For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  Walking down the driveway, I can’t help but feel that we all end up alone. Or alone with our lawyer, as it were.

  Ron is staring down in the driver’s seat of his Volkswagen Passat. I open the passenger-side door and see he’s flipping through a legal pad. I sit in the air-conditioning and wait a beat.

  “Hi there,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Good morning, Jules.” He puts his notepad away in the console between us. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Ron wants to run through questions as we drive, so he launches into playing bad cop. Pushing accusations of an affair (not true) or alcoholism (mostly not true) or impropriety at my job (definitely not true).

  He pulls into the primarily empty parking lot, as you’d expect on a Saturday morning. There are reserved signs, spots outside the police station usually for family members of drunks—or at least that’s what my childhood taught me. The druggies are in there, too, but their families stopped bailing them out years ago.

  “Your story is fine,” he says about our quick practice session. “We need to talk strategy.” He pauses to pull out his legal pad again. “You’re going in voluntarily. The video was a good compromise, but I’m not surprised they want the chance to really go at you. This time, it’ll be videotaped. If you say anything that implicates you, they could read your rights and arrest you.”

  I tip my head back onto the headrest. “Oh my God.”

  “Indeed,” Ron says. “Or you walk out, and they play the tape for the grand jury for an indictment.”

  “Even if I walk out today, they could still bring me back in handcuffs?”

  “It’s one approach,” Ron says. “Stick to your story. I don’t think this detective has enough evidence to convince a grand jury, or the attorney general, for that matter.”

  “But what if they do?” I tug at my sweater. “What if they use this interview or my video against me?”

  “Or the videos you’ve been posting. Those could be presented as evidence to a jury too.”

  “Oh,” I say. I thought maybe jurors could see it—or the board—and it would make things better. “I’m trying to help.”

  “I know you are,” Ron says. “I’d move to suppress. I did the same thing with your father, but it feels easier to stick to the simplest version of facts. That’s what I’m advising him to do when he comes in after you. It will be fine.”

  “Why are they bringing me in now? Or Dad?” I ask. “Is it the videos? New evidence?”

  “We’re going to find out, kid.” He shifts over to look at me and holds out his palm. For a moment, I think he’s offering to take my hand, like I’m a scared child. Then he sniffs and says, “I should keep your wedding ring. In case they arrest you.”

  My jaw falls open. I quickly pull the diamond ring and wedding band off my finger. Instead of tearing up, I feel focused. “Pawn it if they do, and get it all to Ethan. Tell him . . . I don’t know. To start over.”

  “Easy there,” Ron says with a chuckle. “It’s a precaution.” He drops it into his lapel pocket. “You will be fine, Jules.”

  I let out a shuddering breath because I don’t think I’ll ever be fine again.

  Chapter 19

  An officer leads Ron and me to a dingy windowless room. We sit at the table with handcuff scrapes across the top, and I’m surprised there’s not one-way glass like on TV. There is a camera set up in the corner, so maybe that’s how it’s done these days.

  Detective Ramos doesn’t read me my rights. He merely gestures for us to sit as he plops into his metal chair before he opens a file. Scratching at where his hairline used to be, now all shine, he then crosses his muscular arms across his chest.

  On my porch, I’d been too shocked to notice the kind of man working against me. He is serious, with underlying kindness. I imagine he’s a very nice husband. Good father, if he’s got kids. He does not screw around. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts he’s rarely drunk. He likes being straitlaced. He is not impressed by my pink cardigan or tears, should they come.

  We get my name, address, and all the basics out of the way. He flips through his notes, but he doesn’t seem to read them. He might be nervous, needing this to work as much as I need it to not.

  “Thank you for coming in today, Juliet,” Detective Ramos says. “The video testimony you submitted was helpful. But we need to be on the record today.”

  “Of course.” I hold my hands together in the open, nonaggressive way they suggest at HR trainings.

  “Could you please tell me what happened on the evening of Sunday, July tenth?”

  “I was running a large gala for the Poe Foundation, where I’m . . . was . . . CEO.”

  “You’ve been fired?”

  “Correct,” I say. I consider my answer and picture a jury or attorney general hearing my answers. “You haven’t found any other suspects. My name was leaked by someone here, I assume, and that’s how it got to Dez Castle, who accused me of the awful crime in front of dozens of reporters. That’s not good publicity for the foundation.”

  “So they fired you for Dr. Castle’s murder?”

  Ron leans forward and puts a palm flat in front of me. “Do not answer that question,” he says. “It’s ridiculous and gross mischaracterization. If you continue in this manner, we will leave.”

  Detective Ramos nods, as if he’s sorry. “Please tell me what else happened that evening of Dr. Castle’s murder.”

  “We were announcing that the first-ever Genius Grant was going to be awarded to Dr. Castle. It’s a program he and I had worked on extensively to launch.”

  “How did that announcement go?”

  I smile, if only to give myself a moment. Of course he saw the video. “Honestly, he was in a mood that night.”

  “A mood?”

  “He is a brilliant man. Was. He often had new ideas that set our timetable back. On this night, he was having one of his ‘I’m not the right person’ moments. I have a five-year-old, and I recognized he needed a little coaxing. That’s why I invited him for a drink after.”

  “Were you upset that he left you onstage? That he didn’t speak to all those donors who were there in his honor?”

  I shrug. “I was frustrated, but I still met him for a drink. I knew we could smooth things over in time for the board meeting.”

  “Is your job dependent on Dr. Castle’s cooperation?”

  Ron puts a hand forward again. “She cannot speculate as to the intentions of the board. Please only ask questions in which she has firsthand knowledge and memory.”

  Detective Ramos swallows what looks like frustration and then continues. “How many drinks did you have at your work function?”

  “Too many.”

  “Best guess? The media consultant, Elle, guessed five.”

  “She gave me one of them,” I snap, and it sounds silly, like something Fitz would say. “I already told you it was a mistake. I’m not proud of myself. This kind of behavior doesn’t happen often.”

  “Your wallet was found next to a murdered man,” Detective Ramos says. “I’d certainly hope not.”

  I stare at my lap because I am ashamed, but I realize it’s not exactly a shame related to my drinking. I feel more ashamed that I got caught. “I’m very sorry for acting that way.”

  “One witness said you were crying. Maybe arguing.” He pauses and flips the page. “That Dr. Castle put his arm around you. Sounds like a breakup.”

  Scowling at the accusation, I suddenly wish I had my sparkling diamond wedding ring to flash toward the camera. “I have never cheated on my husband. I had too much to drink, and that can make me emotional. Terrance is a great person to talk to, as you can imagine. He’s smart and caring. It’s entirely possible we debated. Maybe his response hurt my feelings. I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m not one to hold grudges.”

  “Are you one to end them?” Detective Ramos has this fire in his gaze now. He doesn’t believe me, but he isn’t gett
ing me to incriminate myself.

  Ron smacks his hand onto the table. “I think Juliet has been more than cooperative, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. Do you have any further questions for her? Otherwise, she needs to get back to her family.”

  “What did you talk about when you met at the Wrong Side of Hope Bar?”

  I smile again. “As I explained in my video testimony, I really do not have any memory of that night. I have a Lyft receipt that says it dropped my off there right about nine p.m. I can almost remember coming into the bar. Sitting in the corner. Maybe chatting with the bartender, Sarah. But it’s all pretty fuzzy.”

  He leans forward. “No other memories whatsoever?”

  Trying to stay calm, I remind myself I am being truthful. I don’t need to feel guilty for anything other than having had one too many. “Nothing more than I’ve said. I’ve tried to remember. I’ve started keeping a dream journal to get my brain to lift that curtain. But it isn’t working. I’d do anything, honestly, to remember that night. Dr. Castle was a brilliant man, and we had big plans.”

  “Plans that wouldn’t work out if he didn’t do as you say?”

  “No,” I say and then pause. “We were a team. It wasn’t like I was pulling the strings. That’s not possible with Terrance.”

  Detective Ramos shuts the file and crosses his arms again. “Can you tell me about the murder of Santiago Ovalle?”

  “Is that why you’re bringing my dad in for questioning?” I snap.

  Ron points his finger toward the detective. “That has absolutely nothing to do with Dr. Castle. My client was a child when that accident occurred.”

  “Your father was drunk and killed someone. You were drunk, and someone got killed. You don’t see any parallels?”

  “We’re done here,” Ron says. “I’m filing to have this interview thrown out. And if you try anything like this with Lou this afternoon, we’ll really bring the hammer.”

  The detective is watching me so carefully. “Would you take a buccal swab?”

  “Absolutely not,” Ron says. “There’s no reason.”

  “Swab my cheek, you mean?” I ask, surprised, though I probably shouldn’t be.

  “She already admitted contact when they were at the bar,” Ron says. “I hear you don’t have a murder weapon. So what’s this DNA for besides harassing my client?”

  I almost smile at what a relief it is to have Ron on my side. Even if I can’t afford it.

  “Only ruling a few things out.” Detective Ramos never takes his gaze from me. This feels like a test.

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” I say to Ron.

  “But I do,” Ron says curtly, snapping his notepad shut. “Are we done here, Detective?”

  Detective Ramos is watching us both. His gaze calmly lobs back and forth, as if he’s enjoying our separate reactions. I realize his calm is coming from a place of knowing. Something he’s not saying, maybe a lot of somethings.

  “Juliet,” Detective Ramos says finally. “Do you remember your father being at the Sider the night of Dr. Castle’s murder?”

  “What?” I whisper, and it feels as if the room is vibrating. “What are you talking—”

  “Detective,” Ron interrupts. “If she has no memory of the night, how would she remember if that’s true or untrue? We are done.”

  Detective Ramos is watching me so closely. He blinks slowly, as if my every word or movement is information. “A woman says your father was there with her that night. They both saw you with Dr. Castle.”

  “That night?” I whisper. “What time?”

  “We are done.” Ron takes my arm and tries to pull me up, but I jerk away.

  “Are you sure my father was there?”

  “Yes, and Dez Castle,” Detective Ramos says. “Do you remember her that night?”

  “No,” I whisper. Ron takes my arm again, and I acquiesce, rising from my seat.

  “I’ll be filing to have this interview thrown out first thing tomorrow morning,” Ron says again. “You don’t even need to bother with a transcript. There’s no way this conversation is making it out of this room.”

  I see Detective Ramos’s gaze brighten, as if that’s fine with him. Whatever game he was playing, he won. For now.

  Chapter 20

  I can hear my breath in my ears. My lungs contract as I push air everywhere and nowhere. I nearly fall out of Ron’s car once he stops it in front of my house.

  “Juliet,” he calls quickly before I can close the car door. “Is Ethan home? Do you need me to call someone?”

  I shake my head as I lean on the open door. “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Your dad will call you when we’re back from the police station, okay, kid?”

  Shutting the door instead of answering him, I’m gasping as he pulls away, near hyperventilation. He’s late to get Dad, and a part of me wants to go with him and start yelling.

  But I wouldn’t. Even if Dad deserved it, I still want to understand his side. To protect him. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. Even if he never did that for me.

  Blinking up at the hot morning sun, I consider how much I would hide for my father. As much as murder? But why in the world would he attack Terrance, of all people? It doesn’t make sense, and yet I still feel sick.

  The thought dries my throat, and even though it’s barely noon, I need a drink. I go inside our quiet house, relieved it’s empty but also wishing Ethan were here to keep me from what I’m about to do.

  I walk past our bar, knowing it’s been depleted. I pretty much drank my way through it, and we don’t have the money to restock. I head to the kitchen and start flipping open cabinets. Even though I’m angry with my father, I still appreciate one trick he taught me.

  The cooking sherry is in the back of the refrigerator. I pour it into a large to-go cup and search for a mixer. There’s a pack of Honest apple juices in the back. I grab the straw and stab the top, before squeezing the juice through the small hole into the cup of sherry. I stand in the cold air of the fridge and take long slow gulps.

  There had been an internal alarm, a true ringing that had been going off until this moment and these sips. At my relief, I find my anger, which has been waiting. Cup in hand, I hurry to my car.

  I drop my to-go cup in the holder and drive a couple of blocks in white-knuckle silence. I shut off the engine, under the shade of a great elm tree, and scream. Pounding my hands on the steering wheel, I scream until my throat is raw and my cheeks aching.

  When I stop, the car is quiet except for my gasping. “What did he do?” I whisper, my voice scratchy and unfamiliar. “Dad, please, not again.”

  I can’t actually ask him if he murdered Terrance. Not yet, not when every instinct says to protect my father. To ignore the world so we survive. I take a few more sips, and it’s really not as awful as I expected. Thanks, Dad, this seems much more useful than how to ride a bike.

  I picture him barking into his monitor, hunched over his desk. In my mind, he’d been dealt with. His pain and addiction have been locked away in his office with whoever tunes in to his rants. But maybe these difficult parts of my dad aren’t hidden. Maybe his pain and anger are festering and erupting.

  Shaking my head at that thought, I remind myself there’s no reason Dad would hurt Terrance. He also had no reason to be at the Sider that night. I didn’t even realize he was leaving the house much these days.

  The thought depresses me, and I sip again. The lonely silence makes me shiver.

  “Call Ethan,” I say, and my car obeys. “Be there, be there, be there—”

  “Juliet?” His tone is worried. “How did it go? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine . . . but . . .” I manage to get those words out before I release great shoulder-racking, stomach-clenching sobs.

  “You have to breathe. Calm down, honey. Tell me what happened.”

  There’s such kindness in his voice, and I don’t deserve it. “Okay, Ethan, it’s . . . it’s bad. So bad.”


  My throat seizes up, and I wonder if my body is rejecting me, closing my throat and calling the game.

  “Dad . . . was there . . . that night . . . he lied . . .”

  Gripping the wheel, I wonder if I should pick them up at the park. Ethan, Fitz, and I hit the road. People still go out on the lam, right? Go see my sister in North Carolina. Make a new life under fake names.

  I realize Ethan has been silent. “Are you there?” I shriek.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. I’m just . . . that night? He was . . . where? Who said that?”

  “The police.” I pause, take a few breaths. “I don’t know any details yet. But when Dad gets back from the police station . . . I mean . . . he wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?”

  “Well. Not on purpose, of course.”

  “It feels like we’re really in trouble here.”

  “Don’t say that, Jules.” Ethan clears his throat. “You have to calm down and speak to your father. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. I can go with you. We’ll get this sorted out.”

  “Why didn’t he say he was there that night?” I am shaking so bad I have to grip my hands against my arms. “I’m pouring my guts out to Dad. He doesn’t mention that he already knows most of this because he was there when I was at the bar.”

  “We’ll meet you at your parents’ house so we can talk to him as soon as he’s done with the police. This will be fine.”

  “Stay with Fitz. I will talk to Dad.”

  “No, Juliet, please—”

  I click the red button and put the car into drive. I go slow down Elmgrove but then slam on my brakes less than a block from my parents’ house.

  On the corner lot, there’s a big house, set back off the road and hidden by bushes and trees. The lawn is mostly grass, everything cleared except a gigantic holly bush that nearly meets the road at the edge of the property.

  The bush has been trimmed high, so the large twisting branches make room for a simple wreath. This month, it’s adorned with red, white, and blue plastic flowers and, as always, the hand-painted SANTIAGO sign across it.