The Case for Jamie

by Brittany Cavallaro

  Hadrian bent and picked up the lighter, then pocketed it.

  “Hi,” I said, dumbly.

  He jerked his head, a greeting.

  “I thought you’d—run.”

  “I did,” he said. “Behind the hedges by the house. It’s best to stay close for as long as you can, before you make a break for it.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I smelled the petrol,” he said, by way of explanation. “Here,” and he pulled a bowie knife from his pocket. Flicked it open.

  I wrenched myself away from him, panting. From the spit to the fire—

  He rolled his eyes. “No, kid. Stop,” and he got to work sawing the rope off. “Next time this happens to you, you shimmy. Like you’re dancing, okay? He didn’t even tie your hands.”

  “Next time. Okay.”

  “Yeah.” He tossed the ropes to the concrete floor. “Get up,” he said, “and get lost.”

  On the ground, Alistair Holmes was already beginning to stir.

  I rubbed my arms, trying to coax feeling back into them. “Why did you help me?”

  Hadrian looked down at Alistair. “He deserves to rot in a cell. He doesn’t get to pick his ending. He doesn’t get to burn down the house I’m hiding in, either, even if it is his own.” With that, he spat on the ground. “As for you—”

  I waited for him to say it. You’re just a dumb kid. You’ve been conned. Used. You’re in over your head. Go home to your mother. The things that had been scrolling through my head since we landed back in the UK.

  “You’re not done yet,” he said, and tossed me the knife. “Now get out of here.”

  The detective said later she found me wandering outside, dazed and covered in gasoline, holding a blade in my hands. I told her someone had done it to me, that I didn’t know who. I don’t know why I lied. Maybe I couldn’t face the idea of more of this day, this week, unending, stretching out into court dates and arguments. More battles in this war.

  Maybe that was what you did—bent the truth open until it made a big enough hole for you to escape.

  They asked me to describe him, the man who’d tied me up. I said I couldn’t. I said it wasn’t a big deal.

  I still don’t know why they believed me. Maybe they thought I’d done it to myself.

  They kept me at the hospital overnight, for shock. Alistair’s diagnosis had been correct. I stayed another half day there, my mother sleeping in the hard plastic chair by my bed, and then after another round of interrogations, my father arrived, and they released me to London into my parents’ care.

  What haunted me most wasn’t the ropes, or the chair, or the gasoline, though those played recurring parts in my nightmares. It wasn’t Alistair, or Hadrian’s crisis of conscience. It was that we’d had the time, Holmes and I. Three long minutes before the police made it to us, enough for her to turn to me and say, This is what you have to do, and why you have to do it.

  No, what haunted me most was that I knew, had I confessed to August’s murder there on the lawn, Holmes would have found a way to clear my name. But she was letting her brother walk free for his mistake. She’d given up Bryony Downs to God knows what fate. She’d played judge and jury for Hadrian and Phillipa. And now she was letting herself be led away for a crime she didn’t commit, and she would walk away from it unscathed, and there would be no one doing time for August’s death.

  It wasn’t hers to decide. It wasn’t mine, either. Charlotte Holmes had told me once that she wasn’t a good person. That day I’d begun to believe it.

  Twenty

  Charlotte

  WILL YOU BE THERE? AT THE PARTY TONIGHT? I TOOK A breath, and sent it.

  A minute. Then: Yeah.

  Watson, I thought. Something was buzzing in my head. He was there. He was talking to me. Even now, he was typing—

  He’s watching me. I have to go.

  I asked four times for a follow-up. Received none. I hesitated, then switched the phone back off.

  Watson, I thought, and Lucien Moriarty, and I turned the volume down on what I was feeling until I couldn’t hear it anymore.

  “Put your shoes on,” Leander was saying. “I hope you two are all set to kiss and make up.”

  “Uncle.”

  “Where did I put my jacket?”

  “Uncle. I think Lucien’s at the party.”

  “Cold feet?”

  I tried very hard not to stamp my foot like a child. “I’m serious.”

  He sighed, and got back up to finish stuffing his bag with dry goods. “That really is the lowest excuse I think I’ve heard you use,” he said. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Leander. Look at me.” Grudgingly, he did. “Watson said he was being watched by someone. A male someone, and then he stopped responding. On the off chance that I’m right. That that is what Jamie is saying. What do we do?”

  My uncle set the duffel bag aside, and hoisted up the shotgun he’d left sitting on the counter.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Any ideas?”

  Twenty-One

  Jamie

  I COULDN’T GET MY FATHER ALONE.

  We were at a fancy restaurant in SoHo, in New York City, that my mother had researched and booked the week before. All of us were there: my father, my mum, Lucien Moriarty. The whole happy gang. Abigail drove out with us too—she’d been upstairs when we’d arrived home, setting up the guest bedroom—though she’d left Malcolm and Robbie with their grandmother.

  It was for the best. I didn’t know what would happen tonight, but two small children had no business being in the middle of it.

  Lucien—“Ted”—kept calling the waiter over for more wine, more cocktails, more lobster, more filet mignon. He did it in a way that was unobtrusive, conspiratorial. The food arrived at his elbow like it would at a king’s, and he would smile at the rest of us, a bit sheepishly, and say, “Do you want to try this? I hear it’s very good.” They’d put us at a round table in a small private room so we could hear each other better, but Lucien was dominating the conversation.

  He told my father he liked his coat, then wrote down the name of the shop where he’d bought it. He asked Abigail endless questions about Malcolm and Robbie—did they like their school? Their teachers? What scamps—what sort of trouble did they get up to? Then he pulled my mother in and asked if I had been like them as a child, and I watched as, for the first time, my mother and Abigail had a conversation that wasn’t stilted and awful and loaded with resentment. Jamie had taken that long to toilet train too, my mother was saying, and Lucien held my mother’s hand, running his thumb over the silver wedding band on her finger.

  He was terrifying.

  He was so much more terrifying than if he had been obviously cruel. That would have been confirmation. I would have had certainty. Would have felt justified in doing what I needed to do.

  And now all I could think was, I’m going crazy.

  I’d been staging an investigation into the wrongdoings against me like I was . . . Batman, or something. But I’d been having panic attacks. I’d been lashing out at Elizabeth; I’d been hiding things from my friends; I’d been accusing people of conspiring against me, as though I were so important that people would go out of their way to mess my life up.

  As though they enacted some grand scheme against me, and the pièce de résistance was spraying a can of soda onto my laptop.

  But what if . . . what if I had done it to myself? What if I’d deleted my physics presentation by accident? What if I’d never written it in the first place? I was sleep-deprived, on high alert, I was throwing up whenever I even thought about last year, and maybe I was doing all this to myself, I was manufacturing situations to match the panic in my head. What if I was hallucinating? Blacking out? What if my sister was just a girl at a perfectly fine new school who hated it, who wanted her brother to take her home?

  I was paranoid, I had been ever since I met Charlotte Holmes, but—why on earth would Lucien Moriarty take the time to
woo and marry my mother? As though I needed so badly to treat my mother’s remarriage as a personal affront to me that I’d decided her new husband was the boogeyman.

  It wasn’t far-fetched. I’d treated my father’s remarriage that way.

  Oh God.

  What if my mum had just found a really nice guy who wanted to make her happy?

  I spent the whole dinner staring at him. I couldn’t even be subtle about it. When we’d first sat down, I’d been texting Holmes under the table, when Lucien—Ted—had put a hand on my shoulder. “This is a bit embarrassing,” he was saying, “and I don’t want to boss you around, but do you mind if you put your phone in the middle of the table?”

  Confirmation. Confirmation that I wasn’t losing my mind. He knew I was reaching out for help, he wanted to get my lifeline out of my hands—

  Desperately, I looked up at my father. He was switching his phone to silent. Abigail was too.

  “It’s a game we’ve been playing on nice occasions,” my mother said, “out with our friends. It helps us stay present. Everyone puts their phone in a stack in the center of the table, and the first person who caves to check theirs has to buy dinner.”

  She and Lucien shared a conspiratorial look. “Not that I’ll make any of you pick up this tab,” he said. “But I’ve been so eager to get to know you all.”

  I watched as he placed my phone at the top of the stack.

  “There,” my mother said. “Isn’t that better?”

  I sat next to him at dinner, this man who had orchestrated murders, told lies for politicians, blackmailed, cheated, infected me with a deadly virus and then dangled the antidote out of my reach. I refilled his wineglass. I listened to him tell my parents, at length, about how he’d gone to a wilderness school just like Shelby’s. “I’d always loved horses,” he said. “I was so happy when I found out we had that in common.”

  My mother squeezed his hand. “Shel loved her new school when we first arrived, you know. We’d signed the paperwork and everything. Such a beautiful campus! Impressive buildings. They even had a full medical facility—I imagine in case there’s any riding accidents.”

  “And then the poor girl calls when we’ve hours away and begs us to come back and get her.”

  “Homesickness,” my father said, shaking his head. “It’s very real.”

  “She’ll adjust soon enough,” my mother said.

  I was clenching my jaw so hard I was sure it had gone white.

  As the waiters brought out shrimp and steak, my mother told stories about how the two of them had met—they’d bumped into each other in front of a grocery store; he’d helped her pick up her fruit and veg; just like a film!—and about their whirlwind courtship. “Ted is always traveling for work,” she said, “and I found every time he went away I missed him more.”

  He caught up my mother’s hand and kissed her palm. My own hands seized under the table.

  “My first wife died,” he said quietly, more to my mother than anyone else. “It was slow, and it was painful, and I—I spent a lot of time by her bedside, thinking. I didn’t want to waste any more time. And when I met Gracie—I decided that life was too short, that I needed to take a risk.”

  My mother held their clasped hands to her lips. “From everything you’ve said, Betty was one hell of a woman.”

  Across the table, Abigail’s eyes had filled with tears. My father was diligently cutting up his steak, nodding to himself, as though Ted was some kind of minor prophet.

  That was what got me—what I couldn’t figure out. How much did my dad know? How much had he figured out? Did he look so studiously polite because he was celebrating his ex-wife’s marriage to someone new, or because he knew he was sitting across from Lucien Moriarty, and was biding his time before he acted?

  I tried desperately to catch his eyes across the table. But my father kept staring at his plate, sawing away at his food.

  And my mother—my mother was so happy, her hair done up in curls, her nails painted, a modest ring on her finger. Wouldn’t Lucien Moriarty have gone the whole nine yards? Stuck a giant rock there just for show? But no, there was just the dainty band on her finger, and Ted’s gaze kept returning there, then flickering back up to her face, and I’d be damned if there wasn’t actually affection in his eyes.

  I was officially losing my goddamn mind.

  “Does anyone need anything?” my mother asked, smiling. Everyone shook their heads.

  “I think we’ve had everything on the menu,” Abigail laughed. “It was so wonderful! Thank you.”

  “Do you think it’s time for the cake, then?” Lucien asked, as the waiter appeared in the door to our private room. He made a hand signal, and the man nodded.

  “Ted.” It was the first time my father had spoken in a good half hour. He had on his bluffest tone, the one he reserved for toddlers and criminals and his in-laws. It was clear that, even if he didn’t know who Ted really was, he didn’t like him much. Thank God for that, I thought. Not everyone’s falling for him. “How about you and I sidle over to that excellent-looking bar, and I buy you a drink?”

  “Oh!” Ted said. “I’d love to, but I don’t want to leave Gracie—”

  “No,” my mother said, and beamed at her ex-husband. “Go. I want you and James to get to know each other.”

  And there. There it was.

  Lucien paused.

  It was natural to need a moment before a one-on-one with your wife’s ex-husband. But this wasn’t that. Holmes had taught me a lot of things, and I’d mastered very few of them, but I was getting better at reading people.

  He didn’t look hesitant. He didn’t look scared. He looked, for less than a half second, furiously angry.

  Watching Lucien’s reaction, I had the uncanny feeling that I was watching Holmes at work. The clockwork gears spinning along so quickly the whole thing looked natural. But he must not have seen a way out of it without displeasing his new wife—and without her largess, he was powerless here.

  Well, as powerless as Lucien Moriarty could be.

  “Of course,” Lucien said, pushing back his chair. “Of course, James.”

  “I’m just going to call and see how my boys are doing,” Abigail said. She took her phone from the pile in the center of the table. From the look she shot me as she walked away, I could tell that she thought my mum and I needed a moment alone.

  With her fork, my mother chased her lobster tail around her plate. “You’ve been very quiet,” she said.

  “I know,” I told her. “It’s all been a bit of a shock.”

  She looked at me. “I’m happy, you know. And I’m allowed to be happy.”

  I knew what she wanted from me. The words I should have said. I should have hugged her, should have asked her to tell more stories about her and Ted—What was the courthouse like? Was it really romantic? How did he propose?

  I couldn’t make myself do it.

  “Good,” I said, instead, like an asshole, and we sat there like two strangers, sipping our water.

  Who knew how long my father and Lucien would be? I’d find a way to sneak away. I’d take my phone with me; Abigail had taken hers, and so what if my mother was mad at me for it, it was nothing compared to the alternative. Maybe I was stark raving mad, but I had to know for sure.

  The waitstaff began tidying around us, making room for the cake. I helped them make a stack of dirty plates to take away, more to avoid my mother’s sad eyes than anything else. Lucien had dropped his napkin on the floor when he’d gotten up, and I pulled back his chair to replace it.

  There. On his seat. My phone.

  How had it gotten there, on his seat? I hadn’t seen him take it. I hadn’t seen him look at it.

  How much did he know?

  I had it in my hand and up my sleeve before my mother could see it. “You know, I should use the restroom too. It’s a long trip back home.”

  My mum wasn’t looking at me. “Do you want any dessert?” she asked, quietly.

  “No,�
�� I said, standing up. “Thanks, though.”

  Inside, I locked myself in the restroom stall and hurriedly turned my phone on. I couldn’t tell if he’d gone through my texts, my emails, if he’d slipped something in there to track my messages and calls. I tried to remember what Holmes had told me. A tiny earpiece? I peered into the receiver, but saw nothing.

  And my phone was pinging, over and over, with messages. A long text from Elizabeth: Lexington has been selling to Anna since he got here, but he didn’t front her the thousand dollars. She was flashing it to him too; he said she said something about some kind of daddy. Sugar daddy? Is that what it’s called? Disgusting. I got all of this out of him by telling him I would do his English homework for the rest of the semester. I’m not writing a word.

  Then: Lena says that she thinks she has a lead on where the money ended up. I’m meeting with her in a minute, I’ll report back.

  Then: The money’s real. The crime is real—Lena says that Anna is doubling down on her story. She’s scared of something. She must need the money back.

  Then: Jamie? Are you there? Can we meet tonight after bed check?

  Then, twenty minutes ago, four words from Holmes. We’re on our way.

  Her and Leander, I imagined. So that had been his errand in the city today. I wasn’t surprised.

  I’ll meet you on campus at midnight, I wrote Elizabeth. Inside the Carter Hall tunnel entrance. And to Holmes, I wrote: Where are you?

  The door opened. Someone came in and started washing their hands.

  I’m here, Holmes wrote, and I stood and deleted all of the messages I had, row by row, person by person, painstakingly, and when I opened the stall door Lucien Moriarty grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me through it.

  Twenty-Two

  Charlotte

  WE DIDN’T TAKE THE SHOTGUN. WE TOOK TWO PISTOLS instead. I had mine in my purse; it was the only thing that would fit in there, other than a lipstick. I didn’t bring a lipstick. I brought my lockpick kit, belted to my upper thigh, and I put in my hair clips that could be used as a Phillips-head screwdriver if I needed one, and I thought for a moment about bringing a duffel bag along with us so I could in fact bring the shotgun—it was sawed off expertly, it was a thing of beauty—but that seemed like it would perhaps draw attention.