For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  Phillip is watching me so carefully. “It’s not the last hit.”

  Crossing my arms, I smile a little. “It’s not. Every single hit, all of them together, they make the change possible to build something stronger.”

  Phillip’s gaze shines for a moment, as if Terrance’s words still have power, and maybe they do. “How many essays were finished?” he asks.

  I shrug as a warm breeze rustles the full trees around the campus quad. “He was changing them all the time. I kept asking him to finalize just one. Maybe we could pitch it to the Times or Post. As soon as I had it approved by our internal teams, he’d have massive changes.”

  “Terrance was never satisfied,” Phillip says, an edge in his voice. “As soon as he settled on one concept, a seemingly perfect idea, he’d attack it with something else.” Phillip raises his eyebrows before rolling his eyes. “Geniuses, right?”

  “That’s funny,” I say, like I always do. “I forgot you’re funny.”

  “But you don’t really laugh,” Phillip says. “My talents were wasted.”

  I want to say that not all his talents were wasted, but I restrain myself. Maybe he guesses, and maybe he doesn’t, but he seems more at ease. His stance a little less rigid. “Not much to laugh about lately,” I say. “Being accused of this crime . . .” My voice cracks, so I stop. “I feel a little like a caged animal, if I’m being honest.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, and he takes his handkerchief again and wipes his forehead. In the few moments we’ve stood on the grass, the sun has shifted directly onto us. “But, Jules, you’re trying to drag other people into the cage with you.”

  I shake my head. “If I thought the police were doing their job, I might agree. If everything hadn’t been taken away from me, maybe I could justify sitting on my hands. But I can’t. My whole life is at stake.”

  “What about the woman’s life?” He steps toward me, tilting his head. “She may have been having an affair with Terry. But that’s no reason to make her infamous.”

  “She was sleeping with a married man,” I say too quickly, sliding back into being angry and defensive. “She gets what she deserves.”

  “Why is that for you to decide?”

  I dab at my hair and rub the sweat and makeup between my fingers. “Because I’m pursuing the truth. In the end, that’s what I want. The truth about what happened. If that means I have to bulldoze my way there, I will.”

  “Gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet?” Phillip slides his hands into his pockets. “I’m not here to be your teacher or good angel on your shoulder. But I do want to apologize. I knew Dez was very angry at you, and I asked that question anyway. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Blow up my life?”

  His shoulders tense. “If that’s what I did, then yes.”

  “You didn’t do that,” I say truthfully. “You may have moved up the detonation date, but it was ticking. Unless the police actually caught the person who did it. But I guess they’ll leave that for us.”

  “Not so fast,” he says. “Are you going to apologize to me?”

  “For which thing?” I ask with a little too much bite.

  He stands up straighter. “If you have to ask, you’re not sorry.”

  This is not getting us anywhere. I have the camera in my bag. New ideas for moving this investigation forward. “Do we have to air all grievances today?” I snap. “It’s been fifteen years—maybe just move on?”

  “I still have the scar, Jules.” He takes an index finger, draws along his lower abdomen. “I have sharp pain. And nightmares. So yes, if you really want my help, I will need you to acknowledge your role in my stabbing.”

  The sun’s heat comes strong. I reach into my bag and get out a water bottle. I take a drink and then pause but still offer it to him.

  “I’m good,” he says.

  I do want to apologize. I’ve written emails I never sent. Texts I quickly deleted, and even a couple of long, single-spaced letters going on for multiple pages. How many times have I pictured saying I’m sorry? How many ways? But the problem was I didn’t know what either of us would lose or gain if I did. What it would cost me to admit that it was my fault.

  “Do you want to stand in the shade?” Phillip asks. “I can carry your bag over there.”

  “I’m good,” I parrot back and adjust the strap, feeling childish. “Let’s go over to that bench by the tower.”

  We start walking along the crisscrossing concrete pathway across campus. Two students are hurrying past us with a giggle. They’re young, and even though they’re moving fast, they still hold hands. I miss that combination Phillip and I once had, the passion with the drive to get somewhere together. The couple continue to the other side of the quad and then heave open an old wooden door.

  I glance back at Phillip, searching to see if he feels the same mix of regret, maybe even jealousy. He’s watching them, too, but his lower jaw is out slightly, as if the two young lovers are making a mistake.

  Or maybe he wishes he were hurrying in the opposite direction of me too.

  We reach the bench, and I set my bag gently on the wooden slats. “I have a tripod,” I say with a smirk. “Very professional.”

  He laughs a little, but I can feel him waiting for the apology.

  The parts I remember of that night with Phillip are few. “The worst things that happen to me are all because of drinking too much and men.”

  “That’s not an apology,” he says.

  I’m not sure where to start. Phillip and I were out dancing at a crowded club in Boston’s Back Bay I’d insisted we go to. I see the bright lights and feel the loud bass. I can almost taste too many sweet but boozy drinks. It’s a blur until it’s not. The backhand across the cheek. The rage in his eyes. The tears from us both. The red mark on his jawline already turning bluish from my rings. The way he looks at me changing from love to fear.

  I was flirting with a guy, which I knew pissed Phillip off. Not like he was jealous, but more he was aware I was playing games. He asked me to stop, and that other guy—even drunker than I was, which is saying something—didn’t like the look of Phillip. When Phillip tried to pull me out of there, I slapped him across the face. That gave the drunk guy an opening.

  He pulled out a knife and stabbed Phillip in the stomach.

  If it had been a punch, maybe Phillip would have forgiven me. But he lay on the disgusting ground, blood pooling around us both. He had the fear of death in his eyes, and it was all my fault.

  I can hear his last words to me. Until today.

  You’re not my problem anymore, Jules.

  “I am sorry,” I say finally. “I wish I wasn’t the person who needs attention. Who has to have everything go her way. Blaming my twenties doesn’t really cut it, since I’m in an even worse situation at almost forty.”

  He nods, but I can see it’s not enough.

  “You don’t have to forgive me, Phillip, but the thing you said . . . when you were out of surgery. Do you remember?”

  “I remember asking you to leave me alone, if you loved me.”

  “Yes, yes, exactly. And I did. But you also said . . . I’m not your problem anymore.”

  His lower lip falls open for a moment, but he only nods. “Yeah . . . I do remember that now.”

  “You were right. I was wrong. But I don’t have to be your problem. I can be your solution. Let’s figure out who killed Terrance together.”

  He frowns. “I could never, ever trust you, Jules.”

  That might bother other people, but not me. “Is that necessary to help each other? To find out why this great man we both cared about is dead?”

  A door kicks open across campus and draws our gazes. A handful of students exit, chattering as they hurry toward the road. “If you have the nerve to ask me to work with you, then you must know the woman’s name.”

  “Kara Nguyen. A student of Terrance’s and an artist.” I dig out my phone and pull up her Instagram profile, but it’s private now. I saved the pho
to of her and Terrance, so I show him. “Here they are in March.”

  “Oh,” he says, staring at the image, frowning a little.

  “Do you know if the police have looked at her as a person of interest?” I ask as I drop my phone back into my bag. “Did you already ask?”

  “No, I didn’t.” He sits down on the bench. “It felt intrusive.”

  I hold back the snide comment about how lucky that is for her. “Do you know if there are any other suspects?”

  “They’ve interviewed several people,” he continues. “Even Dez twice. But I haven’t heard anything about anyone but . . . you.”

  I take a step toward him. “If they were having an affair, then that’s motive. Maybe her or maybe Dez or a crazy ex. Surely you can see that.”

  He gives me an almost-imperceptible nod. “I’ll reach out to Detective Ramos,” he says. “Look for other leads.”

  “Besides looking at me?” I say, angry at what he’s implying. “You think . . . you think I killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” he says quickly.

  My stomach twists, and I have to grit my molars together to get control of my temper. “Okay, Phillip. You don’t have to help me prove I didn’t do it.”

  He blinks, as if that option was never even on the table. “But?”

  “But . . . I am investigating Terrance’s murder.”

  “With a vlog?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not able to soften my voice. “I found out this woman’s name, and when I share her identity with my viewers, there will be many more leads. I will find Terrance’s killer. If that’s what you want, too, then come along for the ride.”

  He rises from the bench. “One thing, Jules,” he says and gently steeples his fingers, as if beginning a prayer. “I hope . . . I really hope it wasn’t you.”

  I have to grind my molars again to stay calm at this compromise. I’d secretly hoped he’d say that no matter my worst moments, which he’s certainly seen, there is no part of me that could commit this terrible crime. But he wouldn’t say it, because he doesn’t believe it. I guess that’s integrity, but it still tears at old wounds between us.

  “I brought a peace offering.” I reach into my bag. “Here’s the last draft of the essays by Terrance that I was editing. Of course he red penned them more than me. This is what he wanted the world to know about restorative justice. It seems right that you’d have his final words.”

  Phillip takes the pages from me, flipping through them reverently. “This means a lot. I’d been thinking about reaching out to Terry. See if he wanted to collaborate on a writing project again.” Phillip sighs deeply, and his lower jaw tightens for a moment, as if he’s trying to control a wave of regret. “Thank you, Jules,” he says quietly, still not looking up from the pages.

  “Sure.” I feel relief handing this document over to Phillip. Working with Terrance was a daily frustration, and he’d been getting more and more demanding. “Maybe you can do something with them. I bet he’d like that.”

  Phillip looks up. “He’d want me to find out who killed him first.”

  “Well, in that case, do you mind helping me with this tripod?”

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 6

  PERSONAL VLOG

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH stands in the middle of the Brown University campus, with the brick bell tower behind her.

  JULIET

  Thank you all so much for the tips and information that have been sent along. If you’re new to the Rhode to Justice vlog, I am the only suspect in the murder investigation of Dr. Terrance Castle, who was a professor here at Brown University, where I’m standing.

  We have a new member of the team. Phillip Hale is a true-crime author and blogger who helped solve a Providence murder last year. Dr. Castle was a mentor to Phillip, so it means a lot to have him on our search for the truth.

  In the last episode, I showed you a photo of a woman, and within twenty-four hours we have her name and another photo of her with Dr. Castle.

  JULIET pulls her phone out of her blazer pocket, clicks the screen, and shows the photo of TERRANCE CASTLE and KARA NGUYEN.

  You can see Kara Nguyen in this photo with Terrance Castle. I captured the image from Kara’s Instagram account before she made it private sometime in the past twelve hours. She is an art student who took a restorative justice and artistic expressions course with Dr. Castle. We do not know the exact nature of their relationship. But as I stated in my last video, two weeks before Terrance’s death, there were eyewitnesses of him and Kara being physically aggressive and sexual in nature in the alley where Terrance was later murdered.

  JULIET steps toward the camera.

  I received confirmation that the police have not contacted Kara Nguyen. If you know her, know her whereabouts or any information, please send it to my Rhode to Justice email account.

  This is the first real lead. I want to speak with Kara and find out the truth for all of us.

  Chapter 13

  Dream Journal, day 2: Dad is driving me again. I’m in the front seat this time, thighs sweating in white tights. I’m late to meet Terrance. I yell for Dad to hurry, but he’s passing out, his heavy foot on the gas, then sliding off the pedal. We jerk forward then stop as if there’s a rocket strapped to the car both hurling and sputtering us forward. I shake his shoulder, but he doesn’t respond.

  The rain begins hard and fast. At first the drops are tiny like beads of sleet, rattle, rattle, rattle. Then the ice is bigger: long sharp slivers and chunks cracked from some looming plastic tray. They shatter the windshield until we can no longer see the sky through the webs of cracks. The broken windshield drops onto us like a blanket of razor blades.

  “Another bad one?” Ethan asks.

  The sweat is still rolling down my chest as I drop the notepad into my drawer. “It wasn’t good. That’s for sure.”

  He heads over to his closet, whistling as he gets ready for work. With Jonesy and all her go-getter glory. “The new intake system for homeless families is going really well.” He pulls a tie out from the back of his closet. “We’re presenting the data to a VP at Poe.”

  I want to ask who, but I spare us both. “Give lots of stories,” I say. “The data is great for a pie chart in a brochure, but they want stories of families staying together. Moms getting a chance at the American dream.”

  “Great points. Jonesy will appreciate that.” He grins, but there’s more in it. “Can you pack Fitz’s lunch before you drop him off? I really need to get going to make the bus.”

  “Sure,” I say and decide we’re heading to McDonald’s.

  I check my messages from last night’s video and see one text from Phillip:

  Found Her.

  He sends a link to a comment with Kara’s address.

  “We’ve got a lead,” I say to Ethan but realize he’s already gone downstairs to tell Fitz goodbye. I let Phillip know I’ll meet him there by noon.

  The morning goes fast as I scramble to review all the comments and search for more news coverage. This requires Fitz to be in front of the TV until Netflix interrupts with the message ARE YOU STILL WATCHING NETFLIX? As if it’s a judgment on my parenting and how much he’s allowed to view in a sitting. Fitz stretches his arms and drops his hands onto his knees. The term knobby doesn’t seem to do them justice. I can nearly see the bones, and suddenly I have a real urge to feed him.

  “Let’s get you a Happy Meal with a chocolate milk,” I say.

  He gives me a sly smile because Ethan only lets him have white milk or water.

  I find my new temporary license Ethan got for me through AAA, since the police still had my old one, and throw it into my old wallet, with not much cash and a credit card I’m pretty sure is maxed out.

  Soon we’re heading toward McDonald’s, which requires me to drive along what’s considered the “back side” of the East Side of Providence. The blocks down the hill closer to busy North Main Street are where the cost per foot drops until it’s nothing but multifamily houses full of rente
rs. There are a few new businesses making a go of it, a poke place, and a bagel shop. No one I know lives over here.

  Not that we could even afford one of these walk-up rentals with our Thelma & Louise financial outlook. In my leased Range Rover, no one would know we’re full throttle toward the cliff.

  The car will be gone by the end of the month. About the time we put our house on the market and pray we break even. We’ll be lucky to move in with my parents, and after about twenty minutes of that, I’ll be longing for a cheap apartment off North Main.

  We turn into the Thunderdome parking lot of Whole Foods and then the McDonald’s drive-through. I toy with the idea of getting a bite but press my fingers to my hip bone and remind myself it’s not worth it. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

  I get to the essential questions. “Yogurt or apple slices, buddy?”

  Fitz flips a page in his dinosaur book. “Ummmm, I guess apple slices. Or both?”

  “All right,” I say, and I yell the order into the speaker.

  “That’ll be another dollar.”

  I sigh, and even though it’s silly, an extra dollar feels like a lot when we’re living on Ethan’s hourly wage. “Can we pick one, buddy?”

  “No!” he yells, the hangries, as we call them, kicking in. “Both!”

  Maybe this is where a parent should put their foot down. “Whatever.”

  After the order is done, we sit in the same spot, waiting to pull forward. Then I see something move on the side of my car. I jump in my seat, then stab the lock button. I’m relieved the windows are up as the air-conditioning blasts.

  “What is it?” Fitz calls from the back.

  I focus on the movement until the large round shape steps from behind the trash. It’s a homeless woman called the Trash Bag Lady.

  “Oh, look at her,” Fitz says. “Is she getting in our car?”