For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  “Are you really this desperate?” she says to Phillip, who is still lingering across the room.

  “Aren’t you?” He crosses toward us. “For the truth?”

  “Fine,” Dez says with her bored tone. “Press record.”

  I grin and do as I’m told. She won’t be bored for long.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 10

  PERSONAL VLOG

  INT. LIBRARY—DAY

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH is seated across from DEZDIMONA “DEZ” CASTLE.

  JULIET

  I’m sitting in the home of Dez Castle, widow of Terrance Castle. As my viewers likely know, Dez all but accused me of murdering her husband at the Poe Foundation press conference announcing she would lead his Legacy Project.

  DEZ

  (shifts on the couch)

  I repeated what I’d been told by sources at the police department. You are the only suspect.

  JULIET

  Let’s get right into that. I was interrogated this morning by Detective Ramos, who is leading the investigation. He wanted to know if I’d seen anyone I recognized that night at the bar.

  DEZ

  But you said you—conveniently, if embarrassingly—don’t remember anything.

  JULIET

  That’s true. However, you may remember some details of that night.

  DEZ

  Me?

  JULIET

  You were there, weren’t you?

  DEZ

  (inhales)

  I had nothing to do with his death.

  JULIET

  What time did you get there? What did you see? Were you angry?

  DEZ

  (glances across the room)

  I was there. In fact, I arrived with Terrance. I saw that he walked off at the gala, and frankly, I let him know he was being childish. I’d planned to speak to both of you, but . . . well, you looked drunk. So I left.

  (leans forward, clenches her fists)

  I actually said to Terrance, and these are the last words we ever spoke: “Please, come home. Jules isn’t worth your time.” And he said . . . “No, I’d rather drink with her than listen to you.”

  JULIET

  (voice soft)

  And did you leave?

  DEZ

  I most certainly did. I went straight home alone. And I never saw him alive again. Those may be my last words to him, but his words and his legacy will not die. I will make sure of that.

  JULIET

  And what about his affair? Did you know about that?

  DEZ

  This may surprise you, but we kept very little from each other. So yes, I knew about her. I also knew how little Terrance thought of you. Now, with that in mind, get out of our home.

  Chapter 22

  Kicked out of another house, Phillip and I stand near my car door, as if we’re waiting for more answers to appear. Dez was lying or is at least hiding something. No way she’d go on camera otherwise. That desperation is easy to recognize from personal experience.

  “Did you believe her?” I ask him as we stare toward her big front door.

  “Not really,” Phillip says, adjusting his bag. “Something was off. Have you heard anything about financial issues that she was having?”

  “No,” I say. “She’s a rich girl. I mean, she’s still taking the million dollars tied to the book deal and grant. Why?”

  “Rumors,” he says. “Might be worth looking into.”

  I can tell Phillip is hiding something. “What is it?”

  He shrugs. “I need to go through that file Terrance left me. Check with some sources about Dez.”

  “Really?” I say, feeling optimistic, as if we’re finally both on the same page. Then my mind wanders to the little bit of cooking sherry left in the cup. But I can do better than that. “Let’s grab a beer. Walk through everything? Or go by the wine store? Bin 312 is the best, and they’re on the way to the pedestrian bridge. Sip red and talk strategy?”

  “Um . . .” Phillip looks down. “I’ll text you later.”

  “What are you going to do? You said we would work together.”

  “I might be able to get access to Dez’s security feed. From that sticker on the door I recognized. There’s a guy who works there that owes me one.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling relieved he’s still digging into Dez. “Maybe you see if her story holds up. That she really did return home right after she left us at the bar.”

  “Exactly,” he says, sliding his hand into his pocket and taking out his keys. “I’ll text you later.”

  “All right,” I say, impressed. He’s good at digging—even in college, when it was over sports scholarships or lack of diversity in the freshman class. “Let me know what you find.”

  He flashes a quick grin and hurries toward his car. I hope that money trail leads somewhere promising. Because if he doesn’t think it’s Dez, then there’s only Kara and me.

  With that thought, I pull up the information about her show. I search the hashtag and see there’s a pop-up preview in a couple of hours. Perfect.

  Inside my car, I turn on the AC as Phillip drives away. My sip from the to-go cup is barely a full swallow, and watery at that. Good thing the next place on the agenda will certainly have a drink for me.

  It’s barely ten minutes to my parents’ house, and I take the route that avoids Santiago’s wreath. Ethan texted that he was at my parents’ house, but I just see my father sitting on the front steps, smoking a small cigar. I can’t remember the last time I saw him outside his study.

  Actually, I do know, though I don’t technically remember. And he lied about that night. My anger begins to take shape as I charge toward him. “Have something to tell me, Dad?” I say.

  He stretches his shoulders in his faded collared shirt. I remember when I was little thinking he was so wide, like a dump truck, strong and sturdy. He’s mostly gut now, his shirt stretched too tight, buttons seeming in danger of catapulting across the yard. “Tell you what?” he says, puffing and releasing a cloud of smoke.

  “That you were there that night,” I say, stamping my foot like a child. “You saw . . . me. I don’t know. What did you see?”

  He reaches behind him and hands me a big glass of whiskey. I’m too upset to pretend I don’t want it. I take a long slow sip, and the jittering and brain spinning dull. “Thank you,” I whisper on autopilot as I let a few more swallows burn down my throat. “Now talk.”

  “I was doing the same thing you were that night.”

  I inhale sharply. “What’s that?”

  “Meeting someone I shouldn’t.”

  “Oh,” I say, relieved before I completely process what he’s saying. “Dad, no. You cannot be screwing around on Mom again. You’re almost seventy.”

  “Watch your mouth, Juliet. Your mother is inside with Fitz and Ethan. I don’t want to upset her.”

  I let out a long slow breath, letting the air flip up my bangs. “I don’t remember you.”

  “That’s no surprise. You were drunk as a skunk.”

  “Where were you?”

  “The corner, by the only window. Me and my friend. I met her at the rally I spoke at last month.”

  “You’re cheating on Mom?”

  “That’s beyond your purview, kiddo,” he says, scratching at his big belly.

  I set the drink beside him and step back. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Like you can talk,” he says. “You were all over that guy.”

  “I wasn’t screwing around on Ethan. Terrance and I are . . . were friends.”

  “Are we done, kid?”

  “We’re just getting started,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you were there that night?”

  “What good would it do?” He shakes his head, as if I’m a child again. “I didn’t see anything except you making a fool of yourself.”

  “Really? Nothing? How long were you there? Until I left?”

  “No, kid. Me and my special lady left early.” He shifts so an arm rests on his knee.
“You left your wallet, and thugs got him. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Dad, what did the police say? What questions did they ask?”

  “Straw grasping. It’s total nonsense. Don’t you worry. If they’re bringing us both in for questioning, then they’re desperate.”

  I want to believe that’s true. All this time I’ve been wishing for another suspect, searching for someone, anyone, and now they have one. And it’s about the last person I’d ever choose.

  “Are you telling me everything?” I ask, staring at him hard.

  “The police need to leave us alone.” His head tips forward, and there’s sympathy in his watery hazel eyes. I see a look tied back to good times as a girl. More likely a made-up memory instead of really remembering. “We’re going to be fine.”

  I want everything to be okay, and I try to believe him. “I’m so scared there’s more,” I whisper and sit on the step beside him.

  He reaches beside me, and for a moment I think he’s going to hug me. Instead, he picks up the drink. “This will blow over. We’ll get back to normal. Or a new normal. You’re a survivor, like me.”

  “Detective Ramos is going to come after us,” I say, and the tears start to sting.

  “We’ll circle the wagons. Family first and always.” He drains the last of the glass we shared and rattles the ice at me. “What do you want, kid?”

  I start to say no, but no use pretending. Not with him. “Whatever you’re pouring.”

  Sitting on the front porch step, I wipe my tears and watch a few cars pass by. There’s no way Detective Ramos is going to let this go.

  It doesn’t feel as if Dad is telling me everything. But why am I so quick to assume he’s lying?

  Because he lied about the first murder. He was drinking and was drunk. When the police were called to the scene, it was only one detective, a friend of Dad’s. The rest is fuzzy in my memory. In court, Ron focused on Santiago’s recent shoplifting charge, when he’d stolen a toy car from the grocery store. Said he was in this fancier neighborhood with bad intentions, based on absolutely nothing. He probably liked the parks on our side of town more.

  Dad let Ron lie about Santiago. Dad shared those lies with anyone who would listen. I remember Dad telling jokes in the glare of the pool after too many drinks. How he’d taken neighborhood watch to the next level. I wanted the other dads to laugh. Listened as the lies were said so often and so easily they became true.

  So if lies were needed to live with the first murder, why not this one?

  Dad returns to the front porch, but I can’t bring myself to ask any more questions. It’s so much easier to let things go and listen to his words and try to believe they’re true. We’re victims. We didn’t do anything wrong. There were thugs in that alley. The police are unjustly coming after us.

  The outrage feels good, and it easily shifts to anger as Dad starts one of his rants about crooked media and nosy East Side neighbors and how America is nothing like it used to be.

  “Those were the days, kiddo. When a handshake was worth something. You could trust a man with his word.”

  I’m nodding and sipping and sweating in the late-afternoon sun. Neither of us suggests going inside. We’d rather be out here with our drinks and company that doesn’t mind another and maybe one more.

  I sip the whiskey and relish the anger he’s fueling.

  “You have to keep looking into that Kara girl,” Dad says. “Cops won’t be any help. And the widow is hiding something too. Mark my words.”

  Propping an elbow on the step, I lean back as Dad’s rant continues. I take a few more sips, watching the neighbors’ windows and thinking of their smiles on the street and whispers behind our backs for decades upon decades.

  I’ll show them I am innocent, no matter what they whisper.

  Just like her father.

  My phone buzzes, and Phillip texts:

  Driveway security camera showed Dez & Terry fighting when they left to go to Sider

  She didn’t come back until 2:00 a.m.

  She was wearing different clothes

  I share the good news with Dad, but it reminds me that I also need to change clothes. Phillip isn’t the only one with leads to pursue. And I want to look my very best at Kara’s art opening.

  Chapter 23

  “So your dad thinks everything will be okay,” Ethan says as he pulls over in front of the art gallery on Ives Street, not too far from Kara’s apartment.

  “Yeah, he thinks the cops are desperate. That’s why they brought us both in.”

  He glances back at Fitz, who is reading a book about dinosaurs. “You probably won’t be brought back for questioning, right?”

  “I doubt it,” I say, having no idea but not wanting to upset him more. Ethan really gets nervous about cops. I made him throw away his NWA: FUCK THA POLICE sweatshirt before we moved back here. It’s a miracle no Boston cop ever hit him in the face for wearing it. The paranoia isn’t ungrounded, and it goes way back. A few bad cops in his Chicago neighborhood used his mother like the other junkies she let into her bed. For a while, she could get out of a trip to jail by lifting her skirt. Soon even that wasn’t enough, and she bounced in and out of jail to the streets, leaving Ethan with her mom, who wasn’t much better. I’ve always assumed that’s why Ethan works with homeless people. And I know that’s why he hates cops. We really never do move beyond our parents’ problems.

  Ethan runs his fingers through his light wavy hair. “Your dad’s gotta be right.”

  I’m grateful that Ethan is so worried for me and our family. But he’s also stressing me out.

  “Text me the moment you’re done,” he says. “We should be through at Fellini’s Pizza in an hour. We’ll all go home together. Drink water, okay?”

  I roll my eyes before planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “It really shouldn’t take long.”

  Once I’m outside, I tap on Fitz’s passenger-side window, and it rolls down. He smiles wide, proud of himself. “Bye, Mama. Have fun at the art place.”

  After I kiss him, we both giggle. “It really shouldn’t take long,” I say, and I recognize I’m repeating myself. Ethan is right. I really need to stick to water.

  Inside is your typical large warehouse space with distressed wood floors and ceiling painted black with good drop lighting. It’s fairly crowded, but I quickly see the problems: Kara isn’t here. And Dez is.

  She’s easy to spot. The director of the gallery is following her around with SOLD sticky notes. I slink off to the corner to observe and decide to have one white wine. I probably shouldn’t, but I’m feeling insecure in this black bandage dress. Everyone appears eclectic and artistic and young. I look old and trying way too hard.

  Dez doesn’t make eye contact, which I appreciate. She’s all-business, making her way around the room and buying Kara’s art after only a few seconds of consideration. That gives me pause. Why would she buy a painting created by her husband’s mistress? To burn it on Kara’s lawn?

  I have cocktail-party-level understanding of art. They don’t let you out of Harvard without understanding the basics. I’ve been to the Rhode Island School of Design Museum enough to see Kara is influenced by Rothko. They’re black paintings, shapes instead of squares.

  There’s a stack of artist statements by the napkins. I pick one up and begin to read.

  Kara Nguyen fell in love this year. That love became an obsession that took form in photography. Once she developed these images, she projected them onto canvas and sketched them in charcoal and painted in oils. She also used sweat and spit from herself and her lovers. She is interested in how love changes a person. She is forever altered.

  Rereading her words, I take a deep breath. Are Terrance’s spit and sweat in this room?

  I glance at the waiter carrying the tray of wine and force myself to return to her first painting. The statement said they’re actually photo negatives.

  All six huge paintings are black with slight shades of gray. The longer I stare, the
more distinction appears in the shades until I see a faint shape. Maybe a person. Moving to the next piece, I spot the muscular expanse of a back. The third painting is tough to discern until I stare for a full minute: a leg tangled with another leg.

  Continuing, I see each painting labeled with a number and a neon-green SOLD Post-it with “DC” scribbled on the corner. As I weave in and out of the small crowds, avoiding Dez, I focus on each piece. Finally, I realize that Kara is depicting a part of the body in each painting: back, arm, legs, foot, shoulder. And then, in the last one, I can see the lines of an Alpha Phi Alpha tattoo. The same one Phillip has from the African American frat at Harvard.

  But that’s not who Kara has painted in this body series. This is the body of Terrance Castle as painted by his mistress, sweat and spit and all. And Dez is buying the whole lot.

  I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from touching the black paint. If I had enough money to possess a piece of him, I would do it too. But is that how Dez feels? Or is she embarrassed, maybe wanting to hide Terrance’s connection to Kara? Taking her charge to preserve his legacy as far as paying to keep the truth quiet?

  I let myself have a second glass of wine. Finding my courage after a few big sips, I head toward the owner, Lula. She was two grades below me at our all-girls high school. She’s cock of the walk, escorting patroness Dez in the same silk green dress as a few hours ago. But Dez has added long black rhinestone earrings that connect across her chest to make a necklace. Her lips are the wrong shade of red, and she’s got that messy topknot, as if she couldn’t possibly be bothered with a brush.

  “Where’s the artist?” I ask Lula, not acknowledging Dez.

  “Jules, I don’t remember your RSVP,” Lula says.

  “Just dropping by,” I say. “Quite the exhibit.”

  She and Dez connect gazes, but I don’t mind them silently talking about me. I’m here to push buttons and, of course, press record.

  “You look good, Lula,” I say. She’s aged in that classic Rhode Island–money way. Thinner than high school, but her face is even more pinched. She has serious bangs trauma and a terrible black dye job to match her too-thick eyeliner.