The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  But she had other ideas. She turned on her side, laid her head down on my fuzzy ivory throw pillow, and closed her eyes. “Later,” she said in a sleepy voice. “I’m too tired to move now—this baby is stealing all my energy. Would you mind if I took just a little cat nap?” And then she fell asleep before I could answer.

  Being the sucker that I am, I covered her with a blanket and quietly took my laptop and insubordinate dog into the bedroom. Then I texted Ryan and told her Ridley was at my place so he wouldn’t worry. As I closed the door, I could hear Ridley snoring like an eight-hundred-pound grizzly bear with a head cold. It was the first time I’d smiled since I got home.

  I was sitting on my bed working on a story about the upcoming K–5 spelling bee when my phone rang. It was Jay. I knew it wasn’t rational, but I was a little mad at him for not having sent me flowers. It makes about as much sense as being mad at someone in real life when they do something bad to you in a dream—but I couldn’t help it. I had been so touched when I thought he sent me those flowers as an apology that when I realized he hadn’t, it felt like a slight.

  “Hey,” he said. “How was your day?”

  “Actually, it could have been better,” I said. He was driving home after working in DC all day and I knew that I-95 would be a parking lot, so I took my time filling him in about Kay’s decision to take me off the story, David being poisoned, and my visit with Brandon Laytner. I left out the part about Ridley coming with me, and of course the flowers.

  “Tabitha confessed to killing Arthur Davenport?” Jay was as shocked as I had been.

  “Yes, but she only did it to try to clear Thad’s name. Obviously, no one believed her.”

  “Geez,” Jay said, “that’s the most selfless thing I’ve ever seen Tabitha do. But crazy stupid.” He was quiet for a moment and then asked. “Why didn’t you report it?”

  I felt a surge of defensiveness. “Why would I report a fake confession?”

  “Well, whether or not it’s fake isn’t really your call . . .”

  I felt stung even though I knew he was right. “I know that, it was just . . . it was . . .” The adolescent in me wanted to say that part of the reason I had forgotten to report it was because I was so thrown off that he’d been following me, but I knew that wasn’t exactly fair. “I just screwed up. That’s all.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that this is such a complex story and you’re, you know, still new. Maybe it’s better to cut your teeth on a less dangerous story.”

  That spark of anger I had felt after I found out he’d followed me reignited. “I just made one tiny mistake and other than that, I think I’ve been handling the story just fine.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said quickly. “But it’s not like an unsolved murder is exactly an appropriate assignment for a junior reporter.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize you had so little faith in me.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, I was just—”

  “Just saying you think it’s a good thing that I was essentially demoted.”

  “Riley, no, that’s not what I meant—”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  He hesitated. “I mean, it’s just that some of the stuff you’re doing can be dangerous, even for the most experienced reporter. Plus, I gotta be honest, some of it sounds more like a job for law enforcement than the press.”

  A tight feeling rose up the length of my throat. All the frustrations from the past couple of days—Kay Jackson and stupid Spencer and Holman being gone and Ryan and Ridley and the flowers that Jay didn’t send me—all came knock-knock-knocking at my door. “So, you think I should just stay in the office and what? Only write articles about puppies and rainbows?”

  “What?” Jay said, his confusion obvious. “No, Riley, all I’m saying is that you’re not a cop. Interviewing suspects, sussing out alibis—that seems more like something the sheriff should be doing, not you.”

  “I’m fact checking, Jay. Which is, by the way, maybe the most important aspect of my job. I’m a reporter, remember?”

  “Yeah, but . . . c’mon.”

  “C’mon what?” I asked, but didn’t give him a chance to answer. “You know what, I’m going to just go.”

  “No, honey—I think we’ve just gotten way off track here—”

  “Yeah, I think so too,” I said, a second before hanging up on him.

  CHAPTER 30

  I wanted to scream or slam a door or something, but with Ridley asleep on my couch I couldn’t do any of that. So I scribbled her a note, got into my car, and started driving without any real idea of where I was heading. Jay called back several times but I didn’t pick up. There was no point in talking to him when I was this angry.

  Without really thinking about where I was going, I found myself back at the Nichols house. And this time when I pulled down the long drive, the blue truck was gone and the only car parked in the gravel driveway was a giant Mercedes, steel gray with the license plate: LIBEE1.

  “What do you want now?” Libby said when she opened the door. Now wearing skinny jeans, a tight T-shirt, and a long Kendra Scott necklace, she looked every bit the Real Housewife, right down to her snotty attitude.

  “Where were you and your husband when Arthur was killed?” If she wasn’t going to bother with pleasantries, neither was I.

  “None of your business.” She held onto the edge of the massive arched wooden door as she spoke, and I wondered how long before she closed it in my face.

  “I’m just trying to figure out who killed Arthur Davenport. I’d think you’d want to do the same, since the two of you were so close.”

  She glared at me and then instead of closing the door, she swung it open, inviting me inside. She said nothing, but sauntered back toward the kitchen where, sitting on the massive white marble island, sat a half-empty glass of white wine.

  “Chardonnay?”

  I shook my head.

  She picked up her glass, took a sip, and motioned for me to sit down on one of the upholstered swivel stools lined up in front of the island. I took a seat, waiting for her to answer my question.

  “Bennett didn’t kill Arthur, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Bennett isn’t the only one with a reason to want him dead.”

  A laugh gurgled up from deep within her chest. “Are you saying you think I killed Arthur?”

  “The way I heard it, you weren’t too happy when he broke things off.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t break anything off, genius. We just wanted people to think we were over. The truth is, we were far from it.”

  I had suspected as much ever since I talked to Donna, but I was glad to have confirmation from Libby herself. “That’s not what you told me last night.”

  “Listen,” she said after another sip of wine. “Arthur and I were more than just a fling. We cared about each other . . . a lot.” She paused, took another sip, and then slowly set the wine glass down. “I was going to leave Bennett.” Her big eyes were moist with emotion, and in that moment I had no idea if she was acting. If I were a betting woman, I’d say no—but it was hard to tell, since almost everything this woman had told me since I met her had been a lie.

  “So what happened?”

  “What happened was I fell in love with Artie and he fell in love with me. We didn’t plan it, it just happened. And we were finally ready to come out and be together—you know—in public and all. But then Bennett came home and found us that day.”

  “So Bennett knew?”

  She nodded. “I told him I was in love with Arthur and I was going to leave him. And that’s when he had his heart attack, or whatever it was.”

  “And that was, what, about two weeks before Arthur was killed?”

  “About.”

  “And so how are you so sure he wasn’t the one who killed Arthur? Sounds like one hell of a motive to me.”

  She laughed again, but
this time with no humor at all—it was one big thrusty ha. With her eyes glued to mine, she pulled up the left sleeve of her T-shirt. As the fabric moved away, I saw a purplish discoloration that wrapped around her arm just under the shoulder. She turned a half-turn to the right and I could see three slots of unmarred skin between each swath of purple. Finger marks. Someone had grabbed Libby around the shoulder, hard.

  “It’s not that Bennett wasn’t mad enough to kill somebody that night, he just had a different somebody in mind.”

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Sheriff Haight and Butter were out here Thursday night right around the time Arthur died,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry, Libby . . .”

  She rolled her sleeve back down. “Wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last if he has his way.”

  I fought the impulse to ask her why she stayed with a man who hurt her, but stopped myself. I’d volunteered at a women’s shelter in college and knew that sort of question didn’t have a simple answer—and besides, it wasn’t any of my business.

  “Was Bennett arrested?”

  Libby shook her head. “I called the sheriff because I honestly didn’t know what Benny was going to do that night. I’d’ve preferred to have handled it myself, but he came home from work on Monday pissed as hell. I still don’t know what happened, because after his heart attack and in the hospital he was all ‘I love you, baby,’ and ‘I forgive you.’ Begged me not to go, said he’d change, said he’d find a way to fix our marriage.”

  She took another long sip of wine, emptying her glass. “I didn’t want him to have another freaking heart attack, so I just told him we’d figure things out. I wasn’t planning on staying long, just until he got stronger.”

  “What did Arthur have to say about that?”

  “He wanted me to come live with him right away, like while Bennett was still in the hospital.” She pulled off the cork and poured another glass of wine for herself. Again she looked at me, nodding her head in offer.

  I shook my head. “So why didn’t you?”

  “Bennett and I have been together for fourteen years—basically my whole adult life. Our relationship is complicated. And as much as everyone would like to think it isn’t true, I did love him at one point. I didn’t feel like it was right to leave him when he was so sick like that.”

  “So what happened after he was released from the hospital?”

  “He came home and after a few days, he started going into the office again, getting his strength back. I was planning to wait till he was back up to speed before telling him it was over. And then, like I said, on Monday he came home from work all amped up. Screaming about how I’d screwed him over in more ways than I knew, how I’d ruined everything. He got drunk—I shoulda left then, I just knew what was coming—but I didn’t. I always wanted to believe better of him than he deserved.” She paused. “Anyway, then he came after me. I got free and ran to the bedroom, grabbed the gun I keep in my nightstand, called 911, and waited with that gun trained on the door until they got here.”

  I knew there was some question I was supposed to ask, but I honestly couldn’t think of what to say. All I could do was picture a scared and hurt Libby Nichols hiding in her bedroom waiting to see if she was going to have to shoot her husband to save her own life.

  “What happened when the sheriff got here?”

  “By then Benny had calmed down some. Carl took him outside in cuffs and would have taken him down to the office, but I said I didn’t want to press charges.”

  “How come?” I asked the question gently.

  “It wouldn’t do any good—probably just make him madder. Right now I’m just trying to keep him calm and happy long enough for me to figure a few things out. And then, I’m so outta here.”

  For the first time since I’d met the woman, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Libby Nichols was telling me the truth.

  She walked me back to the front door. Just before I left something caught my eye—it was a framed picture sitting on her entry table. It looked familiar. I took a step closer. It was the same photograph that I’d seen hanging in Brandon Laytner’s office. Bennett, Brandon, and another man who looked vaguely familiar, all in hats and sunglasses, on a boat holding up a huge swordfish.

  “What?” Libby asked, noticing my reaction.

  “Is this Bennett and Brandon Laytner?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been friends since high school. Why?”

  “No reason,” I said, unable to pinpoint why this surprised me so much. I guess it made sense. Both of them were about the same age and grew up here; it stood to reason they’d be friends. “I just met him the other day.”

  “He’s a real treat, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, my mind spinning out questions faster than I could catch them. “Did you know Arthur was consulting for Brandon’s company?”

  She nodded. “He was, but he quit. I told him he didn’t want any part of anything that Brandon and Bennett were involved in—”

  “Did you say Bennett was involved in Invigor8?”

  “He’s one of the principal investors. Why?”

  So that must have been the real reason Arthur quit the study, and the mysterious “conflict of interest” Brandon was referring to earlier. It all made much more sense now. And, to my mind, made Bennett Nichols look guiltier than ever.

  I thanked Libby again for her time. Not really knowing what else to say, I said, “Take care of yourself.”

  She gave me a wicked smile and said, “Oh girl, you can count on that.”

  CHAPTER 31

  When I left the Nichols house, I couldn’t get that bruise out of my mind. I had instantly disliked Bennett Nichols when I’d met him—and that was before I realized he was the kind of chickenshit coward who hits women. I couldn’t imagine what Libby had been through during their fourteen-year relationship, and I hoped she was serious when she said she was planning to leave him.

  All of a sudden my anger at Jay seemed unimportant. I wanted to hold him and have him hold me back. I still disagreed with him, but it had been childish of me to hang up on him. He didn’t deserve that. One of my biggest mistakes with Ryan had been my habit of retreating when things got tough. It was one of the things that made our relationship go sideways, and I was determined not to make the same mistake again. So I drove toward Jay’s place and practiced an apology for my behavior—one that did not let him off the hook but took responsibility for my part in the argument.

  I pulled up to Jay’s Victorian-style apartment complex and saw his car in the parking lot. After giving myself a quick once-over in the dim light of the driver’s side sun visor, I walked up the two flights of stairs to door number 208 and knocked.

  But it wasn’t Jay who answered. “Oh,” a tall, thin woman said. “You’re not the pizza guy.”

  My surprise quickly turned to shock, which quickly turned to paralysis. All of my earlier thoughts about not retreating when things got tough evaporated into a puff of smoke. Another woman had just answered my boyfriend’s door and my every instinct was to turn and run away as fast as I could. But I felt like I was frozen in a block of ice. I think I managed to spit out the word, “No.”

  The woman looked at me, the obvious question on her face: Who are you then? And I felt sure the same question was on my own face.

  “Do you need some cash, Ginny?” I heard Jay’s voice call out from inside the apartment. It felt like an electric shock to my system. I think I winced.

  “No, it’s not the pizza,” she called over her shoulder, and then turned her pretty face back to me. “Can I help you?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just shook my head no, as I took in the woman standing inside my boyfriend’s apartment. She wore an ivory silk blouse with black, cropped, wide-leg pants over slouchy leather boots that looked like they cost more than all my shoes put together. I couldn’t tell how old she was, but if I had to guess I’d ballpark her in her midthirties maybe. She gave off a chic, sophisticat
ed vibe with her shiny black shoulder-length hair, big brown eyes, and the most perfect eyebrows I’d ever seen. Seriously, they were flawless. They had to have been filled in with something . . . what was it . . . gel, powder, pencil . . . no one could have eyebrows that were that naturally thick and impeccably arched.

  I remained entranced by her mesmerizing brows until she wrinkled them. She looked confused now, and a little worried. The last thing I wanted her to do was to call Jay over here, so I forced myself to speak. “Wrong apartment. Sorry.” My voice came out cracked and thin.

  Ginny smiled and it lit up her whole face. “No problem,” she said. “Have a good night.”

  She closed the door and I immediately flattened myself against the wall, my breath ragged. What had I just walked in on? I raced down the stairs, my mind a jumbled mess as I struggled to take stock of the situation. Okay. So Jay has an attractive woman I’ve never seen before in his apartment and they are ordering a pizza. Okay. Don’t panic. What could be the possible explanations for that? 1. She could be his sister (nope, he’s an only child like me). 2. She could be his friend (he’s never mentioned a friend named Ginny before). 3. She could be his co-worker. 4. She could be his date.

  Number 4 was the most painful option, but I felt like it was in many ways the one that made the most sense. We had been seeing each other for a couple of months and as I thought back, I guess we had never explicitly said that we weren’t going to see other people . . . I just assumed that since we had been spending so much time together, neither of us would want to see anyone else. But maybe it was just me who didn’t want to see anyone else.

  My mind started spooling. Maybe he’d been seeing other people this whole time. We probably hung out three nights a week or so; maybe he had other dates on those other nights and just didn’t mention them. My neurosis spun downhill like a rolling stone. Maybe dating just one person at a time isn’t even how things work anymore. I had to face the fact that I didn’t really know a lot about modern dating. Ryan and I got together when we were teenagers, so technically, this was my first full-adult relationship. Maybe social norms had changed in the past seven years. Maybe I was old-fashioned to think that just because we were hanging out a few times a week, we were “exclusive.” I had so many questions. I needed answers. I know I probably should have just asked Jay, but I decided to hit up another source instead.