I had to give this diary to the police. Immediately.
I pulled out my phone. Detective Hagerty had warned me to take precautions against anybody finding out that I was working with them. The line “snitches get stitches” exists for a reason, he’d said. The threat of retaliation is real. I’d listed him not as Hagerty, but as “Hayley from the restaurant,” in case someone at Windswept searched through my contacts. I found his number, but then hesitated, my thumb over the screen. Handing over Nina’s diary would be an irrevocable step. The journal implicated both Connor and Juliet. They could go to prison. They would. Not just her. Him, too. Deep down, I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want to lose him. Was I ready to give up hope of his innocence? Did I honestly believe he’d been lying to me all along—not just about Nina, but about his feelings for me? At least, before taking this very final action, I could talk to Gloria. There were so many unanswered questions. Where and when did she find the diary? Why did she keep it hidden, instead of giving it to the police? And why did she turn it over to me? Gloria must have read the journal and known about Nina’s accusations, or else she would have had no reason to give it to me when I’d begged her to tell me what really happened. Did she believe that what Nina had written was true? Did she have evidence that could prove that? There had to be more that Gloria could tell me. At the very least, I should ask her, before turning in my own husband for murder—even if he’d done that to me.
I unlocked the master-bedroom door and stuck my head out, straining to hear if Connor or Juliet had returned. But Windswept was so big that there was no way to tell just by listening. The sound of footsteps, or even voices, would be lost amid the creaks and sighs of an old house and the distant crash of surf on sand. Playing it safe, I wrapped the diary in the towel and shoved it back under the pillow. I put the photo in my pocket and went in search of Gloria.
She was no longer in the kitchen. I wandered the darkened first floor, afraid to turn on lights for fear of attracting attention. The echoing parlors, the glittering, high-ceilinged dining room, the ornate library were all empty and silent except for my own footsteps. Gloria must’ve gone back to her room. I knew she lived in the staff quarters on the third floor, but so did Juliet. I’d never been up there. As I climbed the two sets of steep stairs, I worked on my cover story, just in case I ran into Juliet.
There was a door at the top of the stairs to the third floor, but it was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped into a space that felt like a different planet from the rest of the house. The first two floors of Windswept boasted ceilings of twelve or thirteen feet, even higher in the ballroom, with elaborate moldings, murals, sconces, chandeliers, exquisite carpeting, expensive wallpaper, paintings, and objets d’art. This floor was cheap and dingy, with grimy, old carpet, faded paint, and ceilings so low that I felt claustrophobic. How the other half lives—and for most of my life, I’d been in that half.
Four doors opened off the narrow, windowless hall. The only way to find Gloria’s room would be trial and error. The first door on the right was not only unlocked, it was ajar. I pushed lightly, and the door opened inward. Lit only by the moonlight that filtered through the single, dormered window, the room was clearly lived-in, though unoccupied at the moment. It was tucked under the eaves of Windswept’s great roof, and the sharply slanted ceiling made it impossible to stand along one side. I flicked on the flashlight from my phone. The cramped space was cluttered with furniture and personal effects, as if it had been lived in for years. There was a narrow bed, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a rickety chair covered with clothing. I recognized a black uniform on top of the pile. I was in the right place, but Gloria was not here.
I was just turning to leave when a framed photograph on the dresser-top caught my eye. I stepped over to the dresser, its battered surface strewn with her things. There was a bottle of Tylenol, several pairs of earrings, a couple of lipsticks, a hairbrush with black hairs clinging to it. And a photo—of Gloria and Juliet, standing in front of a massive Christmas tree in Windswept’s entry foyer. Their arms were around each other’s waists. Juliet looked happier than I’d ever seen her before. Gloria appeared uncomfortable. Yet, there was something about the photo, something I couldn’t put my finger on, that troubled me.
Were the two of them closer than I knew? Then, why would Gloria give me Nina’s diary, which implicated Juliet so unequivocally? Still, I needed to be careful. I didn’t understand this place well enough to know where people’s true loyalties might lie.
As I backed out of Gloria’s room, leaving the door the same amount ajar that I’d found it, my gaze fell on the room next door. Juliet kept a room here, on this floor. She had a place of her own in the city but stayed over frequently when Nina was alive because her job required it. She’d continued the practice since I’d been here, living at Windswept full-time, though now I had to wonder why. She claimed it was necessary in order to inventory Nina’s things for auction, but was there some darker purpose? Keeping an eye on me? On the investigation? Here was a chance to sneak into her room when she was out, to see if I could find evidence that would be of interest to the DA.
I knocked first, just to be sure she hadn’t come back without my knowledge. There was no answer, and the door was locked. I went through my key ring, found a key that fit, and let myself in. This room was the same size as the one next door but felt larger and airier because it lacked the slanted ceiling. It was also sparsely furnished and meticulously kept—bed made, clothes put away, nothing left on the surface of the dresser or the desk. Checking the closet, I found four black pantsuits on hangers, spaced at perfect intervals. I was in the right place. This was Juliet’s room, and she was a neat freak.
I heard a creak in the hallway and froze, listening. After a moment or two, when there was nothing more, I crossed to the small desk and sat down in the chair. My blood pressure had shot up. I felt a pulse beating in my temples as I examined the desk. The two file-cabinet-style drawers to the right of the footwell were locked. I tried a few keys from my key ring, but nothing fit. The middle drawer pulled open easily. It contained a tray filled with paper clips and rubber bands. I lifted the tray out and underneath found a small key, which opened the file drawers. The top drawer held little of interest—Kleenex, pads of paper, more office supplies, a pack of gum. But the bottom one was filled with files in hanging folders. The labels made me catch my breath. “Genealogy.” “Birth and Custody Records.” Those should help prove Juliet’s false identity. There was no time to waste. I could be interrupted at any moment. I pulled out the “Birth and Custody” file and opened it on the desk.
The birth certificate was right on top and gave her name as Julissa Maria Davila, her father as unknown, and her mother as—
Her mother as Gloria Maria Davila Maldonado.
Gloria? My Gloria? The woman who’d just given me a diary saying that Juliet was using a fake name, and that Nina believed she planned to kill her? That same Gloria was Juliet’s mother? It made no sense, and yet it struck me with the force of truth and I realized now what had troubled me about the photograph of the two of them together in front of the Christmas tree. There was a family resemblance between the two women.
Whatever this meant, I knew it was of critical importance, so I pulled out my phone, photographed the birth certificate, and texted it to Hagerty. Next, I examined the photo of the newborn baby in its mother’s arms. This had to be Juliet—Julissa—and her mother, simply by virtue of being in that same file folder. There was no way to tell if the red-faced little baby was Juliet. But was the mother Gloria? I looked more closely at the girl in the photo—for she was a girl. Thin, dark-haired, pretty, and very, very young. A teenager, with an air of sadness despite the baby in her arms. She’d changed so much, but the shape of the eyes and nose gave her away. It was Gloria.
As I looked closer, I noticed something else, so shocking that I gasped out loud. The narrow room, with its slanted ceiling. I’d been in there minutes ago. This photo of baby Julissa ha
d been taken in the room next door. Gloria had given birth while she worked here at Windswept. I remembered something that Nina had written in her diary—something about a baby crying?
Father unknown.
Hands shaking, I photographed the photo itself, then the other documents in the file—adoption papers, a motion for termination of parental rights, a motion for unsealing of adoption records, and more. When I’d finished with that folder, I replaced it and moved on to the next one. I started with the first of five separate folders labeled “Lawsuit.” As I laid down a legal document to take its picture, the title of it stopped me cold. “Julissa M. Davila, Plaintiff, v. Edward M. Levitt, Defendant.” The date stamp on the front of the document showed that it had been filed in court nearly ten years earlier. As I flipped to the next page, the words leaped out at me—“rape,” “acknowledgment of paternity,” “abandonment,” “child support.” Juliet had sued Edward Levitt, alleging that she was Edward’s biological daughter, the product of his rape of his employee, Gloria Maldonado.
Juliet had told Nina this house was hers by right. This was what she’d meant.
Gloria had said, She’s her father’s daughter. And this was what she had meant—that Juliet—Lissa—was Edward Levitt’s offspring.
Just then, I heard footsteps outside the bedroom door. I put the file back, closed the desk drawer, and locked it. As the door to the room began to swing inward, I jumped up and moved away from the desk.
Connor stood in the doorway. His figure in the dim light had an air of menace.
“What are you doing sneaking around up here?” he said, as he advanced toward me.
39
He stopped a few feet away from me. I searched his eyes in the semidarkness, looking for the Connor I knew, the one who loved me, the father of my child. But his face was a mask of suspicion and anger.
“I—I was looking for Juliet,” I said.
“Alone in her room in the dark?”
I felt vulnerable, in this cramped room on this empty floor, cut off from the rest of the house. I needed to put some space between us.
“I was just—I was going to leave her a note, but it can wait. Come downstairs. I need to ask you something important.”
I pushed past him, heart hammering, afraid he’d try to grab me. But he simply followed me down the stairs and into our room, shutting the door behind him. In the bright light of the master bedroom, I could see that stress was taking its toll on him. He looked as bad as I did, his skin gray, his eyes red, his tie hanging askew against a crumpled white shirt. I had to fight a rush of sympathy. This Connor didn’t deserve my concern. This Connor had let me be charged with murder, and had not even shown up to the courthouse.
“Where were you today?” I said, my voice dripping with disgust. “I went to jail, with our baby inside me, and you didn’t bother showing up. You didn’t come to court. You sent a useless lawyer. You didn’t even call. For all you knew, I could still be rotting there, and you wouldn’t care.”
Connor’s face went red, but he kept his voice calm as he replied.
“If you want to know the truth, I was trying to cool down before I had to face you. I was so angry.”
“You’re angry at me?” I demanded, pacing up and down just out of his reach, so furious that I was panting.
“Calm down. This is bad for the baby.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. You know what’s bad for the baby? Sleeping on a hard bench in an ice-cold cell. Going to jail for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“I sent a lawyer.”
“Courtney Whatever-the-fuck? Please. She had no clue, and you knew it. You wanted her to fail.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you framed me.”
“First of all, I didn’t. And second, you put yourself in this position. When were you planning to tell me that you have a rap sheet? That you’re a drug dealer? That you sold exactly the same type of pill that Nina died from? Don’t you think that was something I had a right to know before deciding to marry you?”
For a moment, I had the strangest sensation of staring down at us from above. If I stepped outside myself, I was the one who looked guilty, not Connor. Maybe his anger was justified. Maybe he hadn’t killed Nina and wasn’t trying to frame me. But then, how did he explain Juliet? I had proof right there in my jeans pocket not just of her false identity, but of their preexisting relationship. I ran my finger over the smooth surface of the photo of the two of them together. I was tempted to pull it out and throw it in his face. But I had to be more strategic than that. I was supposed to be tricking Connor into implicating himself in Nina’s death for the benefit of the police who were recording our conversation. I didn’t exactly have a plan for doing that, other than getting him talking about the murder.
“I had nothing to do with Nina’s death,” I said to Connor. “And you know that.”
“I’m not accusing you of killing her,” he said. “I don’t believe you’d do that. But you have a criminal record for selling drugs. You were here at Windswept the night she died, along with your ex, who attacked Steve Kovacs. What the hell am I supposed to make of that? You know how bad it looks?”
“Yes, bad enough to get me arrested for a murder I didn’t commit. I’m surprised you’re upset, given how convenient that is for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look, I’m sorry I never told you about Derek. I was waiting for the right time. Those were his drugs, not mine. I didn’t even know they were there. I only pled guilty because they offered me a misdemeanor with no jail time, and my lawyer said it was the best deal I could get.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth. And here’s another truth. You’re the one with the motive to kill Nina. Not me. What would I gain from her death?”
“What would you gain? Me. This house to live in. Clothes and vacations, servants, private jets.”
“You had that, and you cared about it more than I ever could. Yet, you were about to lose it. Nina was going to divorce you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do, Connor. I know it for a fact.”
“How?”
I sat down on the bed. Nina’s journal was hidden under the pillows, inches from my fingers. I was itching to pull it out and toss it at his head. If only the police were listening in, I would have. But the recording device in the ankle bracelet was not a transmitter. They couldn’t hear me in real time. The only way to summon them was to push the panic button. How was I supposed to do that with Connor standing over me?
“Because, I know you were planning to use my record against me. At least, Julissa was.”
Connor’s jaw dropped. “Ju-Julissa?”
“Why else did you two show up at my restaurant Memorial Day weekend? She knew all about me. She set me up,” I said.
I’d been trying hard to keep my voice steady, but it came out small and shaky and filled with sorrow. Hot tears started rolling down my cheeks. We stared at each other, everything between us so broken. He hung his head.
“Nooo,” he said. “Tabby, no.”
“No, what? Are you saying it’s not true? Then explain this.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photo. It had gotten crumpled along one edge. I smoothed it against the fabric of my jeans. He stared at the picture in stunned silence.
“This is very much how I remember you. Back then, that summer when we fell in love—I thought. But here you are with her, not long afterward.”
“You got that from her room?” he asked.
Let him believe I’d found the photo in Juliet’s room. That way, I’d protect Gloria, who had at least tried to help me.
“She’s not who she says she is,” I said. “She wormed her way into working for Nina under a false name. Then the two of you killed Nina for the money.”
“That is completely wrong. Please, tell me you don’t believe that. You
can’t.”
He grabbed my hands, but I pulled them away.
“You brought me here to take the fall for Nina’s death. You were with Juliet this whole time.”
“No. I completely deny it.”
“Don’t lie. It’ll just make me hate you more.”
There was a tortured look in his hazel eyes. “I’m not lying. Tabby. How can you think I faked my feelings for you? It’s the most I’ve ever felt for anyone.”
“You faked your feelings for Nina. I know that to be true. So, why not with me, too?”
That brought him up short. “Well, okay—maybe. I mean, not exactly, but there’s some truth to what you just said. Since we’ve been together, I’ve changed. I sincerely have. Still, I deserve your doubts. I see that, because of my past.”
He rubbed his eyes, which were red and watery. He was fighting tears.
“Please, hear me out. I’ll tell you the whole truth, even if it makes you hate me. But you have to try to see my side, like I’m doing, with you and the drugs. At least keep an open mind. Please?”
“Yes. I’ll try. Go ahead.”
“This will only make sense if I start at the beginning. Okay.”
He took a deep breath. “I met Lissa in college, and we were together briefly. The relationship meant more to her than it did to me. Honestly, I still had you on my mind, and that’s not a lie. I wasn’t happy with myself. I was confused. My grades suffered. I left school for a while. Lissa and I broke up. She was fragile. Mental health issues. She had a tough upbringing—foster homes until she got adopted when she was ten. She actually attempted suicide after we broke up. I felt guilty, and protective of her. So I kept in touch. Not out of love. It was obligation. And friendship. Maybe it was more to her, though.”
He paused for breath. I watched his eyes. I believed he was telling the truth about Juliet, but so what? His sob story didn’t change the facts that Nina had been murdered and I was being framed.
The Wife Who Knew Too Much Page 25
