The Wife: A Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  I clicked “About” on this friend of Rachel’s profile page. He was also a graduate student at NYU. Current work: Fair Share Strategies.

  “Jason, do you know someone named Wilson Stewart?”

  “He’s one of the interns. Why?”

  I rushed to the door when I heard keys in the lock. Jason wrapped his arms around me so tight that I felt a pinch beneath my ribs. I thought I heard him choke back a sob. When he finally let me go, he pressed his forehead lightly against mine and cupped the back of my head with his palm. “Don’t worry, babe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I could tell he didn’t quite believe it, and was only saying it for my benefit. He knew all I ever wanted was a nice, quiet life together.

  10

  When I opened the front door for Colin forty minutes later, he gave me a quick hug. “How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged.

  “Where is he?” Colin asked, his eyes moving up the staircase.

  “Kitchen. Eating ice cream.” That was usually my nervous habit, not his.

  “How about Little Man?”

  “I sent him to school this morning, thinking it would look bad to keep him home. Now I feel selfish.”

  “You did the right thing. No use in him sitting around the house worrying about his parents.”

  In the kitchen, we found Jason at the breakfast table. He greeted Colin with a “Hey, man” and an extended carton of peanut-butter-cup ice cream.

  Colin declined the offer. “A defense attorney named Olivia Randall is on her way over.”

  I had already googled her. Based on the number of newspaper articles about her celebrity clients and high-profile trials, she seemed like a heavy hitter.

  “Does it make Jason look guilty to hire a lawyer so fast? Especially a big-name criminal defense lawyer?”

  Jason apparently had the same concern. “It looks like I’m admitting I did something wrong.”

  “Some girl’s trying to destroy you, Jason, and you’re sitting here with Häagen-Dazs like you’re in a Cathy cartoon.”

  “Ack ack,” Jason said as he got up to put his ice cream away.

  “You’re in denial, friend. This girl started a war with you. She needs to be swatted down like a bug. Olivia Randall will do it.”

  I had seen photographs of Olivia online. Dark hair, intense. Pretty. Not entirely unlike Rachel Sutton. I pushed the thought away. What mattered was that she was a good lawyer, and that’s what Jason needed right now.

  She arrived fifteen minutes later, dressed in a fitted black skirt and a bright green silk blouse. After quick introductions and professional handshakes, she skipped the chitchat and went directly to business.

  “I’m sorry about this, Angela, but you can’t stay—”

  Jason immediately interrupted. “I’ve already told Angela everything.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust. To protect attorney-client privilege, Colin and I need to speak to Jason alone. And, no, it doesn’t matter that you’re his wife. In fact, having Colin or me around while the two of you speak destroys the privilege each of you shares with the other.”

  I already felt like the stupidest person in the room. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  Colin placed a protective hand on my shoulder. “Angela’s the one who found something online about this Rachel girl that might be helpful. Why don’t we go over that first, and then the three of us can speak privately.”

  I opened my laptop from the coffee table as we all got seated. Wilson Stewart’s Facebook page was already pulled up. “This is one of Jason’s other interns at his consulting practice. I found him by clicking on a recent photograph he was tagged in on Rachel’s page.”

  Olivia was leaning in for a closer look.

  “The photo on Rachel’s page was nothing special—the two of them and a female friend. Strictly professional appearing. But on his page, I found this.” I scrolled down to the photograph of him holding up a cocktail and getting kissed on the neck by someone who looked an awful lot like Rachel Sutton. “He didn’t tag her, so she may not even know that he posted it. But this was only two weeks ago, and supposedly she has a fiancé now. That’s how this whole thing came up—Jason said something that offended her when she told him she was engaged.”

  I saw something flicker behind Olivia’s eyes. An idea. Something good, as if she were connecting my information to a fact only she knew. I had been worried that a female attorney might be offended at the thought of trashing the so-called victim, but she seemed pleased by my discovery.

  “Okay, that actually helps a lot. Now, I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to leave us for a bit. I promise, Angela, I’m going to do everything I can for your husband.”

  I felt like a child being sent away while the grown-ups talked. As I passed Jason, he mouthed a silent thank-you and grabbed my hand for a quick kiss. His lips felt warm against my fingertips.

  Twenty minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I opened the bedroom door to see Colin reach the landing.

  “Hey, I thought it would be Jason.”

  “They’re still talking. I figured I’d come check on you. Crim law’s foreign to me anyway—”

  “Am I being stupid?”

  He looked at me, clearly confused by my question.

  “Believing Jason. Am I being stupid? I mean, he says he made some sarcastic comment about her getting married too young, and she turns that into a sexual assault allegation? What am I missing?”

  I felt myself begin to shake. He stepped toward me but stopped short of touching me. “You’re not stupid. Jason did not do this, okay? I think there’s an explanation.”

  He glanced back downstairs. He didn’t want to tell me too much.

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice. Colin’s close-cropped dark hair was beginning to gray, but he still had the same clean-cut, heart-shaped face that had led me to nickname him Boy Scout when we first met. “Olivia made some calls before she came over. She basically found out that there’s no evidence except this girl’s say-so, and what she told the police sounds worse than what she supposedly said to Zack right after the incident.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?”

  “It’s very good, but apparently the girl said something about being able to describe Jason’s underwear. Candy canes or something.”

  I held up a hand to my mouth. “He said he was tucking in his shirt.”

  “Wait,” he said, trying to calm me. “That picture you found of her sucking on that kid’s neck might be a better explanation. Jason said there are urinals in the men’s rooms at the econ department.”

  I was able to connect the other dots myself. The interns get drunk. Rachel and Wilson hook up. Wilson says something about spotting their hero’s unexpected boxer shorts in the men’s room. Rachel uses that fact to strengthen a flimsy accusation she made for god knows what reason.

  “So is that what happened? Did Olivia call Wilson already?”

  “We don’t need him to say anything. Jason doesn’t have to prove his innocence. They have to prove his guilt. This gives us an alternative explanation for what she claims to have seen in his office. It gives us a legitimate reason to make an issue of that picture you found.”

  A legitimate reason. But we all knew the real reason that photograph had been a good find. It made Rachel look like “that kind of girl.”

  I heard the staccato clicks of high heels on the hardwood of the first floor, and then spotted Olivia Randall looking up at us.

  “We’re almost done, Angela. Sorry, again. Colin, you want to come down for a quick talk before I go?”

  I returned to our bedroom and opened the top left drawer of our dresser. A pair of crisp cotton boxer shorts adorned with bright red candy canes were folded neatly at the back, behind a uniform row of Jason’s go-to black boxer briefs. The candy canes were a gag gift, something to fill space in his Christmas stocking. I remembered the first time I saw him in them as he was climbing into bed. He said I was shaking
both the mattress and his manliness with my laughter.

  I lifted them from the back of the drawer and placed them in the bottom of my gym bag. I would find a garbage can on the street tomorrow.

  11

  Corrine Duncan was making her fifth call to ADA Brian King since she’d seen the first story about Jason Powell that morning. Once again, no answer.

  King had declined the case almost immediately after Corrine submitted her reports. Corrine had hoped that he would deliver the news to Rachel himself, but apparently he hadn’t. When Rachel called her yesterday, looking for an update, Corrine had delivered the message: it was one person’s word against another in a system where the government had to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. It was a speech she had recited hundreds of times.

  Rachel’s response still burned in her mind. “So is there no way to prove such a thing?” she asked, her voice jumping an octave. “Instead of pulling back, I should have waited until he raped me so I’d have scientific evidence?”

  Corrine had to admit, the woman had a point. In a world where DNA evidence could make or break a case, sex offenders could grab and grope and grind and gratify, as long as they didn’t leave behind physical evidence.

  In theory, handfuls of people could have leaked the complaint against Jason Powell. Records clerks. Her lieutenant. Friends of Rachel. Rachel, of course. But Rachel had already called Corrine twice this morning, wondering how the Post found out about her complaint.

  Corrine had another theory.

  It was the way she and Brian King had left their last conversation. After King concluded they didn’t have anything close to enough evidence to take to trial, Corrine had suggestions for investigating further. King had rejected every one of them. “You’d be wasting your time,” he insisted. “We know how this plays out. It’s her word against his, with no way of meeting our burden. Not with her word alone.”

  Not with her word alone.

  That was the phrase she remembered when she saw Jason Powell’s name pop up on her phone’s New York Post alert this morning.

  She tried King’s number again, and this time he picked up.

  “King,” like he didn’t know who was calling.

  “You could have given me a heads-up,” she said.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. She was used to this—ADAs who liked to play boss over the police. There was something about Corrine—black, female, grown-up, straightforward—that threw them off their game.

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “Two days ago, you sounded perfectly willing to let the case go.”

  “I called a law school friend of mine who works in the career services office of NYU law school. She asked around. No official complaints, but there are rumors.”

  “Of?”

  “Something off. Maybe he’s just the hot professor who students dream about, but some people get a bad vibe off him. A little too cute, a little too flirty. A guy on the prowl.”

  Corrine thought about King’s initial comment about his ex-girlfriend’s celebrity crush on Powell.

  “You heard from anyone yet?” she asked.

  “It’s only been a few hours,” he said.

  She’d seen this before when weak charges were filed against someone with the profile of a potential serial offender. King had let the police report leak in case any other women might want to come forward about incidents they had written off as “misunderstandings.”

  “Any calls on your end?” King asked.

  Thanks to an offshoot series of Law & Order, an increasing number of sex offense victims contacted the special victims unit directly.

  “Nothing yet,” she confirmed. “I guess I better call Rachel back—and, no, I won’t tell her it was you. I’ll make sure she knows to stay in touch. It’s possible that Powell will try to silence her.”

  King didn’t respond, and for a second, Corrine wondered if she’d lost the connection. “You there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I got an e-mail from Olivia Randall.” Corrine recognized the name of one of the biggest pain-in-the-ass defense lawyers in the city. “She says she represents Jason Powell and has information I might be interested in. That sounds fun.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to stir up some trouble. Looks like you may have found the wrong kind.”

  “Whatever. Let me know if you hear from other women.”

  12

  I was doing my monthly shuffle of the dry cleaning—from wire hangers to real ones—when Jason found me in the bedroom.

  “The lawyer’s gone?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I didn’t want to explain who she was to Spencer.” He’d be home any minute.

  I had hung Jason’s final shirt when I said, “Did you know that when you google Jason Powell, the fifth suggested search is ‘Jason Powell wife’?”

  “That’s normal. People get curious about author bios. They want to know if I’m married or not.”

  I shook my head and closed the closet door harder than I needed to.

  “I’m so sorry, Angela. I promise, I’m not going to let you get dragged into this.”

  If only he had listened to me four years ago when he decided that he couldn’t simply be a professor with a bestselling book. He had to extend the ride, and I had no choice but to go along.

  “What if they find out? People will print anything these days. Maybe not the New York Times or the real papers, but one blogger. That’s all it takes. I mean, the Post didn’t print Rachel’s name, but it’s all over the Internet anyway. It only took me a couple of minutes to find out she was cheating on her boyfriend with that other intern. Pretty soon the trolls will start looking for secrets about you and me.”

  “Would that really be so bad?” Jason asked. “I know your parents had their reasons for protecting you, Angela, but it didn’t have to be that way. You’ve never had anything to be ashamed about.”

  I gathered up the wire hangers and left the room without saying a word. I’d given him my answer the last time we talked about this, and I wasn’t going to change my mind now.

  It was four years since the last time Jason had encouraged me to “come out of the closet.” It might help you to talk about it. Maybe go to a therapist. Or go big and write that book Susanna offered to help you with. Or give her an interview. You could help other people, Angela, including yourself.

  I was surprised he brought it up. At the time, I even wondered if he was thinking more of himself than me. Being known as the man who married that “poor girl” could only help book sales and his growing public image.

  I had made my answer—a resounding no—crystal clear. I didn’t need help, and I certainly didn’t need to help anyone else.

  I also can’t change the world.

  Every time I read an article about a child missing or a woman abducted, I am reminded of all the reasons that my parents decided that it was better to protect my privacy when I came home than to tell the town that I hadn’t run away. Admit it. When you hear about a missing kid, or a murdered woman, you scour the article for clues. Not clues about the perpetrator. No, we search for clues about what makes that woman or child different from the women and children we know and love. Mom was having an affair. Kid was using meth. We need an explanation, something to reassure us that the horrible things that happened to them could never happen to us.

  In my own case, you wouldn’t have had a hard time finding facts to comfort you.

  I started cutting class here and there in the ninth grade. My teachers and parents blamed my best friend, Trisha Faulkner, because it was easier that way. Various Faulkners were in and out of prison. They sold drugs, drove drunk, and picked fights in public over the slightest offense. Just like you feel better when you find out that the missing kid kept bad company, it was convenient to think that the Mullens’ beloved daughter had “changed” because of the influence of a troubled girl from the most troublesome family on the East End.

  I wasn’t an exceptionally bad girl. I got
As and Bs in school, despite my occasional detentions. I was sent home twice for back-talking teachers, but had justifications that I stand by to this day for both outbursts. When I first got my learner’s permit, I got stopped in my dad’s car with beer in the trunk. The cop was nice and let me pour it all out, can by can, at the side of Old Stone Highway rather than call my parents.

  Any signs of my rebellion were basically under the radar until one summer night when Trisha and I were in the car with some guy from the city who crashed his BMW. Dad made it seem like I was some kind of hostage, under the control of a cokehead who was “only after one thing.” The reality is that Trisha and I thought the guy was a joke. He bought us wine and let us blast music he had never heard of and told us stories about closing deals and making money. He was more like a drunk uncle for the night than any kind of predator.

  After my parents were called down to the police station, my father was determined to keep me from getting into any more trouble, and that’s when things got really bad. Because here’s the thing: the fact that adults made the BMW guy seem like the bogeyman made me believe there was no such thing as the bogeyman. It was the boy who cried wolf, flipped on its head. Instead of a child sounding too many false alarms, it was my parents. Because that one guy had been harmless, I assumed the same of others who were happy to goof off on summer weekends with some local girls. And because my father prohibited me from hanging around with Trisha, she took on a new importance in my life. We became inseparable. If she cut class, I did too. If she rode the train into the city, I followed. But where Trisha was willing to run off for days at a time, that was a line I never crossed. Missing curfew by hours was one thing; sleeping at a stranger’s house because anyone was better than your own family was another.

  Ironically, the reason I was alone the night I was kidnapped was because I declined Trisha’s invitation to crash for a few days with a friend she’d made a few weeks earlier in Brooklyn. On a summer weekend, it wasn’t hard to find something to do without her. I showed up at the beach with a joint and found a bonfire party to join. Usually I’d end up running into someone I knew, but not that night. They were all city people. I left once the sun was down and it was starting to get cold.