by Merry Jones
“Everything?” he repeated.
I nodded. Not a good idea. My brain sloshed in my skull, sending the room into a dizzying swing.
“Well, that’s a long list. How about we take things one at a time?”
Tell him, I thought. Tell him what you found, about the e-mails. About Kiddo2. I took a deep breath, tasted recycled Scotch. “Okay,” I agreed. “One at a time.”
“Okay, I’ll start. Here’s the first thing.”
I blinked, waiting for him to explain himself.
“You’re beautiful.”
I smelled like puke and my legs were rubber, but Nick had chosen this moment to admire my appearance? How endearingly sweet. Or was it? I struggled to figure out why it felt wrong, then grabbed on to my drifting memory: the e-mails. Nick’s secrets and lies. The reasons I’d been drinking. I leaned my head back against the wall, wishing the powder room would stop spinning.
Meantime, Nick had moved on. “Are you sober enough to hear the next item? It might reassure you. It’s about Agent Ellis.”
Agent Ellis? Oh, God. How had I forgotten? She was dead. I saw her again, propped up and lifeless on the bench. Three lines, the logo of the slave cartel, carved into her face. “What about her?” I turned my head too fast. Damn. The walls whirled.
“I don’t think she was killed by the cartel.”
Suddenly my vision popped into focus. The walls stopped spinning. Johnny Walker lost his protective haze. “What are you saying?” I didn’t follow, didn’t want to try.
“She was one of them. Or, at least, working for them.”
I shut my eyes, trying to focus, realizing that what he was telling me was important. “She was working for them?” My tongue felt wooden, unwilling to move.
Nick nodded. “She was dirty. Officially, Ellis wasn’t supposed to question you. She was working on transport—another aspect of the case. So when she approached you on her own, she gave herself away.”
I blinked, struggling to make sense of what Nick was saying,
focusing on the straight thin lines of grout between the floor tiles, using them to clear my mind.
“Darlene Ellis was an informant for the cartel.”
A cartel informant? Inside the FBI? Was nobody safe?
“She kept the traffickers updated on the FBI investigation, and she led the feds offtrack whenever she could. She was a valuable resource to the traffickers. There’s no way they’d want her dead.”
That made sense. Almost. Suddenly, I had a coherent, sober thought. “But you said that she gave herself away. So the FBI had found out she was an informer. That meant she’d be useless to the traffickers. Even a liability. So that would be why they eliminated her.”
“But the traffickers don’t know she blew her cover.” “How do you know that?”
“Because, except for you and Susan, I’m the only one who knew she’d talked to you.”
Wait, what? Nick hadn’t told the FBI? Why would Nick keep information from federal investigators? Oh, Lord. How could I even ask that—Nick kept information from everyone. My head was reeling; I held the washcloth against my eyes, recalling again what had led me to drink. The e-mails. The secrets. The lies. I tried to make sense of all that had happened. Darlene Ellis hadn’t been representing the FBI. And according to Susan, Father Joseph Xavier and So-nia Vlosnick hadn’t been working to help cartel victims. It seemed that nobody was who they claimed to be. Maybe not even Nick.
But he was still talking. I tried to follow, wondering if I could believe anything he said.
“. . . So you don’t have to worry that slave smugglers are going around killing people. They aren’t. It’s simply not happening. Agent Ellis wasn’t killed by the cartel.”
And my break-in hadn’t been by the cartel, either. I knew that and Nick knew it, too. But Nick didn’t say that. Instead, he watched me, as if expecting a happy grin of relief. As if, even now, he weren’t withholding important facts. As if he’d just given me good news. But how was it good news? Even if it hadn’t been the cartel, someone had killed Agent Ellis and carved their logo onto her face. Who? I leaned against the wall, feeling green. “Then who killed her?” I managed.
“Don’t know yet. But it’s not the traffickers.come on.” He stood up, offering me an arm. “Let’s get you up to bed.”
My head throbbed, limbs weighed tons. But somehow Nick helped me upstairs to bed. He mixed up a fizzy, awful-tasting concoction that he promised would prevent a morning hangover, and I swallowed it, not certain either that it would stay down or that I’d survive until morning to find out if it worked. Finally, I lay back against the pillows, trying to muster the energy to confront Nick. I had to. I couldn’t go another night, another minute without telling him. I felt too ill to speak, too angry not to. How should I begin? Should I start small, asking why he hadn’t mentioned that he was working as liaison to the FBI? Or should I jump right into the deep end, asking, for example, why he hadn’t told me about Kiddo2?
I lay with my eyes closed and the cool washcloth on my forehead, planning my speech as Nick undressed and climbed in bed beside me. I’d almost decided on my opening line when I felt him staring and opened my eyes. His face was right beside mine, not an inch away. He lifted the washcloth and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead.
“Let’s get married.”
I blinked, deciding I must have passed out or, at least, misunderstood. Obviously, he hadn’t said that.
“We’re a family—you, Molly and me. I want to be your husband. And a real dad to Molly.” He half-smiled. “And maybe to a few other kids.” He looked away, suddenly sheepish. Sheepish looked all wrong on Nick, like grandmother’s flannel nightgown on the fairytale wolf. “Don’t answer now; you’re smashed. But think about it.”
Was I dreaming? Had Nick just asked me to marry him? What had inspired him? Why now, when I’d just been doubting that I could ever trust him? When we’d just been discussing murder and slave trafficking? I couldn’t think, wasn’t altogether positive that I hadn’t imagined his entire speech. Dazed, still half-blitzed, I blinked at him. His pale eyes glowed softly, and he still wore his half-grin. Lord, he had wonderful teeth. Perfectly aligned. Again, I thought of the wolf.
“You’re in no condition to talk now.” His voice was cushioned and husky. “Sleep on it. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He kissed me with lips like butterfly wings, and lay back on his pillow. In a moment his breathing became heavy, deepened into a snore.
And I stayed awake in the dark, replaying his words. “Let’s get married.” I played them again and again in my head. Had he really said that? I tried on the title: Mrs. Nick Stiles. Or, no, maybe I’d hyphenate: Mrs. Nick Hayes-Stiles. Zoe Hayes-Stiles. I tried the various combinations. Mr. and Mrs., or Ms.; Nick and Zoe Stiles and Hayes or both. But wait—what was I thinking? How was I even considering marriage to Nick? How could I let him be Molly’s stepfather when I didn’t really know how his first wife had died? Had it been an accident or suicide? Or had he murdered her? Why was his former sister-in-law convinced of his guilt? And why hadn’t he told me about her, that she wanted to kill him, that she’d invaded my home? What other myriad of secrets was Nick keeping? What about openness or honesty or trust?
I couldn’t absorb any of it, and I lay in bed exhausted, mind spinning, watching Nick sleep until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to deal with the truth and, drunk or sober, I couldn’t wait. I put a hand on each of his shoulders and shook.
“Hunnhh.” Nick’s eyes popped open. In a heartbeat he sat up, braced for an attack. Looking around, seeing no one but me, he began to relax. “What?” He rubbed his face, trying to wake up.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “I just need to know. Did you kill your wife?”
He blinked a few times, still half asleep. “Did I what?” Then, as if to help himself understand my question, he repeated it. Finally, its meaning must have registered; Nick threw off his covers and stormed out of bed.
THIRTY-SIX
THE A
RGUMENT WAS NOT PRETTY. I DON’T KNOW HOW IT ESCAlated so quickly, how we evolved from an affectionate, loving couple to a pair of predators, jabbing at each other’s most vulnerable parts. But somehow the discussion became heated and grew hotter until it finally exploded.
For my part, I threw coal on the flames, firing questions at Nick. Before he could answer one, I asked another, jumping randomly from topic to topic, voicing all the unmentionable unasked questions that had been festering in my mind, preventing me from trusting him, holding us apart. How come you didn’t tell me you were liaison to the FBI? Why didn’t you tell the FBI that Agent Ellis had questioned me or that she was working for the cartel? Why haven’t you told me the whole story about your wife’s death? Why didn’t you tell me that the person who’d broken into my house was your wife’s sister? Who is Kiddo2, anyhow?
Until the questions about Kiddo2, Nick did a convincing job of defending himself. He told me again his version of how his wife had died. When she found out that he was leaving her, she’d shot him in the face, then killed herself. I asked him to explain what I’d read in old newspapers about the case. I asked why his wife, a left-handed woman, had shot herself in the right side of her head. Why they’d found gunfire residue on his hands. I asked him, once and for all, to deal with that.
Nick’s face hardened as he spoke. His eyes became steel and his jaw clenched. But he answered me. He said they’d struggled. The gun had gone off during the struggle. His hands had been on the gun when she’d shot him in the face. After that, he’d been unconscious, had no idea what had happened.
Did I believe him? Could I? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t stop, though. I was on a roll, asking questions, demanding answers. He explained why he hadn’t mentioned the liaison position; he simply hadn’t thought it was all that important. It hadn’t been a secret, but with everything else that had been going on, it hadn’t seemed worth talking about. As for Agent Ellis, he suspected that the FBI had been compromised, that possibly more agents were being paid off by the trafficking cartel. He wasn’t sure Ellis was the only one, so he wasn’t sharing his thoughts with anyone yet. He had answers for everything, but his patience was waning. Nick wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of an interrogation. Clearly, he didn’t like it, especially in the middle of the night by a half-drunk woman he’d just asked to marry him.
When I asked about the break-in, about Kiddo2, he became quiet. Instead of answering, Nick sat silent, muscles tensed, no longer interested in defending himself. I could smell his anger rising, smoldering like burned flesh. But I was relentless, waiting for an answer.
Finally, he spoke. “How do you know about Kiddo2?”
Oh, God, I realized. I had to admit I’d read his e-mail. Oh, well. It had been right there on my computer screen. “I saw the e-mail.”
“What did you do, hack into my password?”
Was he crazy? “Nick, you left your mail up when you used my computer.”
The memory registered on his face. “So? Does that mean you can read my mail? What about privacy, Zoe? What would happen if you found me reading your e-mail?”
“That’s entirely different—”
He laughed out loud, an ugly bark. “I don’t know, Zoe. Clearly you’ve been harboring some doubts about me. Digging up old newspaper articles about my wife’s death. Now you’re reading my e-mail. Why? To check up on me? What about trust? What about respecting my privacy?”
From there, it all went south. Nick became belligerent. His eyes narrowed. Half his face contorted; he didn’t even look like himself.
“Okay.” His voice was clipped, razor-sharp. “You want to know about Kiddo2? Okay. I’ll tell you. Kiddo2 is Heather. My wife’s younger sister. She had a crush on me, mistook my fondness for her as . . . encouragement. So, when my wife…after the suicide, Heather came on to me. She wanted … a romantic relationship. I was frankly dumbfounded. I wasn’t particularly gentle about it, either. I rejected her pretty bluntly. She couldn’t take that. She became obsessed. Came after me. Stalking, calling night and day and hanging up, e-mailing. Blaming me for her sister’s death. Swearing to get even. Finally, she broke into my apartment and waited until I came home, then jumped me with a meat cleaver. She’s been away for the past five years, attempted murder. But she’s out. And the first thing she’s done is come after me again.”
“So you knew—”
“I knew. It was Heather who broke into your house. It was Heather who messed up the photos. It wasn’t the slave traffickers. It was Heather.” His eyes met mine but his gaze was guarded. Still hiding something?
“If I hadn’t insisted, you’d never have told me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t believe you, Nick.” My voice was venomous. “I don’t know what you hold back, what you don’t tell me, whether to trust you—”
“How is that my fault? You had trouble trusting people long before I was around. As I recall, you yourself told me you have trouble letting down your guard and that trust is a problem for you.”
Wham. I’d been blindsided, symbolically punched between the gut. Nick had used my weakness, something I’d confided to him, as ammunition. He was turning the tables. Hitting below the belt. Making it my fault, not his, that I didn’t trust him. No, I wasn’t going to let him. This confrontation was mine; I’d do the steering. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts.
“My problems aren’t the issue here, Nick. Why didn’t you warn me about Heather? The woman came after you with a meat cleaver. How could you not tell me? How could you put me and Molly at risk?”
“Dammit, Zoe. Heather isn’t going to hurt you or Molly. The only one she wants to hurt is me.”
“Really?” I was sputtering. “What if we happen to be there?” “She won’t mess with you. With either of you.” “How can you be sure of that?”
“You’ll just have to trust me.” Half his face smirked sarcastic.
“Give me one reason to trust you. Just one. An hour ago, you asked me to marry you. Are you kidding? How am I supposed to even consider marrying you? A man who can’t be open? Who doesn’t tell the truth? Who conceals his past and keeps the present secret? Who doesn’t tell me even the smallest details, like, ‘Oh, by the way, dear, my former sister-in-law’s a psychomaniac stalker who’s been breaking into your home and may appear any second with a meat cleaver to kill me’?”
I finished, flushed and breathless, not even sure of what I’d said. The words had flown out of my mouth. Nick sat still, not saying anything. Then he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt. The silence crystallized, dense as ice.
“Where are you going?” My voice cracked.
He was out the bedroom door. “I can’t do this, Zoe.”
I followed. Maybe I’d been too harsh. Said too much without thinking. “Why—what do you mean?
He was halfway down the stairs, didn’t stop. “I mean, I can’t do this. I need some air.”
I stood at the top of the stairs, watching as he stepped into his flip-flops and opened the door. Before he left, he turned and looked up at me. Our eyes met, but he didn’t say a word.
Neither did I.
THIRTY-SEVEN
IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT.FOR A WHILE I SAT on the stairs, looking down at the door, half expecting it to open and bring Nick back. I replayed bits and pieces of the argument, trying to justify my position, rewriting my words, reinterpreting Nick’s. “I can’t do this.” What had he meant? He couldn’t fight? He couldn’t explain himself? He couldn’t do our relationship?
I waited, expecting that he’d walk around the block and come back, cooled off, and we’d talk. We’d make up. I’d apologize and he’d explain. We’d both promise to be more patient, more open with each other. To work harder on our relationship, become closer. To find Heather and send her back to jail. I was at least half at fault. I hadn’t been open with Nick, either, letting suspicions and problems simmer so long before talking to him about them. Ma
ybe we’d be better now, both of us learning from the fight. Maybe, if he’d ask me again, I’d accept his proposal.
I sat on the steps until my back ached, then went back to the bedroom. Twelve fifty-seven. I sat on the bed but couldn’t lie down, not without Nick. His pillow was dented where he’d slept, the sheets on his side lay disgruntled, tossed aside as he’d stood to get dressed. My head and body ached, probably the beginnings of a hangover, and phrases from our fight began to ricochet against the walls.
I couldn’t stay there. I put on a robe and went down to the living room. Then into the kitchen for some headache pills. Then back to the sofa. Then back to the kitchen for a strong cup of coffee. I watched the clock, listened for the door. At one thirty, I decided to be an adult. Why fight? What good was pride or winning or losing? Wherever he was, Nick was probably stewing just as I was. But where was he? Nick and I had never fought before, not like this. Not where he’d walked out. I had no idea how our fight would affect him, what he’d do to calm down. I called his cell phone. No answer. Lord, I thought. Was he too angry even to pick up his phone? Too angry to speak to me?
It didn’t seem like Nick to shut me out entirely. Maybe he’d turned his phone off. Maybe he’d left it in his car. Maybe he’d be back any minute. I waited. I watched out the window. I replayed the fight, again and again, trying to make excuses for his words and mine. Trying to end it differently in my mind. Why had he walked out? Were we finished? I didn’t want to be finished. I loved Nick. I didn’t trust him, but I couldn’t think about him without my entire chest cavity fluttering. I thought of his eyes, so pale they looked more silver than blue. His rugged, craggy face, made vulnerable by the scar carved across his cheek. The way he fit into our lives, Molly’s and mine, and made us feel like a family. His banana pancakes and pasta sauces. His love of the outdoors. And of rowing.
Rowing. I thought of Susan and Coach Everett, our awful lesson, and I remembered the darkness of the water when we found the nineteen women. And the spirals began. My head swam with images of Sonia and the priest. Agent Ellis, dead on the bench.
