by Cate Holahan
I showered, allowing the hot water to rinse the salt, sand, and stress from my body. After washing, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman who looked back at me was tan and attractive. Confident. Ready to take on the world. In no way ready to die. This baby would be a new beginning for all of us.
I slipped on a blue sundress and then prettied my face with a touch of makeup. I put on sandals. The act of dressing in real clothes intensified my feelings of normalcy.
Tom’s voice called from beyond the open balcony door. “Babe, you really should see this view.”
I grabbed my knapsack and removed everything except the money. I was ready to head to dinner, toast to a new beginning.
I met Tom on the veranda. His hands wrapped around my waist. “Hey, beautiful.”
He pressed his lips to mine, leaving me without air until I opened my mouth, allowing his tongue inside. His hands slipped under my dress. He hoisted me onto his pelvis. Dinner, I guessed, could wait.
We kept kissing as my back pressed against the railing. My backpack hung from my forearm as I fumbled with the button on his pants. I tried to shake off the bag. Before I could, Tom drove his still clothed body between my thighs and lifted me to his chest. His lips went to my neck.
“So I’m going to be a dad again?” He whispered the question in my ear as his fingers dug into my thighs. I rose higher as his lips traveled down my neck to my clavicle and toward my breasts. The wind lifted my hair, adding to the sensuality of the experience. This time, I wasn’t afraid. We’d done it before.
“Yes,” I moaned, anticipating what would come next.
“That was never the plan.”
He thrust my body forward and lifted his hands in surrender. I toppled backward, falling beyond the railing. As I hurtled down to the water, I was aware that the thought, now screaming in my brain, could be my last.
My husband had planned for me to die.
Part III
Death in absentia
The legal declaration of a death despite absence of direct proof of that person’s demise, typically made after an individual has been missing for an extended period of time, often seven years. Such declarations may be made sooner if the missing person was involved in a presumably lethal accident before disappearing, such as a plane crash.
37
December 3
Ryan climbed the narrow staircase of a three-story townhouse in Newark, following behind a doughy woman with a light step. The boards beneath his feet groaned as he leaned on the banister and took a heaving breath. A fifty-year-old was beating him up the stairs. He had to figure out how to exercise with his injury.
“How do you know Camilla?”
It was the second time she’d asked since she’d opened the door. Ryan guessed that she didn’t like letting strange men into her illegal boarding house, at least not past seven o’clock. But she’d allowed him in anyway. Never knew where your next paying customer might come from.
“She’s helping me,” he repeated.
“With . . .”
“A person we both know.”
The woman stopped climbing. She pressed herself against the wall. “She’s through there.”
His arm brushed the landlady’s shoulder as he continued up the last few steps to the converted attic room. The stairs ended in an open door. The maid’s large, black-rimmed glasses balanced askew on her nose, overwhelming her delicate face and hiding her blue eyes.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet.”
She stepped back from the doorjamb. “I was happy you called.” The “you” came out like chew, but the rest of her speech was near flawless. Ryan wondered how long she’d been in the States. The room didn’t appear lived in. She had scarcely more furniture than a full bed, made up with a faded floral comforter, and a dresser. No photos that he could see. No television. Nothing on the stark, white walls. The place smelled musty, like a closet kept closed.
The door shut behind him. Camilla’s mouth tightened as she gestured to the bed. “There’s no other place to sit.”
“That’s all right,” Ryan remained standing. “So you knew Ana well?”
“Very. I cleaned for her and watched Sophia.”
Ryan thought he heard a catch in her voice as she said the little girl’s name, a pause filled with longing. It must be difficult to care for someone else’s kids and then leave them. Often, when both parents worked, the nannies did more child-rearing than the parents.
“Did you work with them a long time?”
“Since Sophia was a baby.”
Sophia was three. Camilla’s length of time in the country explained her near lack of an accent, save for certain stubborn words. “And Mrs. Bacon was home with you?”
Camilla crossed to the bed and sat, eyes trained on the hands in her lap. “I . . . I worked more when she went back.”
“How often?”
“A lot.”
“Every day?”
“Sometimes.”
“But Sophia had daycare . . .”
It wasn’t uncommon for affluent stay-at-home moms to have help during the week. But it was uncommon for a family to pay a nanny and a daycare, particularly when the father had been home, unemployed.
Camilla backtracked. “I’m sorry. Not every day.” Her fingers traced her clavicle. When she noticed Ryan watching her movements, her hand retreated back to her lap. “I cleaned once a week and watched Sophia for a few hours in between daycare and when Mrs. Bacon came home.”
“Tom didn’t watch Sophia?”
“He was busy.” Her restless hand went to the edges of her blond hair. She twisted the strands into a frayed rope. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you about Eve. Tom was seeing her.”
The woman’s nervous twitches and lack of eye contact screamed “liar.” But it also denoted stress. An undocumented immigrant might be highly anxious talking to someone who looked and sounded like a cop.
“You saw Tom and Eve together?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She closed her eyes, as though scanning through an internal calendar. Ryan examined her clothing as she stalled. Drawstring sweatpants hung off her body, making it difficult to discern her actual size. Judging from the sharp angles of her face, Ryan guessed she was pretty thin. The pale-blue T-shirt she wore was boxy and faded.
“Right before they let me go.” Camilla said, finally. “Maybe just before Ana lost her job. Eve stopped by before Ana came home from work. Tom told her that she shouldn’t have come to the house and needed to leave. I heard him when I was in the kitchen with Sophia. She said that she wanted them to be together. They kissed.”
“You saw them kiss?”
“Like lovers. On the mouth.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Bacon?”
She wound her hair into a tighter coil. “No. Tom threatened me. He said he’d hurt me if I said anything. He’d say I stole. Get me deported.”
“Do you think Ana suspected anything?”
“They were discrete and Ana was working so hard. When I saw the news reports of Ana’s death, I knew Eve and Tom had something to do with it.”
She made eye contact when she said the last part. All traces of her accent were gone. Her mouth remained open in a pleading expression.
“Why did you think that?”
“Because Tom wanted to move on with Eve.”
Ryan’s brain served up a statistic. Only 3 percent of married men left their partner and married their lovers. Most of the time, if the marriage failed, the extramarital relationship also broke up. “You heard Tom say he would leave Ana?”
Camilla traced the prominent bones in her swan neck. “No. But he was mean to her. He wanted out.”
Ana’s parents’ accusations came back to him. “Did he abuse her?”
“He got physical.”
“In front of you?”
She shook her head. “I saw bruises.”
“Where?”
“Where men usually hit women.”
<
br /> Ryan didn’t have statistics for that. There weren’t spots that men aimed for, though there were places more apt to bruise.
“I don’t know.” Camilla rubbed her left ring finger with her right thumb as though trying to remove the skin atop her knuckles. “Forearms, I guess? Cheeks. She covered it with makeup.”
“Did he hit Sophia?”
Camilla blinked as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her before. She dropped her chin lower, shielding her face with her long, blond hair. “I don’t know. Without Ana there now, anything could be happening.”
Camilla stood from the bed. She walked straight to Ryan and grabbed his hand. Instinctively, he recoiled from the contact, but she didn’t let go. “Please. I know what I’m talking about. Eve just wants Tom, and he wants money. Sophia is not safe with them.”
Ryan looked into her eyes. They were a marine blue rimmed with a near navy hue, the same color as Dina’s arresting shade, though perhaps not as bright. Dark pupils pierced through the color like coals at the base of a fire.
He stepped back, trying to free himself from the raw emotion that surrounded the woman. She released his hand. It retreated into his pocket, fumbling for his cell. He scrolled through his photos for the one Dina sent. “Did you ever see this woman?”
She took the phone. Disgust wrinkled her brow. “The clerk from the wine store.”
“Did she come by the house too?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then how did you see her?”
She looked away from him. “I went to that wine store once.”
Ryan recalled the high-end décor in Vincent’s wine store, the stickers on the bottles. A woman renting a room like this could not afford anything in such a place. Camilla seemed to read his expression. “I was . . . I was with a friend.”
“Tom?”
Tom had been cheating with one woman, maybe two. Why not take out the nanny also? Even with the oversized glasses and overprocessed hair, Camilla was attractive. She’d been home alone with him while Ana was out. He was a good-looking guy. American. A way to get her papers. He could have promised to make her legal and then dumped her for Eve, explaining why she wanted to create problems for them.
Her mouth dropped open. “No way. No. Never. I loved Sophia. And Ana. I would have never.”
The horror in her face seemed genuine. Ryan patted the air, urging her to calm down. “I had to ask,” he said.
She drew closer to him. Ryan could smell vinegar on her skin, something apple scented, whatever was on Dina’s floors. “Please. Look into Tom and Eve. They must have wanted to get rid of Ana. Tom knew the insurance world. He had a policy from his parents. He knew Ana would qualify for a large benefit.”
“He’d received a benefit before?”
“Yes. From ISI. That’s why he chose them again. He got it as a teenager, after his mom and dad died in a car accident.”
“Ana told you this?”
“Yes.”
“But you weren’t working for her then?”
Again, Camilla closed her eyes, as if trying to remember. “She was my friend. We talked after I left. She thought that they didn’t have much money and it didn’t make sense to pay insurance right now, but Tom wouldn’t listen.”
She pressed her lips together, struggling to contain tears. “Please. They set Ana up to die. I know it. They could hurt Sophia. You have to do something.”
“Will you make a statement about the affair?”
“I . . . I . . .” She pulled both hands through her hair. “I don’t have papers or proof that I worked for them. It was off the books. But I’ll make whatever statement I need to.”
“Okay, then.” Ryan reached for the door handle. She stopped him.
“What will you do?”
Arrest Tom. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Ryan couldn’t say them. He no longer had the authority. And even if he turned over everything to the FBI, it wouldn’t be enough for them to secure a conviction against Mr. Bacon. It might not even be enough to charge him. Unconfirmed affair rumors, spousal abuse allegations, Ana’s death benefit, the testimony of hearing a male voice in the room with Ana before her fall, even the evidence that Tom’s alibi witnesses had lied or guessed—none of it put Tom in the room with Ana. Ryan’s witnesses were too easy to take apart. Even if the actor identified Tom’s voice, he would be accused of playing hero and inventing the story for publicity. Ana’s parents’ motives would be called into question because they stood to control their daughter’s insurance benefit with Tom gone. And Camilla was undocumented. Jurors respected law, order, and civic duty. They didn’t trust the word of people skirting the system.
Tom’s side had the stronger case. There wasn’t any physical evidence that he’d pushed Ana overboard. His alibi witness was standing by her story and she had an excuse for her lie—protecting her employer. Moreover, the Bahamian authorities had already ruled there was no evidence of homicide.
Yet Ryan knew in his gut that Tom had killed his wife. The affair, the fall, and the statistics all pointed to the husband.
“What will you do?” Camilla repeated.
Ryan looked straight into her pleading eyes. He thought of Sophia, a little girl just a few years younger than his daughter, being raised by her mother’s killers, kept as an ATM for Ana’s life insurance policy.
“I’m going to make sure Tom pays for murdering his wife.”
38
August 29
Time slowed as my body fought the fall. My feet kicked. I threw my arms out and felt something metal hit my right palm. My fingers wrapped around it, propelled more by life-saving instinct than any conscious decision to hold on. I grasped the lip of an overturned lifeboat. I jerked to a halt, believing for a moment that I’d be miraculously saved from the depths below, that I could grip the dinghy until my rescue.
But my hand slipped a moment later, weighed down by the backpack still dangling from my forearm. My feet broke my fall. They entered the water fractions of a second before the sea swallowed my head. Too late, I realized that I needed to hold out my arms like the articles had instructed. I pushed my limbs out into the water as gravity continued to pull me to the bottom of the ocean.
Pressure built in my skull. Panic set in. I needed to pop my ears. I screamed beneath the water. The yell cleared my head but spent my oxygen. I kicked and pulled the water behind me, swimming a vertical breaststroke. Air. Please, God. Air.
My head broke above the water. Oxygen and sea spray entered my nose. I choked. I gasped.
My sandals and backpack had wriggled off during my frantic struggle to the surface. The knapsack floated on the water in front of me. I swam to it. The money inside was a lifeline. Waves created by the ship buffeted my head as I treaded water with my legs and opened the bag’s main compartment. I grabbed the Ziploc with the money, puffed air into it, and sealed it tight. I shoved my makeshift floatation device into the band of my bra, beneath my sundress. It bobbed there, helping keep me afloat as my backpack sank below the surface.
The boat moved forward. I yelled after it as waves pushed me away from the ship’s roaring engines. My eyes burned with salt water. I treaded water in the ship’s frothy wake, trying to wave to passengers. No lifeboats lowered. No hail of floatation devices rained down. The boat continued to advance.
Only Tom had seen me fall, and he wouldn’t tell anyone until it was too late. I was ill-prepared to survive a multimile swim to Bimini. I didn’t have my goggles or my swimsuit, just underwear and a sundress that would do little but create drag. I needed to reach the captain.
Land lay behind me. The smugglers’ boat would be somewhere between the ship and the shore, waiting for me to arrive at eight. I’d fallen sometime after seven. I took a deep breath and ducked beneath the water, swimming where the waves couldn’t continually push me off course.
The current was strong. It pulled me out to sea as I tried to swim toward the shrinking Bimini coastline, hopefully in the path of the cigarette
boat. Fighting the tide exhausted me, mentally more than physically. Despair began to slow my stroke. I’d never make it. How could my husband do this to me? How long had he wanted me gone?
I imagined Sophia, crying for me, her stupid mommy who had invented a ridiculous plan with her murderous father. If he’d thrown me overboard, pregnant, God only knew what he’d do to her. I kicked harder. Pulled harder. I’d trained. I could do this. Stretch, pull down, pull back, rotate, breathe. Repeat.
The cruise ship appeared little bigger than a motorboat on the ocean now. Where was the captain? I kept moving, trying, in vain, to stay within sight of the shore where a passing boat might see me. Gradually, the sky darkened to a sailor’s blue. Stars peeked from the edges of a navy sky. It felt as though I’d fought the current for hours.
A light suddenly flickered on the ocean. A search light? The cruise ship? Too small for either. A flashlight.
“It’s our little mermaid.” The captain’s Australian accent. A motor started. The boat floated nearly on top of me. Hands grabbed my arms and yanked me from the water like a hooked fish. I fell into the hull.
A palm pushed my head to a soft, fleshy ground. “Stay low.” The accent belonged to the teenager from the morning. The ground below me was made up of human beings, packed side by side like bodies in a mass grave. Silent, but not dead. The human floor undulated with heavy breaths. Faux straw bags piled on top of the bodies. Scratchy, woven plastic covered my legs.
The engines suddenly cut off. The man beneath me wheezed. I rolled to his side, giving him room to lift his head for fresh air. Men splashed from the shore into the water. Darkness covered faces. The strangers pulled the boat onto a beach overrun with palm trees.
Music wafted from somewhere on my left. I turned toward the sound. A straw bag slipped from atop my neck where it had rested like a bridle. Tropical shrubs and the surrounding blackness obscured my view of the music source. Colored lights flickered above the trees.
Fingers clenched my upper arms. I flew onto the beach. My knees hit a sharp mix of crushed seashells and sand. The particles dug into my palms as I pushed myself to a standing position.
