by Holly Hart
I clutch at my forehead, battling through another wave of dizziness. “Uh...the night before we saw Rachel—that would’ve been, ah...the twelfth? And again after the funeral, I think. In DC.”
“The day after Kyle died? Let’s see—I worked a double at McDonald’s, swung by Katrina’s to read the kids a story, then—oh! Then, I went home to find the locks changed. Great day.” He sucks at his bloody knuckles. “Check my car if you don’t believe me. Got every parking receipt from the last six months in there. Think I slept in the garage by the Jenny Craig, that night. Or maybe that other one, by the—Max?”
I hunch over, ears ringing. I’m dimly aware of Carson’s hand on my back, Carson’s voice—can’t make out the words, but I focus on it anyway. My vision swims and goes gray, but I don’t pass out, not this time. Slowly, the sickness passes, leaving me hot and shaken.
“Hold on. You’re okay.”
“Mm-hm.” I grope for something to hold onto, and find the metal railing of the bed. It’s cool to the touch. Nice. “I’m fine.”
“You will be.”
Got to keep the conversation going. Keep myself present. “Uh, you said, earlier—you said the blackmailer didn’t know your worst secret. Which—which one was that?”
“My kids. Sheila doesn’t—didn’t know.” He sits down again. “Told her the night Kyle died. Couldn’t keep the lie going any more.”
“Who did know?”
“No one but Kyle. So that doesn’t help.” He perks up like he’s about to say something else, but the doctor chooses that moment to pull the curtain back.
“All right—whichever one of you handsome fellows doesn’t have the head injury—the police are waiting, out that door and to the right.” She smiles brightly at Carson. “You can come on back when you’re done. Assuming this wasn’t you, of course.”
“It wasn’t.” I glance at Carson. He’s looking away, red-faced. If he gets himself arrested and leaves me with no ride home... He’d better not.
What a trash fire of a day.
Chapter 36
Kate
* * *
I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nothing from Max. He was supposed to check in last night: I fell asleep with my phone in my hand. Now it’s creeping up on noon, and...nope. Still nothing. He’s not at work, not answering his phone, and our message history’s starting to look a tad obsessive, from my end—How’d it go with Carson?—Everything OK?—Hey, did your phone die?—You’re starting to scare me—Hellooooooo?
Screw it. I fire off one more: Alive? y/n
It’s been radio silence from Wes, as well, but at least I know where he is. He took off at first light, muttering something about making the most of visiting hours. Doubt he’ll be back before dark.
There’s nothing to do around here, no way to make myself useful. This morning’s breakfast went to waste: Wes took one bite of toast, one spoonful of instant oatmeal, and pushed his plate away. He didn’t want coffee or conversation or company for the trip. I get that: grief’s a private thing. But it sucks—it fucking sucks, watching a friend go through the wringer, with no way to help.
Feels like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.
I wander through the kitchen, looking for something to clean, but the place isn’t just dirty. It’s rotting. The damp’s penetrated the Formica: I’d scrape off the counters before I scraped off the stains. And the floor... The linoleum’s split and peeled, with ferns growing out of it. Not sure the Brillo pad I found under the sink’ll be much help there. The bathroom’s in better repair, recently scrubbed and caulked. I wipe down the mirror and rinse the sink, but there’s nothing else to do.
I wander upstairs instead. There’s a weird smell in the hallway, mothballs mixed with...forest floor? Wet leaves and mushrooms? I wrinkle my nose. It looks like Wes is remodeling—or was, at some point. His dad’s old room’s standing empty, walls half-stripped, carpet torn up. The door to the linen closet’s off its hinges, leaning against the wall next to a can of paint. I skirt around it, heading for Wes’s old room. The carpet squidges underfoot. It’s gone a disturbing shade of lichen yellow—gross.
Wes’s door’s open, inviting me inside. He’s made the place habitable, even inviting: there’s a new bed, a small chest of drawers, even a few homey touches. I lean down to sniff at a crystal vase full of wildflowers—when’d he have time to pick those?
A flash of color catches my eye: Wes’s closet. I smile at the sight of his high school clothes, still lined up on one side. Organized by style and season, because of course they were. He still does that: a place for everything, and everything in its place.
I rifle through his old clothes. They really were pathetic, thin and oft-mended. I don’t remember them looking that bad. Then again, he pretty much wore his coat all the time. Even indoors. He’d always say he was cold, but.... “Oh, Wes.” My heart aches for every stain, every patch. No wonder he was so obsessed with cleanliness. No wonder—
I jerk my hand back. “What the—?”
It’s not—he wouldn’t have kept—it couldn’t be.
I push a threadbare gray blazer aside, and it is. A plain white shirt, splashed maroon with old blood. I pull it out halfway. It’s torn, as well, two buttons missing, one sleeve hanging off at the seam.
“Jesus.” I remember that blood cascading down his front. Staining Carson’s shirt as Wes slumped in his arms. He came stumbling out of the locker room covered in it—Carson barely caught him before he collapsed. Never did find out what happened in there. Wes wouldn’t talk about it, and the school... They suspended Matt for two weeks, but after that, it was back to business as usual.
Wes, though—he was out a while. In hospital overnight, and after that... I think he went to stay with his grandpa. Matt came back to school before he did.
I let the shirt swing back on its hanger. Was the sleeve sticking out like that before? I smooth it down—you’re all right. You survived—was that why he kept it? To remind himself he made it?
He shouldn’t know—shouldn’t have to deal with my snooping, on top of everything else. I tuck the sleeve in and straighten out the blazer to cover it. It’ll have to be good enough. Maybe he won’t notice; maybe he’s forgotten it’s even there.
My eyes are watering, and it’s not just the mothball fumes. Not just that I’ve seen something that wasn’t meant for me. It’s a creeping sense of guilt: we let him down. All of us, in our own ways. Wes came back, and we...forgot. Not right away, but by degrees, over time—he seemed all right, and we let it drop. Carson went back to calling him Shrimpy. Kyle quit driving him to school. Me, I went back to blowing him off for Max.
And I’m doing it again. I’ve been avoiding him since the funeral. Bitching to Max about his moodiness, when... Shit, no wonder he’s not himself.
Halfway down the stairs, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Max—finally.
sorry!!!!! hope you weren’t too worried! huge fight with Carson.
don’t freak out. we’re both fine.
A fight—really? I roll my eyes. Can’t turn my back on these guys for a second. Tell me you don’t mean a physical altercation.
He types. Stops. Types some more. Hesitation equals guilt: OMG! You totally fought him! WTF?
I might have accused him a little. he might have punched my lights out.
Stupid. Stupid. I’ll decide whether to laugh or cry after we talk for real. I dial his number, shaking my head.
Max picks up on the first ring. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I promise.”
“You’d better be. That hard head belongs to me now.” I head outside and sit down on a stump. “What were you thinking, going after him on your own?”
“What can I say?—he was pissing me off.” There’s a snort in the background—Carson’s with him? “How’s Wes?”
“Don’t change the subject.” I sag a little. “Not good, though. He’s not eating—had you noticed?"
“Maybe, yeah—he does look thinner.” A voice ru
mbles in the background. Definitely Carson. “Listen, you need to be careful out there. It’s uh—it’s not Carson. He was in New York when we were in DC. Not peeping on us in the park.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s photographic evidence. I’ll text you in a second. But with him out of the suspect pool, you need to consider....” He trails off awkwardly.
I feel myself flush with anger. “You did not just accuse Wes.”
“No. Not exactly—but there’s only so many people it could be.”
“Wes, though? Give me one reason he’d do this—one reason that makes sense, bearing in mind he’s lost, oh...everything he had.” Maybe it’s the bloodied shirt; maybe it’s the house, with its legions of memories, but every protective instinct I have is roaring to life. “One reason—I’m listening.”
“I don’t have one,” he admits. “Just—you’re alone out there. That’s all I’m saying. Look out for yourself.”
“Right.” I don’t want to fight with Max, but one more step down this road, I don’t see myself holding back. “Listen, my battery’s low, and there’s nowhere to charge it out here. We’ll be back probably tomorrow, the next day. I’ll text you when we’re on our way.”
“Text me tonight.” He pauses, with an audible sigh. “I’ll worry, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Already, my anger’s softening. “And if you hear anything new—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Oh, and tell Carson sorry, from me. I didn’t exactly talk you out of that.”
He chuckles. “No—no, you didn’t. I think he’s okay, though. Or he will be. He’s not happy, obviously, but we’re working together. Going through Dev’s computer again. And there’s a few calls I can make, in the interests of, you know. Ruling out certain people.”
Certain people. Wes. “It isn’t him. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure I will.”
We say our goodbyes, but I’m not ready to go back inside. The memories are better out here: picnics under the trees, learning to drive on that empty stretch of road, chasing Wes’s stupid dog.
Wes, the blackmailer. Patient Wes, kind Wes, who put me back together after my wedding, and after every disaster since.
Idiotic idea.
Chapter 37
Max
* * *
Carson quit doing anything resembling helping hours ago. He’s spent most of the afternoon critiquing my efforts—and taking full advantage of my guilt to raid my liquor cabinet. And now he’s eating my food, not even out of my fridge, but directly off my plate. I rap him across the knuckles with my chopsticks. “Get off.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was going to.” I wasn’t, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“Where are we, anyway?”
I drop my chopsticks and bury my face in my hands. “Absolutely nowhere. Wes is...I don’t know. Either completely innocent or lying about literally everything.” I massage my temples, but this headache’s going nowhere. I’m not even supposed to be reading, with my concussion barely behind me. “I mean, his name is Westley Baird, right?”
Carson grabs the last spring roll and polishes it off in one bite. “You spelling it right? It’s Westley with a T, like The Princess Bride. Not, y’know, Wesley.”
“Yeah, Carson. I’m spelling it right.” I push my laptop away. The glare’s starting to make me sick. “But I can’t find a single record of him doing anything, working anywhere, owning anything. Even his Facebook’s aggressively content-free. I mean, listen to this: Harrods sale in full swing. Crowds unbelievable. Getting a latte.”
“So?”
“Exactly—so? Like, who cares? It’s hard to even read. Three posts, and I’m falling asleep.”
Carson yawns. There’s bok choy stuck in his teeth. “Everyone’s Facebook’s like that. That’s why I’m not on there.”
“It’s not, though. It’s called social media for a reason: most people tag each other. Comment on each other’s posts. He’s never even posted a selfie.”
“Again, me either. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.”
I didn’t. Besides, Wes’s Facebook’s the least of my concerns. According to Her Majesty’s Land Registry, his house belongs to a Mabel Guthrie—eighty-nine years old, divorced, fond of cats; currently enjoying her retirement on Grand Cayman. She has a real Facebook, full of cat pics, country club checkins, and book group updates. His car looks like it might be hers, too: her profile pic has her driving a red Bentley, looking like a 1950s movie star in her scarf and sunglasses.
I reach for the ibuprofen, but Carson plucks it out of my grasp. “Uh-uh. It’s only been two hours.”
“Fucking head’s killing me.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He pockets the pills anyway. “You ever find that island of his?”
I shake my head. “No. And I’m starting to think he made it up. Honestly, it looks like he was in trouble before any of this started. Like he’s been faking it a while.” My head throbs, and I groan. “Not that it means much. He was always like that.”
Carson hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. Remember when he tried to unscuff his shoes with a Sharpie, and they inked all over Mrs. Abernathy’s carpet?”
“Uh-huh.” And the week he “forgot” his jacket every day so my dad would lend him one of his, and the time he claimed to be on a diet so we wouldn’t find out his lunch was just bread and an expired fruit cup, and the time he blew his entire summer job fund on a nice watch...which took Danbury all of two days to smash.... So nothing’s changed. Not a lot’s changed for any of us. I’d have disputed that at the start, but when you get right down to it, Dev was still drifting, Carson’s still angry, and I’m still in love with Kate. Par for the course.
“You should call that guy back.” Carson licks at his teeth, finally dislodging the bok choy.
“Huh?”
“The one with the job. Left you a message?”
Oh. Right. Got so caught up discrediting Wes, I forgot I was trying to get him hired. I glance at my watch: coming on eight. Early morning in Tokyo. I hunt around for my phone—fuck’d I put it?
“Think he’ll take a job in Japan?”
“I don’t know—nobody else called me back. Seen my phone?”
Carson skates it my way, brow raised. “Right here, in front of your face.”
“Thanks.” Asshole. I dial the number and listen to it ringing on the other end, once, twice, and—
“Hello? Max?—that you?”
“Yeah. Hey, Angus.” I lean back and close my eyes. My head’s ready to explode. “Listen, I realize I’m imposing—and if you don’t have anything available, I completely—”
“Hold on—going to stop you right there.” Something dings, and I hear a hydraulic hiss. Loud chatter echoes down the line. “I’m on the train. Let me just—”
I wait as he shuffles down the car, away from the doors and the noise.
“Okay. So, you want me to hire Westley Baird?”
“I was hoping you’d consider him. As a favor to me.”
He chuckles, deep and sonorous. “You know April Fools’ was last week, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You seriously—wait, you’re not investing with him, are you? Tell me you didn’t let that psycho loose on your savings.”
Psycho? “Uh...you’ll have to clue me in. He’s just an old friend, fallen on hard times.”
“Phew! Count yourself lucky!” The train screeches to a stop. I hold the phone away from my ear, cringing away from that metal-on-metal whine. Angus is still chattering away. “Hell, if I could let that guy in my wallet, or a pack of ravenous silverfish, I’d pick the silverfish every time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s put it this way: invest with Westley Baird, you’ll either make a billion or your grandkids’ll be paying your debts. No concept of caution, that one. He’s like a non-criminal Bernie Madoff: he won’t steal your m
oney, but you’ll still lose a bundle.” Angus laughs again. “Trust me—he’s a joke in London. People toss him their scraps, like, hey, maybe he’ll pull a miracle out of his ass, but hire him? Really? I’d sooner hire Bernie.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Uh, I—wow. Sorry. I honestly had no idea.”
“Yeah. I figured. That’s why I called, to make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. Listen—let’s get drinks, next time you’re in town. It’s been too long.”
“Mm. Sure. And again—my apologies.”
“De nada. Anyway, this is my stop, so if there’s nothing else—?”
“Nah, we’re good.”
“All right! Have a good, uh...night, or whatever.” He hangs up. I set down my phone, head spinning.
“What’d he say?” Carson’s leaning forward, eyes sharp with interest.
“Nothing good. Basically, Wes sucks at his job.”
Carson bangs his hand on the table, sending a red-hot poker through my skull. “So, what? It’s him?”
“How should I know? He’s a liar—so are you. So’s Kate; so was Kyle. Which of us isn’t?” Still, Kate’s alone with him. If there’s the slightest chance he’s guilty.... “I’m calling Kate.”
Carson toys with his own phone while I make the call. If he thinks I can’t hear him playing Candy Crush, he can think again. And...shit. Straight to voicemail. I hiss, frustrated. Fire off a text: no reply. “What’s her assistant’s name?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You didn’t get hit in the head.” I grimace. It’s on the tip of my tongue—one of those S. names, Samantha, Sarah—
“Sonia, I think. Wes’s ex, right?”
Oh, yeah—how that slipped my mind, after the strap-on story, I don’t know. I scroll down my contacts till I find Kate’s office number.
