by Cate Holahan
My cover-up was white. I imagined a red stain swelling on the back of the dress as I watched the ship crew run a stick through my backpack. The man checked each pocket, perhaps not believing that all I’d packed was a towel, Ziploc with a couple hundred cash, and my documents. I hadn’t even bothered with sunscreen.
When he finished, I dangled the pack behind me and hurried to the nearest public bathroom, hoping to wipe out any splotch before walking through the whole ship to reach my cabin. I closed the stall door and pulled down my bikini bottom, prepared for a mess. The absence of any red mark surprised me. Aunt Flo was still MIA.
Maybe you are pregnant. The thought nagged at me as I walked to the elevators. I’d had unprotected sex and I had been sick in the mornings. It was possible. But now? Didn’t the body become less fertile under stress?
I listened to the sloshing of liquid in my stomach, the low grumble of my intestines, trying to sense whether I “felt” pregnant. The elevator ding pulled me back to reality. A woman beside the keypad moved aside to allow me access to the buttons. My finger hesitated above the number four and then struck the nine. I couldn’t tell if I was pregnant, but the commissary had plenty of tests. It would be better to know. Tom wouldn’t want me jumping overboard, carrying our child. The prospect of a second kid might even snap him out of his depressed state, make him accept responsibility as he had when I’d discovered I was carrying Sophia.
The ship’s store was adjacent to the elevator. I removed a precious twenty from the plastic bag and went straight for the shelf of feminine products. Moments later, the cashier handed me four dollars change and a plastic bag with one bottle of water and a cardboard box containing two pee-sticks.
I didn’t want Tom hovering over me in our stateroom, dread forming on his face as we awaited the results. Better for me to know first. I locked myself in a tight restroom stall, ripped open one of the packages, and did my business. Afterward, I sat atop the closed toilet seat, watching the test’s oval window. A line appeared, indicating that the test was working. After another moment, a faint line showed up next to it. Over the next few minutes, the second line darkened to a baby pink.
I stared at the positive result, breathing in the flowery scent of the air-fresheners that barely masked the underlying smells of bleach and beach. Was this good news or bad news? Was it even accurate?
I drank the water and took the second test. The door outside the bathroom opened and closed several times as I continued to occupy the stall. Faucets ran. Neighboring toilets flushed. I heard it all on some level, a distant soundtrack beneath the speeches I created in my mind and Tom’s imagined reactions to them.
Within two minutes of taking the second test, both lines turned a deep magenta. A strange relief washed over me. Tom would have to understand now.
I mouthed the words I would soon repeat to him. “Tom, I can’t go through with this. I’m pregnant.”
35
December 2
Ryan positioned the cursor on the red dot at the bottom of the video and dragged it along the line to the beginning of the clip. Still shots of the reporter, Tom, and the redhead scrolled past. He hit play for the second time. The video stuttered and then served up a banner ad for cruise travel. The Miami station wasn’t hosting a year’s worth of old stories for free.
He lay back in his desk chair, waiting for the advertisement to finish. Forty seconds later, the young reporter began laying out details of Ana’s accident. She cut to a lengthy quote from Tom explaining his motion sickness theory while looking forlorn. He said “Oh God” every few seconds.
Ryan pulled his cursor past Tom’s speech until he saw the alibi witness. Her name was Lena Mclean. She was a willowy woman with fair skin and copper hair that brought out the green in her hazel eyes. Attractive in an almost stereotypical Scottish way. And, he had to admit, the stoners had been right; she did have a substantial chest.
What Lena didn’t have was a working telephone number or address. Though he’d left one message for her a few days ago, his subsequent calls had gone to a disconnect recording. The Brooklyn apartment listed as her billing address when she’d bought her cruise tickets was also a dead end. She’d moved a month ago. The landlord didn’t know where to.
The doorbell rang. Ryan glanced at the time on his computer screen. Noon exactly. Time to hit the liquor store.
*
Vivienne got the storeowner’s attention as soon as she walked through the door. The man handed them cards and asked how he could help in an overly earnest way, making it clear that he understood two cops would want more than Cabernet recommendations.
“We’re looking for a woman who works here,” Vivienne said.
“Red hair,” Ryan added. He pulled out his phone and flashed the screen at the man. Dina’s picture didn’t show much of the woman’s face, only her copper hair and long legs.
Vincent scrutinized the photo. “She’s one of our sales reps. What do you want to talk to her about?” His face jumped into a variety of microexpressions: fear, anger, disgust. Cops put this guy on edge.
“We’d rather discuss that with her,” Vivienne said. “She in today?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Let me get her.”
Vincent disappeared down an aisle of wooden shelves filled with bottles. Ryan took in the décor. The place was well appointed with pricey vintages, and it had a warm, wooden smell that recalled nights around a fire. Ryan guessed it would be the kind of place that would be packed on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon, though thankfully it was free of patrons on this Wednesday.
A woman hurried down an aisle as though there was a fire. Copper hair bounced by her jaw line. Her long legs led to a fitted black dress that contrasted with her fair skin. Vincent hurried behind, dwarfed by his tall companion and outpaced by her stride.
“May I help you?” Her smile showed her top teeth from incisor to incisor, a strained imitation of welcome. Her hazel eyes darted around. Ryan couldn’t help but notice her breasts in her tight sweater.
It was the woman from the ship. “Lena Mclean?”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Her voice sounded shaky.
Ryan elbowed Vivienne and gave her a hard stare, telling her without words that this woman was no longer just someone Ana’s husband may have been screwing. His old partner widened her stance and stepped her right foot back, ready to pull the gun holstered above her waist.
“You were on a cruise ship where a woman, Ana Bacon, went overboard. You told police that you were talking to her husband, Tom Bacon, when she fell.”
“Yes. I did.” She glanced at Vincent. Her nervous smile turned sheepish. “I ran into him. Crazy coincidence.”
“You didn’t tell the Bahamian authorities that you knew him,” Ryan said.
“Well, I don’t know him well. He just bought bottles here.”
Vincent glanced at her sideways. Either he knew there was more to her and Tom’s relationship or, like Dina, he’d guessed as much. “I have to check on inventory,” he said. “Help them with whatever they need, Lena.” He strode back down the aisle and entered what appeared to be a back office.
Ryan showed Dina’s photo. “Seems like you knew Tom Bacon a bit better than that.”
She grabbed at the phone. Ryan pulled back his hand. “A neighbor saw you two together.”
She chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes seemed to measure the distance to the exit. “That photo doesn’t show anything. It’s a French good-bye.” She shook her head and giggled. “It’s how I say ciao to good customers. I must have been dropping off bottles in his car.” She spoke with her hands out, palms open as if to show that she had nothing to hide. “We ran into each other on the cruise, completely by accident, and I talked to him for a bit. I didn’t know until later that his wife had that accident.”
Vivienne’s hands sat on her hips. She had gotten up to speed. A small motion and she’d be brandishing her piece, preventing Lena from bolting.
“That’s quite a coincidence.” Vivienne exhal
ed as she spoke. Her tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic. Ryan guessed she played good cop.
“Yeah.” Lena laughed again, a forced, metallic sound.
“It’s an unbelievable coincidence,” Ryan said. “Your cruise ship had somewhere between two and three thousand passengers, and it took people from the entire Eastern seaboard.”
“Small world.” Again, Lena’s eyes darted to the doorway.
“Not as small as all that,” Ryan said. He considered her slowly, giving her time to realize that she’d been caught in a lie. “What makes logical sense is that you and Tom were more than friends and he decided to bring you on the cruise.”
“What? Why would he do that?” She stammered. “He went with his wife.”
Vivienne gave Lena a pitying look. “Maybe he figured he’d need an alibi and you could provide it. Not that you would have known that. You were probably as surprised as anyone to find out that his wife was coming.”
“Or let me guess.” Ryan stepped toward her, using his broad body and height to intimidate the truth out of her. “Tom told you that he would pass the trip off as some kind of finance conference. Then he tells you that Ana found out and he had to pretend as though he’d planned the cruise as a surprise for the both of them, but he’ll make sure to make time for you too. Next thing you know, you’re hearing that his wife went overboard and he’s begging you to say the two of you had been talking the whole time.”
Lena stepped back. “We had been talking. Other people saw us.”
“The two potheads who saw you who weren’t sure about the timeline,” Ryan said. “You could have talked to Tom hours before, or to a guy who happened to look like Tom. And now that we’ve caught you in one lie, we are going to interview everyone on that ship. We’ll find out exactly who you were talking to and when.”
“I was talking to Tom.”
“And when we prove you lied, we won’t just charge you with providing a false alibi,” Ryan continued. “We’ll get you for being an accomplice.”
Vivienne flashed a pained smile. “You couldn’t have known what he had planned. You were surprised that his wife was on the ship, right? And then, when he told you about his wife’s horrible accident, you just wanted to protect him.”
Ryan countered Vivienne’s faux-friendliness with a glare. “Did he tell you that Ana found out about the two of you and jumped? Did you feel guilty for cheating with a married man? Is that why you lied?”
Lena was trembling. She put a shaky hand on a shelf of wine bottles.
“Lena, you okay?” Vivienne was trying to sound sympathetic. But Ryan could hear the predatory edge in her tone.
Lena’s hand slipped from the top of the shelf onto a glass bottle. She stumbled backward, pulling the wine from its holster. The bottle hit the hardwood floor. Lena hopped back as though it might break, but it rolled to her feet instead. She picked it up, hand still vibrating, and repositioned it on the rack.
“This is ridiculous.” High notes of hysteria pinged in her voice. Her limbs still trembled. “If you’re going to arrest me, do it. If not, leave me alone. I’m sticking to what I said. I ran into Tom—a former customer—on the boat. We talked. I didn’t tell the police or reporters the customer part because I didn’t want to drag the store name into this. That’s what happened. I’m not changing my story.”
“But did you really talk at seven thirty, Lena?” Vivienne asked. “Are you sure?”
“I’m done talking to you.” She walked around them to the door and held it open, dramatically, as though she’d just caught them stealing.
Ryan shot Vivienne a “what now?” look. He wanted to bring Lena in, but not until he had more information to force her to change her story. It didn’t help anyone but Tom’s eventual defense attorney to allow Lena to put her lie on the record.
Vivienne handed Lena her card. “You don’t want to protect a murderer.” She gave her a grave look. “You never know when he’ll turn on you.”
Lena didn’t make eye contact, but she took Vivienne’s number.
Ryan scowled at her as he passed. “Call us, Lena,” he said. “If we catch Tom lying first, there won’t be anything to discuss except your sentence.”
Lena looked as though she might cry. Ryan waited a beat to see if it would happen, but she didn’t break. Instead, she let the door go. He stopped it just before it hit him in the back.
As Ryan walked to his parked car, he noticed his hands were in fists. He was opening and closing them, like a heartbeat. A desire to squeeze something overwhelmed him. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and rotated it in his hand.
“Do you want to bring in Tom?” Vivienne asked.
“I don’t have enough to force the truth out of him. I at least need proof of the affair to put him on the defensive.” Ryan looked at his phone. Part of him felt like throwing it in frustration. Instead, he thought of his contacts.
“The maid acted as though she knew he was sleeping around.” He opened the car door. Vivienne slid inside the passenger seat. “I’ll drop you off. Then I’m going to pay her a visit.”
36
August 29
A room service tray sat outside our stateroom. I hadn’t even jumped and Tom was spending money as though we had millions in the mail. He would not take my news well.
I used my key and opened the stateroom door. Inside was dark. Tom had drawn the blackout curtains over the balcony doors so that the only light came from the sunset slipping in from the sides of the curtains and the flickering television. My husband sat up in bed, half-naked and sipping from a near-empty water bottle.
“How are you feeling?”
He turned off the TV and patted the bed. “I boozed too hard last night. Nerves.”
The perfect segue. My thighs scratched against each other as I walked around to his side of the bed. Before sitting by Tom’s feet, I tried to brush some of the sand off the backs of my legs. I intended to sleep in this bed tonight. No point getting it all gritty. “About tonight—”
“Did you test the water at the beach? It’s warm, right? Probably a lot warmer than the pool back home. And I was watching earlier. It doesn’t seem like there are many waves.”
Was he trying to convince himself that I would make it through the swim, or me? I searched his eyes, struggling to find the right words. He seemed to do the same as he waited for me to speak. Finally, I looked away. “Tom, I can’t go through with it.”
“Ana, you have to.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and scooted down so that his bare side touched my beach cover-up. He held both sides of my face, forcing me to stare into his eyes. “We only have a few thousand in savings and now we’ve spent all this money to come down here. Are you worried about the swim? You’ve been training. I know you can do this. If you—”
“I’m pregnant.”
Tom withdrew as though I’d told him I had a contagious disease. His expression was a mixture of shock and disbelief. I remembered that look from when I’d revealed that he’d knocked me up the first time. He’d bought the ring the following day. My husband could surprise me.
I pulled out the pregnancy test box from the front pocket of my knapsack. I shook the two capped sticks onto the bed. “I was late and I didn’t feel right, so I took these tests after coming back from the beach. All the vomiting has been morning sickness.”
He looked afraid. I picked up the tests and held them out to him. “The night after Michael assaulted me, we made love, remember? It’s been ten days.”
He turned on a reading light and held the tests beneath the lamp, comparing their displays to the picture on the box’s cover: the one with the two identical lines and the word “pregnant” beside them. He stared at them for what seemed like an eternity. I tried to bear the silence, let the news sink in without my commentary. My heartbeat drummed in my ears.
Tom’s whole body tensed. He set the tests down beneath the light and stared at where they sat on the night table.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “T
om, say something.”
“Looks like you’re pregnant.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen. But now there’s just no way. Are you okay?”
“It’s a shock, but . . .” He rubbed his neck. “You know what? That’s great. It stops us from doing something stupid, right?”
Relieved tears blurred my vision. “I was hoping you would see it as a blessing. I think that we should consider it a sign to get our lives in order. As soon as we get back, I’ll start looking for a job. You can too. We don’t have to feel confined to New York, or even our current industries. We can look in less expensive housing markets. Maybe Maine? Or Florida? We have degrees, skills . . .”
Tom kissed the top of my head. He rubbed his forehead and then grabbed a pair of khaki shorts from the back of a chair and jostled them over his legs. “I’m going to get myself something for this headache, and then we’ll celebrate.”
“Are you okay?”
“I will be.” A weak smile spread across his mouth. “Be right back.”
He opened the door. I glanced at the time on the bedside clock: 6:58 PM. The dining rooms stopped serving dinner at nine. We had plenty of time.
His broad frame filled the doorway. After a few seconds, the lock clicked closed. “You know what?” Tom turned back to face me. “Maybe I’ll just relax on the balcony.”
He crossed the room to the sliding glass doors and pulled back the curtains, flooding the room with amber light. “It’s nice out here,” he said, as he stepped out onto our little deck.
He needed time to process everything. “I’ll join you in a bit.” I sequestered myself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. The sound of the water masked my breathless sobs. I felt as I had after giving birth to Sophia: relieved, excited, scared, brimming with emotion. My husband and I had stood at a precipice, and we’d made the right decision.
