A bald man freshly peeled off a Mr. Clean bottle steps forward much more confidently in his ill-fitting suit and decent tie. He wipes at his face in the July morning sun. “I’m Detective Frank Ramos,” he says. “You’re Juliet Worthington-Smith?”
“I am,” I say, the panic only heightened seeing two of them here. The sun is directly in my eyes, and I shade them with my hand for a moment. “What happened? Is it my husband? He went to get milk.”
One of the detective’s palms goes up. “It’s not him. We need you to identify something for us. If you don’t mind.”
I swallow thickly, feeling the sweat rolling down my chest. The smell of smoke from last night floats up from my too-padded bra. “Sure,” I manage to say.
“Do you know this object?” the detective asks as he waves the uniformed cop forward. The kid cop holds up my red leather Celine wallet in a plastic bag marked EVIDENCE.
“Oh.” I shake my head, embarrassed tingles spreading all over my body, as if I’ve been caught. “I must have left it . . .”
I try to remember the end of the night. After the event, I was in a Lyft to . . . Hope Street Pizza Kitchen, which is only a block from our house and open late. I had a gin and tonic, I think. Maybe a slice of pizza. I see a bartender—Sarah—but she works at the Wrong Side of Hope Bar next door. So I guess I went there too.
“Did you find my wallet on Hope Street?” I point in that direction but realize a lost wallet wouldn’t bring a cop and detective to my house. “Where was it?”
“Your wallet was next to a body,” the detective says. “The body of a person we believe was murdered last night.”
“What?” I close my eyes and brace myself on the porch rail. All the blood has dropped to my feet. “Who?” I whisper, terrified it’s Sarah the bartender. Or anyone, really. “Who?” I snap.
“I’d like to bring you into the station for questioning,” the detective says.
“What?” I say again, and my vision blurs. “You cannot be serious. I mean, who was killed? Do I even know them?”
“Why don’t you get your phone and come with us?” he says softly, almost too nice.
That’s what cops do at first, my dad told me once—act like they care. Then they get what they want, which means you’re either tossed aside or tossed into jail.
“My son . . .” I hear the panic in my voice, but there’s no stopping it. I know what the police can do to a family. How even after they leave, the wake is felt for years, decades, a whole lifetime if you let it. “My son . . . he’s . . . inside alone. Yes. Alone. I can’t leave him.”
The feelings I had as a girl resurface, and all that shame burns with my present embarrassment. The tears begin, and I angrily wipe them away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “This isn’t because of . . . the wallet. It reminds me . . .”
The detective glances at the cop. “It’s okay, Mrs. Smith. Can you tell us where you were last night?”
“Working at an event downtown,” I say and clear my throat. “I’m CEO of the Poe Foundation. We actually fund your annual Take Back the Night walk.” I wipe a few more tears into the T-shirt sleeve. “I know your boss.”
Detective Ramos clears his throat. “Why would your wallet be in the alley off Hope Street?”
I let out a long shaky breath. “Well, honestly, I went out for a drink after the event. I shouldn’t have. One too many,” I say and manage a small laugh. “Not enough to eat. I probably dropped my wallet on my walk home. Can you please . . . tell me who was killed?”
A van door slams in the distance. There’s shouting. Our house is close to Hope Street, one of the busier stretches on the East Side of Providence. But this time of day, it’s usually a lot quieter. Something is wrong.
There’s another sliding door. A man yells about getting “the shot.”
Stepping past Detective Ramos, I narrow my gaze down the block past the front yards of colonial and Cape-style homes. News vans are parking in front of Kitchen Bar. I recognize the logo from a Boston station. People with video cameras hurry across the street toward the Wrong Side of Hope Bar. “That’s where it happened?” I whisper. “By the Sider?”
Detective Ramos clears his throat, and his focus darts to the news vans. “Damn it, they’re fast,” he says to the young officer. “Be sure the tape is up and the scene is locked down.”
The cop strides toward our white picket fence. He speaks softly into a radio clipped to his shoulder.
The distraction gone, my question screams in my throbbing head. “Who was killed, Detective?” I cross my arms tight across my chest and try to stay calm. Stay smart. “Please, tell me who?”
His cheek twitches as his lips press together. He doesn’t want to tell me. Likely, he’s saving it for the interrogation room. I get another waft of sweaty cigarette smoke from my bra. A memory arrives: Light-brown eyes and long eyelashes as a lighter sparked. The momentary contact of our skin and how it contrasted even more than usual in the full moon light. Mine so pale, almost transparent, and his a rich brown.
I can’t remember for certain, but it feels like Terrance Castle met me last night. I hear the words he whispered after he left me on the stage of the grant announcement that would make our careers.
Text me after, Jules.
“Terrance,” I whisper, my throat suddenly on fire. “No, please not him.”
“Whoa, what did you say?” My realization seems to strike the detective between the eyes as he stammers, then waves the cop back over. “You said the name Terrance. Are you referring to Professor Castle?”
“Dr. Castle,” I correct. “Yes. The event was for him. To announce his partnership with the Poe Foundation.”
“You were with him last night?”
The way the detective’s voice turns eager is all the confirmation I need that this brilliant man is dead. Tears begin again with purpose, having something to grab and sink into. “Oh my God.” I drop onto the step and sob into my hands. “It is him?”
Detective Ramos replies in the affirmative, but I can’t comprehend the words.
My mind flashes through interactions with Terrance, but it’s hard to focus on a particular memory with the truth that everything is in the past.
My mind stops on the first speech I saw Terrance give. It was a keynote at Brown University, where he is . . . was . . . a professor. The Poe Foundation had sponsored the conference: Big Ideas in the Smallest State. Terrance strode onto the stage in his crisp white shirt. He began speaking in that hot spotlight with a simple question: “Are you ready to heal what’s broken?”
He was an early adopter of an approach to addressing crime called restorative justice. He explained how communities are full of pain from crime, both the criminals and victims.
“We aren’t asking the right questions,” he argued. “Because it’s easier to merely punish. But why did they commit the crime? Could it have been stopped? Could a simple intervention have kept the victim safe? We aren’t asking these questions, because we’re scared of the answers.”
I was only one person in that silent and rapt auditorium, but it felt like Terrance was speaking to me about a future we could make together.
“Restorative justice can help the people who committed the crime as well as the victims,” he said. “Yes, the bone is broken, but we can set it right and heal everyone impacted.”
Heal them? I’d never imagined such a thing was possible.
In our meet and greet after, I elbowed my way to the front of the line to meet Terrance. With my white wine in one hand and my phone to take photos of us in the other, I said if I was made CEO of the Poe Foundation, which hadn’t happened yet, we could go national. That got his interest. I promised to take him and his message to every community that would listen. Together, we could effectively wipe out reincarceration rates. Change the lives of millions of people.
I can feel the detective and the cop staring at me hunched on the step. Pulling up my husband’s white T-shirt, I wipe the tears from my face
with the worn cotton. As I find their gazes, I will myself to keep it together. I clear my throat and focus on what matters, which is getting these men to leave so I can make some decisions.
“That is my wallet,” I say. “I met up with Terrance . . .” My voices cracks, but I find steadiness again. “I met up with him for a drink. I must have left it.” I shake my head. “He’s the kind of guy who’d return it right away. I’m sure . . . that’s what happened.”
A horrible thought catches my focus: Was he murdered because I forgot my wallet? Is this my fault?
“You’re sure you came home on your own and without it?” Detective Ramos says slowly.
“Correct.” I nod firmly. “There will be witnesses. Sarah, the Sider bartender, usually works weekends. Sean is the owner. He’s always there. I really can’t tell you anything else. But they’ll vouch for me, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Detective Ramos says, but he can’t hide the annoyance. “We need a full statement. When your husband returns, we’ll drive you to the station.”
I blink at the evidence bag in the young officer’s hand. My chest aches that Terrance is dead. But I won’t lose sight of what it means to have a cop knock on my door. I need to remember how to act. Remember how to protect myself and my family.
“Now is not a good time,” I say and stand up. I hate that I have on Ethan’s gym clothes. I need my CEO armor of a good suit and tall heels. “You will get a statement from me as soon as possible.”
“Now is better.” Detective Ramos widens his stance and ambles forward, as if he’s about to cuff me.
“You will get a statement,” I say firmly as he continues to approach me. “After I speak to my lawyer.”
At the mention of counsel a vein throbs on his shiny head. “I’ll need that statement very soon, Mrs. Worthington-Smith. Or I come in a cruiser with the lights on.”
“No need to threaten me,” I say, liking the spike of anger instead of all the sadness. “I do know your boss.”
“You mentioned that.” His jaw tics as he steps toward me. “What do you think your neighbors would say, seeing you hauled away in cuffs?”
God, they’d love that. “You’ll be hearing from me,” I say with a smile we both know I don’t mean.
Once their shapes disappear in the direction of Hope Street, I wipe a few more tears. I wonder if they’re passing Terrance’s body out in the alley? How could he be dead? Who would have killed him?
I have to drop back onto the step and begin crying in earnest now that I’m alone. I want to curl up in a ball right on the porch. My head begins to throb even more from the tears, and I feel as if my eyeballs are vibrating in their sockets. I lean back and press a fist into my chest, finding the point of real pain as I blink into the sun.
Terrance can’t be dead.
That detective and that cop being on my doorstep feels like a demarcation of before and after. Before, my only problem was being hungover and maybe saying something stupid last night to the Poe Foundation board. But now, after, it’s murder. How could I have existed in both worlds and not even realized?
I start to feel stares from windows in the houses across the street. I’m not sure if it’s old memories or that I am making a scene, sobbing in Ethan’s gym clothes. That thought manages to get me off the steps and inside.
Sniffing, I wipe my face as I follow the noises of the TV into the living room. Fitz is still watching that family vlog.
“Mom, look at this!” He points his finger at one of the older boys hiding in a cabinet.
I scowl at them and am angry at their smiles, maybe jealous that their only concern is playing a game for their stupid video while the world has changed overnight.
No, it’s more than an abstract idea of “the world.” My life has changed. Terrance was the absolute centerpiece of the Poe Foundation’s moving forward with me as CEO. Months and months of planning and meetings and PowerPoints and strategy sessions are over. Plus, I cared about him. I saw huge things for his future. Our future.
And they found my wallet next to his body.
Fitz sits up and crosses his skinny legs. “Who was that?” he asks. “Your face is red.”
“The police,” I murmur. “A man got hurt last night.”
His eyes go wide. “Who?”
I don’t think Fitz ever met Terrance, and I wonder if I should lie. I don’t want to start crying again. Or make him cry. I shrug and say softly, “It’s all right. How’s your breakfast?”
He holds up a piece of bacon. “You want a bite, Mama?”
Shaking my head no, I feel as if I don’t deserve his kindness. Still, I reach for it. Sitting on the floor, I pull him into my lap, even though he’s getting so big. He curls into my chest and settles his long legs over mine. His feather-fine hair smells like oranges from the organic Honest shampoo that Ethan still insists we buy, even though Fitz is far from a baby.
In and out, I breathe. Holding my son tighter, I promise myself it will all be fine. It will all work out. Everything always does.
Suddenly, I am overwhelmed by his shampoo and the too-sweet smell of mine from when Drunk Me decided to shower. I let him go and stand up, trying to remember the Sider last night. My memories are so fuzzy. Well, blackout is actually the term.
My mind scrambles for details while the vlog family laughs in the background. I wish Ethan were home. After I reach our big picture window, I peer out to see if he’s almost here. My fingers pull on the sheer curtains. I have that feeling of every neighbor watching and judging. Though no one could have heard yet, it’s coming. We’re living in that tire-screeching moment before the crash.
I squeeze the sheers and dig my nails into my palms as hard as I can stand until I feel blood. Letting go, I smooth the curtains back into place. No one will notice the few dark drops along the edge.
Detective Ramos’s parting comment was meant as a hypothetical threat, wondering what my neighbors would say if I was accused of murder. What he didn’t realize was I already know.
Just like her father.
Chapter 2
From the living room window, I see Ethan finally crossing the road. He hurries down the block with his Shop Small tote bag over his shoulder. I consider running to meet him at our gate and crying in his arms about Terrance being dead.
But it’s not that simple.
Then I realize I haven’t even checked my phone.
I head to where Ethan usually puts my phone in the charger if it’s been a late night. The screen is blank as I swipe, so it died.
Not letting myself dwell on that last word, I take my phone upstairs. I need the few extra minutes while Ethan puts the groceries away. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I turn on my phone.
First is a text from Elle, the Poe Foundation media consultant I hired, with a link to my speech. I can’t look yet. Then texts from my staff to be sure I got home okay. Next, a message to Ethan at 1:50 a.m.: B HOME NOON.
Oops on the typo, but it means I left around closing time at the Sider. We’re a block from there, so it’s possible it closed, I left my wallet, and Terrance came after me. Maybe . . . maybe . . . I shake my aching head, frustrated by how little I remember. So stupid.
Taking a deep breath, I continue to the next message thread. This one with Terrance.
Me (9:05 p.m.): You owe me a drink for bailing like that on our big night.
Terrance: We need to talk. But give me time. Have to sneak out. Short leash.
Me: Naughty boy?
Me: (GIF of Beyoncé dancing to “Naughty Girl”)
Terrance (9:27 p.m.): Where are you?
Me: Sider on Hope Street. My girl Sarah is bartending. It’ll be worth it ;)
Terrance: Be there as soon as I can.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I invited him.”
He would still be alive if I hadn’t texted him to meet me. If he hadn’t tried to return my wallet and run into a murderer. I read his text again with the realization that these are the last words between us. Well, that I re
member.
Rubbing at the lines between my eyebrows, I try to stay calm. Of course Drunk Me had texted him. I basked in his glow every second possible, brought up to anyone who is anyone that the Poe Foundation is . . . was working with the Dr. Terrance Castle on this national launch.
“I’m hoping for Oprah, but we’ll settle for Savannah” was my refrain. It usually got a laugh and a twinkle of jealousy. It certainly skyrocketed the Poe Foundation’s proverbial stock in most people’s eyes. And finally gave me the boost to reach the CEO rung of the ladder.
“Jules,” Ethan calls. “Are you up yet? There’s a bunch of police by the Sider.”
“Yeah,” I yell back. My stomach drops at the mention of police, knowing the screech is almost over, and I’m close to the crash. “Jumping in the shower.”
I take my phone into the bathroom, and I turn on the water. Sitting on the edge of the claw-foot tub, I scroll through the photos. There are a few at the event. The big champagne fountain I insisted on having with the selfie station to raise a glass—#CheerstoCastle. Then a group shot with the board. I look drunk. My eyes are glassy and my smile way too big. I made sure to stand right next to Miller.
I’m really never drinking again.
My grin gets wider as the photos wear on. I’m at the Sider, and it’s a selfie with the bartender, Sarah. The next few are with the owner, Sean, who looks pretty drunk himself, with his arm around my waist. I roll my eyes, which hurts, at more selfies at the bar with people I don’t know.
I keep scrolling until I find Terrance’s face. His grin. The two of us sitting at the bar. It’s blurry, but I can see his nose pressed into my cheek. We’re both laughing, and I do remember the euphoria, even if I have no visual memory. I was happy next to him on that barstool. But then what?
My hangover and this terrible news have opened every floodgate of anxiety. I’m jittery from emotions warring for my attention. I blink away tears and stare up at the ceiling, wishing last night had been different. That I was different.
I have to shower and start figuring out how to survive this day. I quickly google TERRANCE CASTLE, and there are the usual articles, nothing new, so his name hasn’t been released yet.
For the Best Page 2
