I’d been afraid that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it, afraid of what would happen if he saw me with the gun, afraid of him grabbing it from me, but when I held the gun I realized I was tired of feeling powerless.
Pinned against the wall, hand tight on my throat, his eyes boring into mine. “No one will ever love you like I do.”
Viktor turned his back as he got into the car and that’s when I fired. He jerked forward, head dropping, and for a moment there was nothing but that fine red mist, the ringing in my ears, and a faint puff of gray-white smoke.
Every time I close my eyes I replay the shower I took that night, all that blood circling down the drain, as if I were Janet Leigh in Psycho. Except I am the killer. Is this why the smell of blood lingers? Why aren’t I smelling the bleach that I scrubbed over every affected surface, including my own body?
I was afraid Anna would smell the bleach when she came to the house, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe the candles had covered up the scent. Or maybe she assumed it was from the cleaners. She is suspicious anyway. She’s never liked me; she didn’t like Viktor’s first wife either, all of her supposed devotion to that woman’s memory just a way of irritating me. Anna wanted a good Ukrainian girl for her son and she’d been convinced that she could just wait out this marriage. But it’s her son who has timed out, not me. Looking down on Viktor in his coffin I wondered if I’d ever truly loved him. How do you separate love from need? Or fear?
I kissed my fingers and pressed them to his cold lips, playing the grieving widow. No one else can know the truth, about him, about us. There are secrets in every marriage. This is my secret, Viktor’s and mine, and he’s taken it to the grave. No one must know.
chapter nineteen
SARAH
I didn’t tell the others, but Viktor Lysenko’s was not the first dead body I’d seen. When I was in my twenties and fresh out of law school, I worked briefly for a local defense attorney who handled a lot of high-profile and controversial cases.
“This isn’t right,” my boss said one day, waving around the autopsy results the medical examiner’s office had just faxed over. “He’s saying the marks are consistent with the knife found in possession of our client—that’s got to be some bull that the DA talked him into.”
He had to be in court, so he sent me, the fresh-faced twenty-six-year-old who’d cried when she accidentally ran over a squirrel, to talk with the medical examiner at the county morgue.
“There is no error,” the medical examiner said when I stumbled through why I’d been sent to see him. I made the mistake of implying that he’d made a mistake, and he traded the paternalistic smile he’d greeted me with for a frostiness that made me feel even smaller than I am. “The stab wounds are three centimeters long and jagged—apparently this is consistent with the weapon found in possession of your client.” He stood up from his desk. “Come along—I’ll show you.”
If the same thing happened today, I’d say no or walk out. But I was young back then and susceptible to bullies. He led the way into a chilly room with a long row of stacked stainless-steel drawers and yanked one open. “This way,” he said, gesturing impatiently with his hand, when he turned to see that I hadn’t moved from my position near the door. “Come here and look at the wounds yourself.”
I inched my way toward the open steel drawer and the waxy-looking figure lying upon it. It was a woman of about my own age and weight, who’d been stabbed and had her throat slit by her boyfriend because, or so he was insisting, she’d attacked him. She was lying there on the slab naked, her pale, fragile body completely exposed. I could see the wounds clearly, though they were no longer bloody, just gashes, as if she weren’t human, but some stuffed upholstery that had split open, an impression reinforced by the rows of even stitches made postautopsy. There was a line across her forehead, and it took a moment for me to realize that they’d sawed open her skull.
I can remember that there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, that I struggled to breathe. I can remember looking away from the body, gazing frantically at the medical examiner’s dispassionate expression, before glancing up at the lights. The next thing I knew I was sitting in a hallway being told to breathe into a paper bag. Hyperventilating from stress, the medical examiner said. “Tell your boss to come himself next time,” he said when I’d recovered enough strength to leave.
At the visitation, more than ten days after his death, Viktor’s head didn’t show this line. It had been covered by heavy makeup, all evidence of the postmortem carefully concealed, just like the gaping wounds the bullet had left in the front and back of his skull. But I knew they were there, and at first, as I stared down at him in his coffin, I felt that same panicky struggle to breathe.
The visitation was in an old brick building in Ambridge, the choice becoming clear when I saw the name, Beresko Funeral Home, embossed in gold on the outside. It was Ukrainian. The narrow building had old rooms made up in heavily patterned, jewel-toned wallpaper, as if they were pysanky.
Viktor didn’t look like he had in real life, despite the comments so many people were making as they passed his coffin, a heavily polished dark wood with large brass handles and lined with puffy cream-colored satin. “He looks so handsome,” I heard one older woman murmur to Anna Lysenko. “Just like he always did.”
But to me, there was nothing natural-looking about him. Viktor hadn’t worn makeup when he was alive, and no amount of foundation or blush can simulate the glow that blood flow brings to the skin. There were visible comb marks in his short brown hair, which I’d never noticed before. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt with a collar so sharp it seemed to be cutting into his throat. His tie was bright blue and he had a small pin affixed to his lapel—apparently a symbol of membership in some medical organization. The medal that Terry Holloway had picked off the kitchen floor had been attached to a silver chain and was weirdly centered on Viktor’s tie. Someone had folded his fine-boned surgeon’s hands neatly across his chest. Looking closely, I could see that makeup had been added to this skin, too. He looked so different, and after a minute I realized what it was: He looked vulnerable.
“You’d never guess that he choked her with those hands,” Alison murmured after I’d sufficiently paid my respects and joined her standing at the rear of the room among the huge flower arrangements flanking the walls. The cloying and competing scents of dozens of varieties of cut flowers filled the tight space.
“You’d never guess it looking at Heather either,” I whispered, glancing across the room where the grieving widow sat in a receiving line, tearfully greeting people, flanked on either side by Viktor’s mother and aunt.
“Did you spot the police?” Alison murmured. “They’re here.”
Alarmed, I tried to look around the room without attracting any attention. I saw mourners, a huge crowd, many of them Viktor’s colleagues from the hospital, a few still dressed in scrubs and lab coats. “Where?” I said. “I can’t spot anyone out of place.”
“The man in the blue suit at ten o’clock,” Alison said, “but don’t look now. Wait a minute.” I kept my eyes down for a moment before moving my gaze up and slowly in that direction. The man was standing by a doorway, not in the line waiting to pass by the coffin, and not in any of the small clusters of mourners.
“He’s a detective? How can you tell?” He didn’t fit my vision of the police at all, this short, stout man with a bald head and fuzzy fringe of graying hair. I’d met with various members of the police force when I was a lawyer, but none of them had looked quite as, well, nerdy as this guy. He looked like he worked for Charles Schwab, or, given that cheap suit and those orthopedic shoes, I also could have pegged him as a high school teacher. That’s who he really reminded me of, one of my high school history teachers, Mr. Fussel, who all the kids had called Mr. Fossil because he was about as lively as one, droning on about supposedly vitally important moments in history without capturing anyone’s interest.
“He just looks like one
. I’d lay money on it,” Alison said, speaking so softly that I had to strain to hear her. “And I’ll bet his partner is the guy standing next to the table with the guest book.” She didn’t have to tell me again not to look; I waited a second and then let my gaze move casually across the space. The other guy was less of a surprise. Young, fit, with a crew cut and an intense look on his face, he definitely looked like cops I’d known. He reminded me of a neighbor’s Doberman pinscher—a watchdog on high alert. His eyes met mine and I quickly looked away, afraid he’d read the panic in my face.
I hoped they were here because they thought the carjacker might feel guilty and come pay his respects and not because they were watching us. I was going to ask Alison her opinion, but just then Eric left the conversation he was having and crossed the room to my side. “Almost ready to go?”
Alison smiled at him and moved off into the crowd. I glanced at my watch, surprised to see that we’d been there for almost two hours; we didn’t want to pay for too much time with the babysitter. “Sure, I guess. Let me just say good-bye to Heather.”
Julie was also there, across the room talking to various people. I’d waved at her earlier, but we’d agreed in advance that it was a bad idea for us to be seen hanging out as a group. That had been Alison’s suggestion and I’d been initially skeptical, but not anymore. I was aware of the nerdy detective watching as I cut the line to say a quick good-bye to Heather, and I felt his gaze on me again as I joined Eric in the hall and we maneuvered our way through the crowd toward the exit.
“You okay?” Eric put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “How’s Heather holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess. I haven’t been able to talk to her much.”
“She’s going to need you after this is all over, you and Julie and Alison are her biggest support network.”
“She’s got other friends,” I said quickly, concerned that the Doberman pinscher standing at the exit might have overheard us.
“Yeah, but it’s not tight like the bond you four share.”
Tighter than he knew. I flushed. One of the hardest parts was not being able to tell Eric what had happened. We didn’t keep secrets from each other. Not along the lines of what had transpired at Heather’s house and what we’d done. What I’d done. Of course, before this there’d never been anything of this magnitude to keep from him. It was hard to believe it had been barely two weeks since that horrible night.
“I can’t believe he’s actually dead,” Eric said as we walked out to our car. “One minute you’re driving along, living your life, and the next minute—bam!”
I jumped, but he didn’t notice. “What kind of person would do a thing like that?” he said, shaking his head. “Jesus.”
We drove home in a silence that was becoming increasingly common between us. Eric reached over at one point and squeezed my hand. I knew he thought that I was grieving for my friend. He couldn’t know that for the last few nights, after turning off the lights and drifting off to sleep, I’d relive that decision, all of us standing around in that garage, staring into the dark cavity at the back of Viktor’s head. Sometimes I’d jerk awake to the sound of plastic snapping as Alison shook it out to drape over his body.
chapter twenty
ALISON
Being at Viktor’s visitation felt surreal. I hadn’t been at a funeral since I was young, and that time Sean and I had been the ones sitting in the chairs, receiving sympathies, like Heather and her in-laws. The line for Viktor was huge, snaking through the cramped hallway and spilling into the foyer, so that the funeral-home attendants, men in somber black suits who smelled of pomade and cologne, had to take shifts at the front doors. They directed mourners for Dr. Lysenko to the end of the line while ushering a much smaller group of mourners to a side room, where a wizened old woman was laid out in a ghastly white coffin.
There were lots of people from the hospital, of course, plus plenty of parents with children Daniel’s age. Multiple young women dressed in scrubs were weeping and I thought of how Viktor had always been able to turn on the old-world charm.
“Oh, God, this is going to take way over an hour,” Michael muttered when we joined the line, glancing at his watch. “We should text the babysitter.”
That was when I noticed the detectives. The shorter, older one had been lingering near the front door, his hand moving repeatedly between a bowl of pastel mints on the table next to him and his mouth. Toss, chew, toss, and chew as his little eyes rapidly surveyed the crowd.
For a moment I thought about leaving, agreeing with Michael that the line was far too long and we should just move straight to the coffin, pay our respects directly to Viktor, and duck out. Except that would call attention to us, far more attention than just standing there. Michael was saying something, making a joke about how we could probably take care of all our medical issues by consulting with half the line, but I could barely hear him. I felt as if all sound had faded away as I watched the detective’s darting, raptorlike gaze fall on one person, then another. I turned away, smiling at Michael as if I were listening, while I could feel the man turn his scrutiny on me. It felt searing, a brand being pressed against my skin. I actually started to sweat and Michael said, “Are you feeling okay? You look flushed.”
Why was the detective still looking? Did he recognize me? The weight pressing against my skin was too much to bear. I turned to confront him, startled to see that the man had his back turned. He wasn’t looking at me at all.
“I’m fine,” I said, digging around in my purse for a tissue to dab against my face. “It’s just hot in here.”
By the time we reached Heather I’d adjusted to the police presence; I’d spotted another detective once we’d inched our way up the line and into the viewing room itself. I hadn’t adjusted to the soundtrack playing in the background, an Eastern European dirge that someone said was a Ukrainian folk song. “If I have to listen to this for much longer I’ll incite a revolution,” I whispered to Michael.
There was only one couple ahead of us, an elderly man and a woman I’d taken for his daughter until I overheard her murmur a reminder about taking his Viagra. When it was their turn, they took forever talking to Heather, who accepted the odd couple’s sympathy with a solemn expression, nodding at their stories, then giving a slight smile when they declared how much they loved Viktor and were going to miss him. “He was one of a kind,” the man said, patting Heather’s hand. Yes, he was, but not in the way the man meant.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said when it was our turn, and Michael echoed me. Heather thanked us with the same somber grace, accepting our handshakes and the half-embrace I bent to give her. It felt odd to stand there and pretend that this was the first time I’d seen her since Viktor’s death, but she didn’t give the slightest hint of pretense. She looked serene, like a Botticelli virgin, yet in her black Chanel suit, patent heels, and diamond-and-pearl necklace and earrings, she was every inch the doctor’s widow.
Of course, we’d had to shake Anna Lysenko’s hand first, and voice the same sentiments to her. Then there was her sister, Olga, and the sallow-faced younger woman with a dyed black pixie cut, who was introduced to us as Irina, Viktor’s first cousin. Far from being serene like Heather, Irina had bloodshot eyes and a sullen, surly expression. “They were very close,” Aunt Olga informed me, patting her daughter’s hand until the younger woman yanked hers away. “We’re so sorry for your loss,” I murmured, and Irina teared up and clutched my hand, startling me.
When we finally got out of there, I was surprised to discover that it was still light out, the last of the day dropping off in bright bands of red on the horizon. “God, I thought that would never be over,” Michael said, pulling his tie free as we picked our way through the crowded parking lot to our car.
“I’m sorry for Heather,” I said. “The line is still out the door.”
“What a turnout! All of these people coming to honor her husband—that’s got to be comforting.”
<
br /> “Mmm.” I tried to sound noncommittal.
“Do you think I’d pull this kind of crowd if I died?”
“I don’t want to think about you dying,” I said, flashing back to the strong smell of blood in the garage and seeing Viktor slumped over in his car.
“It’s okay,” Michael said, putting his arm around me as he saw me shudder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
It wasn’t the thought of his death that frightened me, but of course I couldn’t tell him.
Michael pulled out of the parking lot as I texted the babysitter to let her know we’d be home soon. “You know, I shouldn’t say this,” Michael said, “but I never liked Viktor.”
He seemed surprised when I leaned over to give him a resounding kiss on the cheek. “What’s that for?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just love you.”
* * *
At home the kids were clamoring for attention, excited because this wasn’t an ordinary afternoon and they’d gotten to watch movies and eat popcorn and candy with the babysitter, Kristi, a plump and cheerful high school senior, popular with kids but not parents, because she did nothing but watch TV with the kids and allow them to fill up on junk food. The neighborhood’s first choice for sitter had always been Angela, who could tutor your children in Chinese, if you so desired, and had been the first-chair cellist in the high school orchestra, before she graduated and went to study biochemistry at Stanford.
Kristi’s one asset was that she seemed to enjoy our kids’ company as much as they enjoyed hers. I didn’t enjoy the mess that she’d leave in her wake—popcorn kernels scattered across the living room rug, a pile of DVD cases spilled across the coffee table next to sticky juice glasses and crumpled candy wrappers.
“We watched Finding Nemo again, Mommy!” Matthew told me for the fourth time since we’d stepped in the door. “Are you sad we watched it without you?”
Just Between Us Page 15
