For Better and Worse

by Margot Hunt

  Charlie climbed up onto one of the island stools. I stacked pancakes up on a plate, added some bacon to it and set in front of him, along with a glass of orange juice, the butter dish and a bottle of maple syrup.

  “Dig in,” I said.

  “What’s all this?” Will asked, walking into the kitchen. He had dressed, but not for the office. Instead, he was wearing jogging shorts and a sport shirt. “Pancakes? On a Wednesday?”

  I shrugged. “I felt like cooking.”

  “Is there enough for me?” Will asked.

  “Sure,” I said, even though I would have liked a few more minutes alone with Charlie. Not to say anything particular or even to say goodbye. I was just greedy for more time. Mothers are watchers, carefully accumulating and storing the moments that make up their child’s lives. The baby who sleeps with pale eyelids and feathery eyelashes. The toddler who delights in exploring his new world, chortling with each new discovery. The child racing the waves as they lap onto shore. I’d had so many moments over the years, but even so...it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

  I handed Will a plate of pancakes and bacon and he sat next to Charlie at the island.

  “I bet I can eat more pancakes than you,” Will said.

  “No way,” Charlie retorted. “I am the king of pancake eating.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  I smiled as the two of them joked around, and poured myself another cup of coffee. I was glad Charlie didn’t notice the dark smudges under Will’s eyes or the gaunt hollows of his face. Will, for his part, was putting up a good show, playacting the fun-time dad he’d always excelled at being. It had always annoyed me—I was the one who nagged about homework and timely thank-you notes, while Will was the one who got to goof around and be silly. It suddenly occurred to me that those roles hadn’t been forced upon us. We’d chosen them, neither of us quite hitting the mark.

  If I somehow got out of this, I was going to change up that dynamic. I would relax, be more spontaneous, have more fun. Maybe we could take Charlie on a surprise weekend trip to Orlando, and binge on theme parks and chain restaurants.

  Charlie hopped off his stool to deposit his plate into the sink. “I have to get ready for school.”

  “Don’t forget to pack your gym clothes,” I called after him, as Charlie ran out of the kitchen like it was a state of emergency. “And don’t forget to put on deodorant!”

  Will smiled wryly. “He always forgets that.”

  “Well, at some point, he’ll have to remember.” Then, remembering my errand that morning, I lifted a hand to my forehead. Charlie might have to learn to be more responsible, more self-reliant, sooner than we would have hoped for him. Much sooner. “Shit.”

  “I’m going with you,” Will said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “If they have anything on us, I need to tell them it was me acting alone,” Will said. He glanced over his shoulder, to check if Charlie had come back into the room. “I have to. I want to.”

  “No, you really don’t,” I said, turning away to put the mixing bowl in the sink. I filled it with water to rinse out the batter, then opened the dishwasher and began loading it.

  “No, I don’t,” Will admitted. “But I’m going to do it, anyway.”

  I closed the dishwasher and turned to look at him.

  “Let me do this. Let me protect you. You and Charlie,” he said. “You two are my whole life.”

  I looked at this man, my husband. His face was careworn, the lines at the edges of his eyes more deeply etched than they’d been a few short weeks ago. There was a time, not all that long ago, when I had been closer to him than anyone else in the world. I was still angry with him and hurt, too. But I also knew what he was offering here—freedom for me, a secure future for his son. It was not a small thing, nor would it come with an insignificant price.

  “Don’t do anything yet,” I finally said, shifting my gaze. “Let me see what the sheriff has to say. Let’s wait on making life-changing decisions until we have all of the information.”

  Will hesitated, but he finally nodded.

  “I’d better go get ready.” I drew in a deep breath, hoping it would calm my nerves. It did not. “I’ve got a big day ahead of me.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Garland Nolan was sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone, when I was shown into his office by a young sheriff’s deputy. He wasn’t in his uniform today. Instead he was wearing a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and an ugly yellow-patterned tie. I hesitated at the door, not wanting to intrude, but Nolan held up a hand gesturing for me to come in. I stepped inside his office, hoping I didn’t look as nervous as I felt. The deputy closed the door behind him as he left. I instantly felt trapped and had to force myself not to panic, to stay calm, to remain focused.

  “Hold on one minute,” the sheriff said into the phone. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at me. “Please come in and have a seat, Ms. Clarke.” I nodded and sat in one of the two visitor’s chairs set up in front of his desk while he returned to his phone call. “No, I don’t need to see the paperwork on that, but I am going to want to meet with you and Jim to go over your notes. It doesn’t have to be today. Let’s shoot for tomorrow instead.”

  While he wrapped up his phone call, I glanced around his office. It was largely utilitarian space—the sizable desk, the filing cabinets, a bookshelf along one wall, an American flag on a stand in the corner. There was a credenza behind his desk under the windows where several framed photographs were displayed. One was of the sheriff dressed in his official uniform, standing with his arm around an attractive older blonde. His wife, I assumed. She looked like an older and more sensible version of his daughter, Lauren. There was also a photo of Lauren and her twin boys taken at the beach. In the picture, Lauren was wearing a floral print dress and had an arm around each boy, identically dressed in white polo shirts and khaki shorts. It had clearly been professionally taken, and looked like a picture for a toothpaste advertisement, which was probably just what Lauren had hoped for.

  “All right, that’s fine. Yes. Goodbye.” The sheriff hung up the phone and looked up at me. “Ms. Clarke, thank you for coming in.”

  “Of course.” I smiled politely. “Although your assistant didn’t tell me why you wanted to meet, so I’m a bit in the dark.”

  The sheriff looked at me for a beat too long. He had a narrow face, heavily lined, and gray hair clipped short. He didn’t smile back at me, but then, he didn’t look like the sort of man who smiled often. The deep lines around his mouth were set in a downward direction.

  “A few issues have been brought to my attention,” he finally said. “Matters I need to discuss with you.”

  I could feel my heartbeat quicken. Matters? “Like what, exactly?”

  “Rio Frey is a client of yours, correct?”

  Oh no, I thought. I had been holding out hope that the sheriff’s request for this meeting was completely unrelated to Rio’s threats, to Robert’s death. Clearly, that was not the case. I forced myself to sit as still as possible, even though fear was pricking at every inch of my skin. I wanted nothing more than to run far, far away.

  Stay calm, I reminded myself. Don’t give anything away.

  “Yes, I’ve represented him on a number of different charges. Most recently, I filed a motion for early termination of his parole. His parole officer was on board, so it was really just a formality.”

  “But then he got arrested again.”

  I nodded. “The judge actually hasn’t ruled on my motion, but I’m assuming it will be denied now. It’s hard to make the case that an early termination is warranted when the defendant is back in jail.”

  “But Frey didn’t hire you to represent him on his most recent drug charges and parole violation,” the sheriff commented. “Why do you think that is?”

/>   “Maybe he wasn’t happy with my services,” I suggested. “I visited him in jail after his arrest. He said he was going with the public defender. He probably can’t afford a private attorney.”

  The sheriff gave me another long, searching look that caused my entire body to go cold. He knew something, obviously. Why else would he have brought up Rio Frey? But the question was, how much did he know? Was he hoping to throw out tidbits of information and wait for me to fall apart and confess to everything? That wasn’t going to happen. I knew better than to say anything that could be used against me.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I was breaking my own rule. I was talking to the police. I was assuming that I was smart enough to navigate my way out of trouble.

  Sheriff Nolan sighed suddenly and tapped his fingers against the top of his desk in quick succession, pinkie finger to index finger. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Rio Frey met with Detectives Monroe and Reddick from our Criminal Investigative Division. I believe you’ve met them?”

  I had to force myself to keep breathing. “I have, yes.”

  “Frey told the detectives he had evidence that a prominent criminal defense attorney in town asked him to purchase oxycodone for her. He was looking to secure a plea deal before he handed over the name and evidence. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Why would I?” I said.

  “Because outside of the public defender’s office there are only three female criminal defense attorneys working in Calusa County. And you’re the only one with a known link to Rio Frey. You went to visit him in jail recently even though he hadn’t contacted you.”

  I looked sharply at the sheriff. The police weren’t supposed to monitor communications between an attorney and her client. He looked steadily back at me.

  “We keep track of who the inmates call. Frey hadn’t called you.”

  “How do you know a family member didn’t call me?”

  “He hasn’t made a single phone call since he was arrested. And you’re the only visitor he’s had during his most recent stay with us. So, the easy assumption would be that the criminal defense attorney he was talking about was you. Did you buy drugs from Rio Frey?”

  I looked steadily back at the sheriff, making sure to meet his dark brown eyes. “Of course not. And no one who knows him would consider Rio to be a credible source or a reliable witness.”

  “No, I agree. Drug addicts rarely make good witnesses.” The sheriff tapped his fingers on the desk again. Rat-a-tat-tat. “But Monroe and Reddick believed him. They also think that the drug purchase he referred to is possibly related to the death of Robert Gibbons. The tox screen done at Mr. Gibbons’s autopsy showed that he had a large amount of oxycodone in his system at the time of death. It could just be a coincidence, of course. But when you investigate enough criminal cases, coincidences quickly get your attention. And then there’s the additional fact that you wouldn’t let the detectives interview your son.”

  I was finding it harder to stay calm, to think clearly now that alarm bells were clanging inside my head. I folded my hands on my lap, hoping it would disguise the fact that they were shaking.

  “There’s a rumor going around that Robert was addicted to oxycodone,” I said.

  The sheriff nodded as if this were a fair point. “There is some evidence of that. And it would certainly explain the drugs in his system.”

  “I also heard that Robert’s drug dealer was spotted in his neighborhood on the night he died.”

  “Where did you hear that?” He looked annoyed. “That detail wasn’t released to the public.”

  From your daughter, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I shrugged. “I can’t remember who told me that.”

  “It turned out to be a false lead. It was just a man checking on his elderly parents. The neighbor who reported it saw his tattoos and drew the wrong conclusions. These things happen in the course of an investigation.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “Detective Reddick has an interesting theory about the case. Do you want to hear it?”

  No, I thought. But I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Reddick thinks that Robert Gibbons was a pedophile. That he had probably targeted God knows how many kids over the years.” The sheriff shook his head, an expression of disgust flickering over his stern features. “The man was principal of an elementary and middle school, so he certainly had access. And that’s the thing about serial pedophiles—they have this way of knowing just which kids to pick. The ones who won’t tell, or who, if they did, wouldn’t be believed. It’s like a twisted sixth sense that goes along with the perversion.”

  Charlie, I thought. Oh, God, Charlie.

  “But Reddick thinks that this time Gibbons picked the wrong kid. That he preyed on one who did tell, and who was believed. And that was what got him killed.”

  And there it was, I thought. They were building a case against me, or against Will and me. They might not have the evidence yet, but their working theory was close enough to the truth. It would be only a matter of time now.

  The sheriff continued to hold my gaze for several beats too long. “I have something I want you to listen to.”

  The sheriff slid open the top drawer in his desk, reached into it and pulled out a small silver cassette recorder, the kind that people used to use for dictation. I hadn’t seen one in years, not in these days of digital recordings. He set the recorder on his desk and pressed the play button.

  A familiar voice began to speak from the small microphone.

  “Michelle? It’s Robert. Please call me back, either on this phone or on my regular phone. I need to talk to you. Please. It’s important.” There was a short pause. “I love you. I know we haven’t said that to each other before, but it’s true. I just wish I could tell it to you personally instead of your voice mail. So, that’s it. I love you and please call me back and I love you. Again. Bye.” Another pause. “I’m not sure I should have done that.”

  I stared at the cassette recorder in horror as I listened to Robert’s voice on the night he died. It was the phone call he’d made to Michelle Cole from my burner phone. It was the one piece of evidence that could—and now probably would—link Will and me to the crime.

  “Michelle grew up with my daughter, Lauren. I’ve known her since she was in pigtails and couldn’t get through a sleepover without having to call her dad to come pick her up in the middle of the night.” One corner of the sheriff’s mouth twitched up. It was the closest I’d seen him come to smiling. “When Michelle heard that Robert had died on the same night he left her that message, she brought it straight to me. She had no idea about his issue until the investigation. She didn’t want anyone to know that they were seeing one another even before the revelation, which is understandable.”

  Nolan looked at me then, as if expecting a response. I just looked back at him. For once, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Michelle has three boys, all pretty close in age to my grandsons. She doesn’t think he ever touched her boys, but... I think she’s had some sleepless nights. The what-ifs can get to you in the dark hours,” the sheriff continued. “Anyway, once I had this phone number, the one he’d called her from, I was able to look it up.”

  Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe, stay sharp and don’t say a word.

  “And I found the oddest damn thing. That phone, which is registered to no one, and was activated with one of those gift cards you can buy at any grocery store, has only been used a few other times. One call out, one text out, one call in, all to the same number. All on the night of February twenty-third. Which happens to be the night Robert Gibbons died. Do you know who those calls and text were to?”

  I continued to stare at him, unable to speak or move. We were finally here. He was about to read me my rights and arrest me.

  “Do you have your checkbook with you?” Sheriff Nolan asked abruptly.

  “My...checkbook?” It wasn’t w
hat I’d been expecting him to say.

  “Yes. Your checkbook. Not everyone carries one around in these debit card days.”

  My hands were still shaking as I picked up my handbag and rooted around inside, trying to find the checkbook for Will’s and my joint account. It was at the bottom of my bag. I pulled it out. I couldn’t figure out what Sheriff Nolan was hoping to find. I hadn’t paid for the phone, or anything else connected to Robert’s death, by check.

  “Write out a check in the amount of five hundred dollars to the Sheriff Nolan Reelection Campaign,” he said.

  “What?” I couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.

  The sheriff looked back at me evenly. “For this campaign and all campaigns in the future. Although, between you and me, this will probably be the last one. Retirement is sounding more and more appealing, especially after cases like this one. My wife wants me to take her to Hawaii. I’ll do it to make her happy, but I’ll never understand paying a fortune to travel somewhere to sit on a beach, when we have perfectly nice beaches here in Shoreham.”

  I managed to write out the check, although if anyone looked closely at my signature, they might think it had been forged. The N was cramped, and the C swayed up at an awkward angle. I held out the check to the sheriff, who took it and put it in the top drawer of his desk without looking at it.

  “I’d also suggest that you don’t make any plans to move. Not anytime soon. As long as I’m in office, you should stick around in Shoreham,” he said.

  “Why?” The question was so much bigger than that one word. What are you going to do with the recording of Robert’s phone call? Who else knows about it? Was that check I just wrote you a bribe? If so, what was it buying me? Freedom...or just a little more time?

  The sheriff again tapped his fingers on his desk and looked steadily back at me. “One of our forensic tech guys did a thorough search of Gibbons’s laptop. Do you know what he found?”