal door to Pod Three slowly and loudly slid open.
I stepped into the Pod Three interview room. The room had cinder block walls that had been painted a high-gloss lime green. The space was large enough to house three cafeteria-style tables with rounded edges—presumably so no one could bang anyone else’s head against a sharp corner—surrounded by faded yellow plastic chairs th
at were bolted to the floor. At one of the tables, a priest was sitting with an older Hispanic man, his eyes closed as he prayed. The guard booth’s observation room was at the near end of the space, although the deputies were concealed behind a one-way mirror. A deputy I hadn’t seen before—young, twentysomething, doughy-faced—opened the door and leaned out.
“Who are you here to see?”
“Rio Frey.”
“Got it. He’ll be out in a minute.”
I checked to make sure the intercom in the room was off, so the deputies wouldn’t be able to listen in on our conversation, then took a seat at the farthest table from the priest and his now weeping parishioner. A few long minutes passed before another officer brought Rio in.
Rio was wearing royal blue scrubs and plastic shower shoes, and like most of the prisoners, unless they were labeled as high-risk, he wasn’t wearing restraints. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. I knew from his arrest sheet that he’d officially been arrested for violating his parole, but after a quick call to his parole officer, I’d learned that Rio had been picked up under the bridge, where a lot of addicts liked to hang out. He’d had a rock of crack and a pipe in his possession at the time of his arrest.
“Counselor,” Rio said. “I was wondering if you’d stop by.”
I was startled by how cheerful Rio seemed, especially considering how serious his situation was. His arrest for possession violated the terms of his parole, which meant that he would automatically have to serve out the remainder of his sentence. Plus he was facing the new possession charges on top of that. Worse, Rio had an extensive criminal history. The State of Florida assessed points for each prior conviction. The more points you had, the harsher each consecutive sentence would be. Rio was looking at seven years in prison, possibly more.
The sheriff’s deputy nodded at me. I nodded back, signaling I was fine to be left alone with my client. The deputy disappeared into the guard station while Rio sat down across the table from me. He lifted the corners of his mouth up in a sly smile. He suddenly, vividly reminded me of the crocodile exhibit at the Palm Beach Zoo.
