For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  “Did you tell Phillip about the video? About what you saw them doing?”

  “Just the picture. I said to Sean we have to share what we know. If you’re the only suspect . . . well, that’s not right.”

  “Did Phillip recognize this mystery woman?”

  She shakes her head. “He seemed surprised.”

  I take a long exhale of relief at this new information. I realize I feel stupid for creating the vlog. But maybe it was a good idea.

  “Jules, you can’t say anything about the video. Sean can be a jerk.”

  That’s true, but I have to get this information to the public. “Get Sean a shot, please,” I say to Sarah. “If he’s drunk, then he’ll tell me what you just did. You won’t get in trouble, Sarah. Not because of me.”

  She heads to the rack of shot glasses and wipes down two of them. I check thehalereport.com on my phone. Phillip hasn’t posted much about Terrance other than a personal essay about the man he knew as a boy. I read the article slowly and remember a few of Phillip’s stories. How Terrance introduced him to important authors of color. Believed in Phillip’s writing. I take my time on the last sentences:

  Terry handed me books from authors I had never read in school, but they actually looked like me. They looked like us. Like our families. For the first time in my life, I could see myself reflected in books and ideas. I don’t know if I ever told Terry what that meant to me.

  They drifted apart after Terrance left his first wife for Dez. A lot of their friends and neighbors took his ex-wife’s side, especially since she remained in their neighborhood, while “he moved on up to the East Side,” as Phillip liked to say with a smirk but with real hurt in his eyes. I read over the last lines:

  What haunts me about his death is that the world may never know the real Terry. Only what’s presented now. And maybe I never did.

  I pull Phillip’s card that Sarah gave me out of my pocket. The number is different. I don’t recognize the address, though I think it’s near where his parents live.

  “You going to call him?” Sean asks from beside me.

  “I don’t know.” I take a long drink of beer. “He’s my ex.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sean perks up.

  Sarah brings over the whiskey shots. We take them, and it’s a burn I don’t mind at the moment. Even though I shouldn’t, I’m aware of what I have to do today. What needs to be said and what needs to be filmed. I can’t do it anywhere near sober.

  “So what happened with you and the reporter?” He bats his eyelashes at me. “Tell me everything, girlfriend.”

  “It was fifteen years ago,” I say, relaxing into the drinks. “We were together all through Harvard. Senior year, we broke up. Actually, Phillip made me promise I’d never contact him again. If I love him, he said, I’ll leave him alone forever.”

  Sean smirks. “Kinda dramatic.”

  I remember that night we said goodbye. How he was so calm and resolute as he broke both our hearts. The bandages around his body. His mother glaring at me from where she hovered near his hospital bed. “He was just out of surgery for a pretty serious knife wound that was my fault. Not much I could argue at that point.”

  I can’t see you again, Jules.

  You’re going to kill me. One way or another.

  If you love me, leave me alone.

  I finish my beer and let Sean grab me another one. I will keep my promise and leave Phillip alone. But I could make it so he can’t do the same to me. Not when I’m finding the evidence he needs.

  “Hey, Sean,” I say as he approaches. “Tell me about that photo again. I want to know everything.”

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 5

  PERSONAL VLOG

  EXT. ALLEY—NIGHT

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH stands in an alley with SEAN MURPHY holding the camera.

  JULIET

  I’m behind the Wrong Side of Hope Bar. This is where Terrance was murdered.

  (her eyes fill with tears, and she wipes them with her fingers)

  I’m sorry. This is the first time I’ve been here since. There’s not blood, thank God, but I can see where . . . it happened.

  The camera pans to the corner, where there’s a stack of bricks and a few missing from the wall. There’s still police tape around the area, flapping in the wind. JULIET walks close to the camera and shows a photo of TERRANCE CASTLE and an unidentified woman.

  JULIET

  (continues)

  I’ve been given a photo of Dr. Castle at the Sider from one month ago with this young woman. A witness said she and Terrance went into this alley together for a while. They were kissing, and it was rough, almost like a fight.

  If you have any idea who she is, please contact me directly at the email on my Rhode to Justice channel. I’ll continue to look into her connection.

  JULIET walks closer to the camera, eyes full of tears as she stares at where Terrance was killed.

  JULIET

  (continues)

  We all must be accountable. We can find out the truth together.

  Chapter 11

  Dream Journal, day 1: Dad is driving me to work again, and I’m in the back seat, and he’s going fast. Feels like the highway, how everything is blurred, but it’s our neighborhood streets. I yell TOO FAST but he doesn’t hear me. I bang on the window with my hand. Pink sparkle nail polish hits the glass. TOO FAST. TOO FAST. He goes faster.

  I start my dream journal because I wake up terrified. And hungover. Not a good combination. The fear from the dream paralyzes me in those first few foggy moments of morning. My mind claws for consciousness, as if trying to get out of the car when Dad was driving me to work too fast, too fast, too fast.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. My eyes finally open, and I snap upright, sure I’m going to die.

  With my breath seizing, I grab a pen and notepaper on my bedside table. I scribble until I’m done and gasp in panic and relief, as if remembering is an exorcism. The demon is gone now that its form has been named on this Poe Foundation notepad.

  Ethan stirs beside me, and, released from the dream, my heart begins to slow down. I curl into his chest, and then my head starts to throb. I remember in a flash like a flare gun across dark waters what I did last night. I feel both embarrassed and excited.

  “You got in late,” he says, as if it’s a question and not a fact he likely observed.

  “My interview went long.”

  That’s true, but I also had too much to drink. Fortunately, Sean ordered us a few slices from Hope Street Pizza Kitchen next door, and I actually switched to water after filming the vlog in the alley.

  I don’t feel great. I mean, I’m almost forty and took four shots of whiskey between three beers, however that math works. But my sickness is manageable, and it has to be. Phillip texted me last night. After fifteen years of nothing, he reached out at last.

  “I posted another vlog. Sean helped,” I say. “Terrance was likely having an affair. She looked young. Maybe one of his students.”

  Sean had helped me edit, so he wasn’t in the video at the end. I also got a peek at his creepy Big Brother video-monitoring room. I’m not convinced he’s really deleting all the videos. I’ll need to continue to investigate. I grin at that, finally feeling pride that I’m making progress clearing my name. To change how people are seeing me—not based on the police or Dez but on my terms and my truth.

  I remember that Franco was there. We didn’t talk about his dead cousin or how his aunt had been doing lately. I realize I need to see her by the end of the month. Make one more payment.

  Showing Ethan the video, I watch his eyes go wide. “That’s crazy,” he says. “Who is she? Do you think she did it?”

  Shrugging, I start to scroll through the comments on the video. People are echoing Ethan’s question.

  Who’s that slut?

  Did the whiny widow know?

  What would his wifey say about his sidepiece?

  “Phillip Hale reached out,” I say because I don’t want to hide my p
lan to see my ex from Ethan. He knows about our long relationship—maybe not every detail but that things ended badly. “He’s investigating Terrance’s death too. He probably has police contacts. It’d be nice to have his help.”

  “I read his book,” Ethan says of the true-crime book about a nanny murdered on the East Side that Phillip wrote and investigated last year. “He’s smart. I’m sure with his ties to Terrance, he’ll write another good book. But I doubt he’s going to be on your side.”

  Phillip will not be helping me out of the goodness of his heart or a long-burning flame. “I think we both want the same thing,” I say. “The truth.”

  Ethan shifts onto his elbow so our gazes meet. “Do what you need to do to protect our family,” he says. “I trust you.”

  Kissing him softly on the lips, I try to ignore the part of me that doesn’t feel worthy of his love or trust.

  “I almost forgot,” Ethan says. “They had an extra tripod at work that should fit our camera. I left it downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” I say and kiss him again. “That means a lot.”

  Getting out of bed, I hear Fitz yelling for Ethan’s help getting dressed. I go to my office and open Phillip’s email from last night on my work computer:

  Hey Juliet: it’s Phillip Hale. I guess this is the part when I say, long time no see? I’ve been following your YouTube Channel and saw that Sean gave you the same photo. I want to talk in person. I owe you an apology for the press conference question. Just name a time and place. I’ll be there.

  I reread it again and can almost hear his deep voice. How he’d tell the long-time-no-see joke but not smile until I did, as if his joy came from mine. Not to go all schoolgirl crush overthinking every word, but his point about the apology seems a step too far. Maybe he’s hitting dead ends, so to speak. Perhaps Phillip Hale needs me again.

  But I can’t meet him without any new cards to play. I scroll through the dozen or so other emails that came through last night, which are mostly junk mail. Several crazy theories. A few racists thanking me. The last one is from my father.

  Kiddo:

  Great video last night. Smart to set-up this email for tips. Tell Sean Keep Watch. Okay, so those elitists at Brown U may have given me the shove, but I’ve still got a few friends over there. Here’s the class list from that professor’s only graduate level course. I found her: KARA NGUYEN. And you’ll want to see who is on her Instagram page at the end of the spring semester.

  My detective buddy says still no other suspects. You gotta dig into her like your life depends on it.

  LOU

  I read the last few words again: Like your life depends on it.

  My vision blurs, but I push myself to keep going. Dad includes a link to Kara Nguyen’s Instagram profile, which says she’s an art history grad student and artist. Her profile picture is at an angle, but it matches the photo. Kara’s Instagram page mostly has images of her art at various stages. Large pieces with dark colors and shapes. There’s a photo of her posing on campus when the leaves were turning last year. I skim for more photos of her instead of her art and freeze.

  The photo is of Kara and Terrance—both cool and confident, no smiles, but whatever is between them shines in their eyes. They lean against a bridge downtown, not too far from Brown’s main campus. The image is close to them but not selfie distance. I wonder if they asked someone to take it. It seems out of character for Terrance, but doesn’t love or lust or whatever make fools of us all?

  Terrance looks sexy, as always. It was posted in March, which is still pretty cold in New England, so he’s wearing his lovely tan overcoat. I zoom in on the photo, thinking of Sean’s comment about marrying rich. Well-cut suits and Burberry plaids were made for him.

  Kara is pretty, like a lot of Brown or RISD students shuffling down Benefit Street with too full a backpack.

  “Great hair,” I whisper to the photo. Her cut is easier to appreciate in this photo, hitting just below her shoulders. It actually reminds me of my own style. But hers is much thicker and seems to have a natural shine.

  “Kara,” I whisper, relieved to have a name to fit the mysterious photo I showed the world last night.

  Here is another photo confirming them together. I snap screen captures on my phone of all nonart photos Kara posted, because it’s likely this public profile will not stay that way.

  Phillip will have to share what he’s uncovered if he wants my information. I email him to see if he’d mind meeting me by the front gates on Brown’s campus. I need a location shot for my next video announcing Kara Nguyen’s name. If Phillip wants what I’ve got, he’ll join me.

  Chapter 12

  Ethan slows our Range Rover as we near the main iron gates and brick pillars leading to Brown University’s campus. Opening the car door, I see a few summer students, but the campus is mostly quiet except for cicadas already buzzing in the hot morning.

  I give Ethan a quick kiss goodbye before sliding off the leather seat. I sling my purse over my shoulder, with the tripod inside. I button the blazer I’ve worn over my dress, even if it’s already sticky out. I owe it to my viewers to look professional as I investigate this crime.

  Hurrying through the gate onto the quad, I scan for Phillip among the tall trees and few students. I don’t see him and switch to locating spots to set up my next video. There’s a nice shaded corner near the brick clock tower that would work well.

  As good as I feel in my blazer, with my tripod ready for the next vlog, reality can’t be ignored. The last time I was on campus, Terrance was alive. That day, I was meeting him in the faculty club after we’d finally agreed on our Genius Grant launch plan. There were drinks and laughs and big ideas. With all the potential before us, I’d never have believed the next time I was on campus, it would be to tell the world he was having an affair with a student who could have a connection with his murder. One in which I’m the prime suspect. The only suspect. The realization snaps my confidence, and unease creates fissures in my chest.

  My mind reaches for that happier day and those moments with Terrance. We chatted about his new collection of essays, something to release with the Genius Grant to raise his profile. I pitched it like the book a candidate publishes when they run for president. Something to launch his most important ideas and key messages.

  That day, we didn’t bicker over what words to use. I didn’t argue with Terrance about why he wanted to push people to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t argue how every person must consider their role in supporting a broken system.

  That day, it felt like we shared a wonderful secret. An impending surprise party or positive pregnancy test. I grin at that word, as if we were pregnant with promise and dreaming of nothing but upside and opportunity.

  I wonder what the essays look like now, under Dez’s direction. If she’s still going to publish them and how, since most of them Terrance had red penned to death, so to speak. Let her worry about offending people. Or language that’s too passive around restorative-justice principles.

  People have to understand when they’re to blame.

  It’s too much, Terrance.

  If you let them off the hook, they’ll snare you again.

  A familiar shape pulls me into the present and yet also calls me back to the past. Phillip takes long strides across the lawn, wearing nice dark pants and a polo shirt in a lovely lavender shade. His plastic hipster glasses make him look smart and sexy instead of try-hard. There’s tension I’d been holding that releases at the sight of him. It’s been fifteen years, but his appearance has changed so little. At least on the outside.

  I hoped he’d have the same smile—not that he’s smiling. Same tone of voice when he cracks a joke, though I’m not expecting that either. His shoulders are muscular, and I bet he still works out to relieve stress, though his frame is lean. I get a flash of his naked body and then wonder if the same images of us together appear to him too.

  I wanted him unchanged. He was damn near perfect, even for being so young. Seein
g him looking the same shows the truth. I was the problem in us.

  “Hey, Jules,” he says, and I hear disappointment in his voice.

  As I close the distance, I raise my hand and wave, then feel lame. Nerves, I guess. “Hey, Phillip.” I clear my throat. “Thanks for reaching out.”

  He nods, as if he understands the subtext of my comment: I left you alone, for all these years, just like you asked.

  “I’m sorry, by the way.” I shift my purse on my shoulder. “Terrance meant a lot to you. I thought of you . . . when I heard.”

  Phillip nods, but he raises his eyebrows skeptically. “I didn’t think of you. Guess I should have.”

  My mouth forms an O, though I deserved that. “I really miss him too.”

  He adjusts his glasses, and I see a shadow of regret pass over his face. He was never cruel, not even if I deserved it.

  “Terrance and I met a few months ago on campus,” I say, pointing toward his office. “He brought me a book.”

  Phillip pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and I remember all the times I’ve watched him do it. “Was it mine?” he asks with hope in his voice as he wipes at his forehead.

  I grin, remembering that Phillip is usually restrained at first. I need to warm him up to our shared problem. “Yes, he was excited that you’d published it. He seemed proud.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Phillip says. “We had a falling-out. I wasn’t sure he’d read it.”

  Phillip hinted as much in the essay on his website. I want to ask for more details, but I don’t have that right. The point of this conversation is to build trust. “He was working on his own book about restorative justice as part of the grant,” I say. “The first essay was about how crime hurts a community. He had a metaphor—or symbol, I guess, is a better word. He wanted to create a film with a stonecutter that we were going to take across the country. We’d play this video before Terrance came out, actually. The man would lay a stone out and then start to hammer. It’d probably take a few minutes, but finally, after thirty or forty hits—or maybe one hundred—the stone finally breaks. Then the man is able to pick it up and put it in its place.”