For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  She only shrugs, and my cheeks heat. I wish I could flip everyone off. Toss over a table. Meet their expectations of being an insane murderer not good enough to drink at their bar. Instead, I let Phillip gently lead me by the arm outside into the hot evening air.

  We walk in silence down toward our cars to put distance between us and the place I’ll never go to again.

  Pausing at the corner in front of the Thai food place I thought of earlier, I have to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” I say and wipe a few tears. “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

  I wipe under my eyes and swear a little. “It doesn’t feel good.”

  “Come on, Jules.” He half grins. “You’ve been kicked out of plenty of bars in college.”

  Laughing loud, a little hysterically, I lightly punch him in the arm. “What next?”

  “I guess we keep looking into Kara,” he says, as if he knows it’ll make me feel better.

  And it does.

  I picture my new fans, and my emotions take a new shape. I am desperate to press record. To put another video into the world. I am certain the only way to make this right is to find the person who did more wrong than me.

  That bar may not serve me, but I know a place that will.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 8

  PERSONAL VLOG

  EXT. STREET—NIGHT

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH stands on WICKENDEN STREET beneath the lit-up MISTER SISTER sign.

  JULIET

  Hello to my viewers. I appreciate everything you’ve done on our search for truth and justice. As I reported earlier tonight, Kara Nguyen’s roommate, Lydia, shared that there had been an incident in Kara’s past. Phillip Hale and I were shown Kara’s old room, which had been effectively destroyed and turned into an art exhibit. But what it really felt like was a confession.

  Camera cuts to footage of KARA’S room lit by a flashlight.

  JULIET

  (off camera)

  There are drawings on the wall. There’s Kara’s re-creation of a crime scene. A girl she attacked in high school is sketched in a chalk outline like a dead person. The face is twisted on the floor.

  It’s shocking, and I can’t believe the police aren’t investigating her.

  Camera returns to JULIET.

  JULIET

  One of you responded to my post on Rhode to Justice with more truth. We received a copy of the police report from the incident at Kara’s school. It confirms Kara did attack a student, hitting her on the back of the head, similar to how Dr. Castle was attacked and killed.

  (takes a few steps toward the camera)

  But there’s more. Just a few hours ago, I went to Kara’s new apartment with Phillip to question Kara because you, the viewers, helped us track her down. As you’ll see from this video, she was not happy we’d found her or were looking for the truth.

  CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT—DAY

  Close shot of KARA NGUYEN, who is scowling at the camera in her face.

  JULIET

  (off camera, in overly nice tone)

  Kara, where were you the night Dr. Castle was killed?

  KARA

  I can’t tell you.

  Camera moves a step closer.

  JULIET

  Why?

  KARA

  (angry)

  It’s none of your business.

  PHILLIP HALE

  (off camera)

  Can anyone verify where you were?

  KARA shakes her head no.

  PHILLIP

  No one?

  Camera moves closer.

  JULIET

  Who were you with? If you can’t admit the truth, then we can make our own assumptions.

  KARA

  I was with someone. I don’t owe you anything.

  JULIET

  Were you having an affair with Dr. Castle?

  KARA

  (stares at blank canvases)

  It doesn’t really matter what we were.

  JULIET

  It might matter to his wife.

  KARA

  (grimaces)

  Get the fuck out of my apartment.

  EXT. STREET—NIGHT

  JULIET

  (standing on WICKENDEN STREET)

  As you can see, Kara didn’t want to tell us the truth. She wouldn’t address her violent past that we confirmed because of you.

  (pulls out her phone, the screen glowing in the dark)

  If Kara is a suspect, we deserve more information. If she has a connection to Dr. Castle, shouldn’t this information also be shared? For justice? For truth? How dare she keep the truth from us.

  (steps closer, still holding the phone toward the screen)

  Did Kara hide her affair poorly, and who else found out? Did Dez Castle know? There are so many questions, and yet the police are only looking in my direction. I’m the only name that’s been shared publicly. The only one the police are investigating. But you saw my testimony. I’ve been cooperating.

  (begins to cry)

  It’s not fair. How could they accuse me when there are so many unanswered questions?

  (wipes her tears, but more fall)

  I swear to all of you, if you keep helping, I will find out who did this to me. They will pay.

  (her phone begins to ring in her hand. The chorus of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” begins playing)

  Oh. Sorry, I’ll just . . . oh. It’s the police station number.

  (walks several steps closer to the camera and answers)

  Hello? You’re on speaker. I’m recording this conversation.

  VOICE

  Oh. Okay. This is DETECTIVE FRANK RAMOS with the Providence Police Department.

  JULIET

  Yes?

  FRANK

  We’re asking you to come in as soon as possible for questioning. First thing in the morning would be our strong preference.

  JULIET

  (stares into the camera, eyes wide)

  Did something happen? Should I bring my lawyer?

  FRANK

  I believe he’s already coming.

  JULIET

  (shocked)

  Why do you say that?

  FRANK

  He’ll be joining your father here for questioning too.

  Chapter 18

  Dream Journal, day 3: I’m with Terrance in the back of Dad’s car. It’s not exactly Dad’s car but more like a police car with protective metal caging us in the back. I have on tights that itch. I scratch my legs over and over.

  “Keep moving,” Dad yells from behind the wheel. “Come on, kid. It’ll be fine if you move.”

  I do as he says, scratching furiously, but my nails catch on the fabric of my tights. They are ragged and chipped, shredding the tights, and reach my skin. Now I’m bleeding, but I still scratch.

  Terrance is whispering, and it’s so soft I can barely hear over my scratching.

  “See what’s wrong, Jules. See it, or it won’t stop.”

  “It itches,” I whisper. “I can’t see anything.”

  “You’re not looking.”

  I bolt up and scribble everything I can grasp into my journal. I fall back into the bed, noticing Ethan isn’t there, even though it must be the middle of the night. I curl into the sheets and pillows. Tears begin and the awful longing for Terrance and my life before everything ended.

  As I grasp again for memories of that night, the few flashes I had grow distant and muddled. I open my mouth and sob because I may never remember. Never know for sure what, if anything, I had to do with the death of this brilliant man. Being around Phillip reminds me of the truth: I do hurt people I love.

  Curling my fingers into fists, I try to imagine hitting Terrance or Phillip or Ethan or anyone. I have a temper. I do drink too much to deal with emotions I’d rather ignore. Am I a loaded weapon? The trigger springing loose with the sip of one too many?

  Reaching for Ethan, I remember he isn’t there. It’s too early for him to be up
making coffee or cooking breakfast. I roll over to my bedside table, and the phone says it’s almost five o’clock, the sun starting to glow on the horizon. My head hurts a bit from the Seven and Sevens Sean was pouring last night as we edited and posted my video.

  I mostly remember. A few fuzzy moments, but not lost to Drunk Me. Sean suggested some editing techniques, filters, and zooms to create the intensity of the situation. I watch the video and see that it also makes Kara look more unhinged, which is good for me, I guess. Sean is so damn smart at everything tech. If only he wasn’t so creepy.

  Scrolling through the already-posted comments, I read that people are connecting to my honesty. There are references to supporting me and my father. Lots of “We’re here for you” and “Don’t let the Man get you down” kind of things that actually feel good.

  We’re already at half a million total views and have added one thousand more subscribers. Apparently, people tune in when women cry. I scroll through other comments and see “Boo hoo Becky” posted with about a thousand likes under that comment. That’s better than Becky Bitch, which others call me too. The video is almost over, and then my phone ringer plays. I remember that I got a call last night in the middle of my video.

  Shit.

  It was Detective Ramos. I have to go into the station today, and so does my father.

  Double shit.

  More memories return, and they mix with even older ones. When Detective Ramos called, I recognized the general number of the police station from when I was a girl. Sometimes, it’d be for my mom. DUI or cop buddy keeping Dad out of trouble. Other times, when Dad was home, he’d see those numbers and yell, “Harassment!” Claim he was the victim before even picking up the phone.

  I need to find Ethan. Waiting and listening, I don’t hear a toilet flush. No soft footsteps on the stairs indicating that he’s adjusting the air-conditioning. Minutes pass, and my head throbs from the drinks and the tears. I sigh into the silence of our house.

  After sliding out of the bed, I head into the hallway. The floors moan under my feet, and I don’t know why, but I want to check on Fitz. I snuggled him late last night when I came home, but he was asleep. There is that parental longing that arrives, an emptiness in my chest that only touching the soft hairs on my son’s head will fill.

  I round the corner to his bedroom but don’t enter. From the doorway, I see a dark shadow falling across Fitz’s floor.

  I gasp, but I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to wake Fitz with my scream, and then I see where the shadow is coming from as my eyes adjust to the night-light. It’s Ethan’s shape. I can tell by the silhouette and shape of his shoulders and messy hair. My heart races, and it does not slow down. Ethan is slumped on the floor beside Fitz’s bed. His forehead is lying on his knees, his shoulders shake, and in the midst of the white noise machine, I hear sobs.

  He would comfort me, if he found me crying—when he’s found me crying.

  But turning quietly away from his pain, I am scared of what he’d say if I asked. To look him in the eyes right now and admit that I brought this on us all. He could say anything to me. I hate you. I love you. I never want to see you again. I’ll never leave.

  I have to fix this.

  I leave him there. I take an Aleve. I go back to bed. I hear Ethan get in the shower. But I do not sleep.

  A few minutes later, Ethan returns. “There you are,” I say. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” Ethan says, and even though I can tell he’s lying, I leave it there.

  “The video Sean helped me with is doing well,” I say. “Sorry I was late getting home.”

  “No problem,” Ethan says. He sits on the bed beside me. “Lou texted me. He’ll help us with the lawyer’s fee.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say, surprised he didn’t reach out to me.

  “He said not to worry that he’s being brought in too.” Ethan’s face is normal—no puffy eyes or tear streaks. I would have absolutely no idea he’d been losing his shit next to our son’s bed if I hadn’t woken up after my dream about Terrance. “He seemed confident this is a last-ditch attempt to entrap, I think is the word he used.”

  I grin, as if it’s silly old Dad, but the truth is those words are comforting. “We will be fine. It’ll work out.” I want to switch the topic. “This vlog will make the difference.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan says, a little edge to his tone. “You told me like five times last night.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say and watch guilt fill his gaze, even though it’s my mistake. “I should get my thoughts organized before the interview.” My phone buzzes with a text from the lawyer. “It’s Ron,” I say.

  Ethan stands up in the dark. “What is it?” he whispers.

  I read the words and snap upright in the bed. “Ron says he should drive me there. In case I have to stay.”

  “Stay?” Ethan starts to pace. “Like they might arrest you?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, pulling my knees under my chin.

  Ethan heads to his closet and pulls on the light. He takes out several shirts. Folds one, hangs up another, then puts on the one he just hung up. He’s murmuring to himself as he slides into his slacks. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take Fitz out for pancakes. His favorite. We’ll go to the park. We’ll have a great Saturday morning. You will finish the interview. You will be fine. You will meet us after.”

  Not sure what else to do, I get out of bed and put my arms around him. I wish there was a way to absorb all his fears into my body, where they belong. “Maybe I’ll get an update about another suspect,” I say. “Maybe this will be great news.”

  He doesn’t respond but holds me tighter. I fit so nicely under the curve of his jaw and against his chest. We breathe together for a few moments, and I realize his fingers are clinging to my silk nightshirt.

  “Dad!” Fitz calls from his room before thumping down the hallway toward us.

  Ethan steps back from our grasp, wipes at his eyes, and clears his throat. “Here we are,” he calls as Fitz steps inside.

  They seem to leap into each other’s arms. I am happy watching them, seeing that connection, but nothing pulls me to join. Instead, I slip out and take a shower.

  Moments later, bare in the hot steam, I feel gloriously alone. I rinse off last night but still remember the relief of creating that video and sharing my truth with the world. It may be the last time for a while.

  I hear Ethan calling that they’re about to leave for breakfast.

  After throwing on my robe, I head downstairs. “Hey, buddy, have fun with Dad.”

  Fitz is pulling on Ethan to leave. It’s hard to blame him when pancakes and the park were promised. I squeeze our son tightly and say goodbye longer than usual.

  “Let’s go!” Fitz picks up his T. rex backpack and marches toward the door.

  As I embrace Ethan, I breathe his scent and absorb all his warmth and love for me. As I pull away, he hesitates and lingers on my cheek. Maybe he senses a finality too. If not today, soon.

  He’s always hated goodbyes, and this is the worst kind. “Maybe I could call your mom. I could go with you and—”

  I shake my head. “It will all work out,” I insist. “Be with Fitz. He needs you.”

  Ethan picks him up and squeezes him against me. The three of us together. I feel Ethan take long deep breaths as Fitz’s arms go around each of our necks. He giggles, and so do I.

  How does Ethan not hate my guts for ripping this apart?

  After kissing them both one more time, I head up the stairs. I’m not strong enough to look back, the tears already burning.

  Ethan calls, “Text as soon as you can. Or have Ron—”

  “Okay!” I yell and hurry to the bedroom, shutting the door and leaning on it for a quiet second.

  I can’t think about them right now. It’s time for survival mode. One foot in front of the other.

  Just like her father.

  After returning to my room, I begin to blow-dry my hair in front of the mirror. With each
twist of the brush, I let my story, my truth, the best version of that terrible night run over and under and back in my mind.

  I say to the mirror: I am innocent. Everything has to be okay.

  My confidence stutters at the walk-in closet. I want to look powerful and rich. Put together in a way that implies categorical offense at shedding that skin for an orange jumpsuit.

  Selecting a simple but well-structured white dress, I find my light-pink cardigan. This is what I wear to convince someone, usually a man, of something he doesn’t want. Pink sends synapses firing. The need to protect and shelter. Maybe they have a little sister who loved this color. A daughter now who prances around his house in glittery pink princess dress. Even if they don’t realize they have associations, they most certainly do.

  I choose my tallest black heels—those also have helpful associations—and with the curls in my hair, I’ve shifted from what Elle called “Cate Blanchett dom” to “Reese Witherspoon mom.” After just enough makeup has been applied, I find a frosted-pink lip gloss and a spritz of vanilla cookie.

  None of these choices are my preference, but they could save me. Justice feels precarious, the scales tipping for reasons unknown.

  Ron texts that he’s in the driveway, and I hurry downstairs. Pausing in our entryway, I am hit with the memory of when I first saw this house. Ethan and I were postbrunch and full of bubbly from celebrating my CEO promotion. We had a nice house not too far from here. This beauty, a colonial with leaded windows and a gorgeous entryway, stole my breath. The market was heating up, I rationalized, and a house like this was a now-or-never opportunity.

  Even if I’m not arrested, my days in my dream house are numbered. Maybe I’ll make a Farm Family fortune, but that will take months of mortgage payments I don’t have.

  My heels click on the entryway marble. I glance up at the modern chandelier and turn off the light.

  Heading outside, I can feel people peering through their curtains. I imagine them watching me, as if they can tell I’m a fake, dressed up to put on a show at the police station. Trying to use my important job and good address to get away with murder.

  Just like her father.

  Air conditioners hum. A child yells down the street. The morning sun is bright in a cloudless sky, with the pavement already heating up as the bugs hum and birds cry out from the old-growth trees lining our block. Is this the morning when it all changes? The real worst day of my life.