For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  It does hurt that he’s not, and probably never was, on my side. These past few weeks, so much has been taken away, and yet Phillip returned. Maybe even that assumption is childish. He’s not my friend, not really. I lean my forehead against the window’s cool glass.

  He wants the truth. I want to be innocent. For my father to be innocent. Is there any way we can both be right?

  Phillip’s phone buzzes and then buzzes again. He glances down where it’s charging, and his face changes, seeming worried. “I need to take this call. Can you put it on speaker?”

  “Of course.” I fumble with his phone for a moment.

  “Hello? Phillip?” says a caller labeled M.

  “Miguel,” Phillip says. “What’s going on?”

  “I got that video you wanted of the neighborhood that night . . . I mean, you can’t use it. But you have to come see it. I don’t want it in my system for long. It’s not exactly . . . legal. I got into neighborhood Nest cams.”

  He glances at me. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  After the call disconnects, I angle to face Phillip more fully in the passenger seat. “That’s your connection who has access to security footage?”

  Phillip draws a long breath. “Yeah.”

  The silence is heavy in the car as we approach the intersection, where he turns to go to my house. “Can I come with you?” I ask.

  He pauses at the stop sign. “I don’t know what he found, Jules. It might be . . . bad.”

  “Either way,” I say. “I want to know.”

  He turns the opposite way from my house, and I settle back into my seat. It’s only a few blocks east until we’re near a mansion on the corner of Rochambeau and Cole Street. It’s always reminded me of a Tuscan villa with its red tiled roof and stucco exterior, but at night it’s more ominous.

  “Miguel lives here in his father’s guesthouse,” Phillip says as he steers the car down Cole Street toward the back of the property. “His father owns the security company most of the East Side uses.”

  “How do you know him?” I ask, wondering what favor was owed.

  Across from the modern-looking guesthouse, Phillip parks under a streetlight. “Miguel ran into trouble last year. I helped keep him out of jail.”

  “Care to share the secret?” I ask.

  “Completely different circumstances,” Phillip says. “He works for his dad now, paying his dues before he takes the company over.”

  I’ve certainly heard of Miguel’s father, who created a security empire in the state. I tried to get his support for the Genius Grant but didn’t get any traction.

  Stumbling a little as I get out of the car, I grip my purse and Sprite, only sloshing a little. Phillip shoots me a look, but I recover as we cross the quiet street. Soon our feet are crunching on the pebbled driveway toward Miguel’s house.

  Near the front door is a parked van with ROSSA SECURITY COMPANY on the side, with the same logo that was on Dez’s window. Now that Phillip has pointed it out, I realize I’ve seen it all over the expensive houses and businesses on the East Side.

  Phillip stands at the front door and presses the glowing green button with the small camera above it.

  “Hey, Phillip,” says a guy’s deep voice. “I’ll be right there.”

  I take a long swig of Sprite and then tightly screw on the cap. Dropping it into my bag, I wonder if I’ll use the camera in here too. If this new evidence will support my footage of Dez kicking me out of the art opening or lying in the bathroom of that club.

  A tall midtwenties man answers the door in a Providence College T-shirt and athletic shorts. He’s certainly good looking, and I’m sure the Real Housewives of the East Side don’t mind him installing their security systems. He gasps a little when I step forward. “Whoa,” he says, holding up his hands. “I didn’t know you’d bring her.”

  “Is it a problem?” I say a little ruder than I should to a stranger. “Phillip and I are working together.”

  He nods quickly, as if he wants to get out of this conversation. “Sure, yeah. But like, you’re on the tape.”

  “What?” I whisper. “Of the bar? The alley?”

  He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to access that yet. It’s after . . . in your neighborhood Nest cameras. I . . .” He trails off, looking again at Phillip.

  Phillip rubs at his creased forehead. “Let’s see it.”

  My heart begins a slow but steady thump, as if facing another life-altering change. Miguel leads us into a nice but sparsely furnished living room. He gestures for us to sit down on his long leather sofa.

  “I loaded it on a thumb drive to show you on TV.” He steps toward his giant flat screen with a remote but doesn’t do anything. “Look, are you sure, man?” He glances at Phillip and then me.

  “Show it,” I say as I sit down on the couch.

  Phillip remains standing, his stance wide, hands on his hips. I want to ask him to sit next to me, maybe take his hand in mine, even if he hasn’t owed me anything for fifteen years.

  Instead, I hunch forward, my pointy elbows digging into the tops of my knees. I inhale deeply, then hold my breath. I press my fingers over my mouth in case I start to scream.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 12

  ILLEGALLY OBTAINED NEST CAMERA NETWORK SECURITY FOOTAGE

  2:25 A.M.

  July 11th

  Neighborhood camera 1:

  On a dimly lit street, the camera focuses on a house until LOUIS WORTHINGTON crosses into shot and pauses directly under the streetlight. Both he and a woman, JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH, whom he’s helping walk, are illuminated. She takes a few steps and then falls to her knees, curling onto the ground.

  JULIET

  I can’t, Dad! Please, don’t make me.

  LOUIS

  You have to move your damn legs!

  Neighborhood camera 2:

  LOUIS yanks JULIET back up, but they both stumble, and then she falls again. A sensor light floods where they stand.

  LOUIS

  Come on, get up, kid. Let’s go! I’m going to get caught.

  JULIET wipes her face, and there are muffled cries as LOUIS pulls her along the sidewalk a few more feet.

  Neighborhood camera 3:

  Directly in front of JULIET’s home, the porch light comes on, and ETHAN SMITH steps outside. LOUIS motions for ETHAN to turn the lights off, which he does. They both take JULIET inside the dark house.

  Chapter 26

  The TV screen turns black, and the living room is silent. Ethan lied. My father lied and lied again. They are not alone in lying, but I can’t bring myself to face Phillip, as my lie has also been revealed.

  One thing is certain: This is the moment I choose. Am I the good daughter? Am I the bad wife? Am I the selfless mother? Am I completely alone? Should I be? Not all of these answers can exist in the same world.

  “Thank you for getting that video,” I say finally. “Do the police have it?”

  “If these three neighbors thought to check their Nest cameras and handed them to police, then yes,” Miguel says in a hesitant tone. “But that’s a long shot.”

  “Will you give this to the police?” I ask and then close my eyes.

  “Hell no,” Miguel says. “This was a favor, and it’s definitely not legal.”

  A frisson of relief in my chest. I tell myself I still have the situation under control. “Can I have that copy?” I turn to Phillip. “I will find out the truth. Trust me, please.”

  Miguel glances at Phillip, who nods firmly once.

  “Leave me out of it, okay?” Miguel says. He seems tense when I approach with my hand out for the thumb drive. Like he thinks I’m about to rip the TV off the wall and hit him in the head. Or send my father to do it.

  “I’ve already forgotten your name,” I say, faking my calm. “If you find anything else—”

  “Oh, sure, sure, sure.” Miguel nods several times. “I’ll get it to Phillip.”

  I hate the way he’s staring at me and turn away quickly.
I pick up my purse and head over to Phillip, who stands with his hand tightly holding the back of a chair. “Did you know your father was there?”

  I shake my head no but then realize the lie came first and easiest. “Yes, I did know. I’m sorry I kept that from you. Detective Ramos told me when he said Dez was there too.”

  Phillip’s stare is familiar, and I scramble to alter it.

  “Listen, please. Dad was having a drink with a friend when I was first at the Sider. I didn’t remember Dad being there at all, but the police spoke to the woman he was with, who said they left and didn’t see anything. I thought that was all there was to it. I didn’t think it was relevant—”

  “You lied to me,” Phillip says. “We’re done. We’re really done this time.”

  “No,” I whisper, but I don’t have any right to ask him for forgiveness. He gave me this chance, and I kept my father’s possible guilt hidden. “I’m sorry. I will make this right.”

  His expression is the same as when he was in that ER bed. As if he knows whatever I’m about to find out will force us in opposite directions. “Don’t contact me again, Jules.”

  I hurry out the door and then begin to run in my heels down the dimly lit street toward my father’s house. My feet burn, and the heels scrape, but I don’t care and run faster, clutching my bag to my body. I’m gasping and angry when I arrive at my childhood home. It’s dark except for the light in Dad’s office.

  I wipe the sweat from my face, and my phone buzzes and buzzes again. Ethan is calling. All the anger I have at myself ignites at Ethan’s betrayal.

  “What?” I yell, out of breath.

  “Jules, there you are. Is everything okay? What happened with Dez?” he says, his voice hopeful.

  “She’s still a suspect,” I snap, wanting to believe that. “But I know what you did.”

  “What?”

  “Phillip has a video from . . . that night. My walk home with Dad. All the way down the block and to our house.” The phone is silent, so I continue. “Tell me the truth, Ethan.”

  I hear him begin to cry, and I hate that we’re doing this over the phone. “I’m so sorry . . . he said . . . he didn’t tell me anything . . . I should have been honest.”

  “Who said?” I say. “Start at the beginning.”

  “Your dad, when he brought you home that night. You were basically passing out, and he said you fell a couple times. You had blood on your knees and your clothes. It was terrifying. He said the owner, Sean—he called Lou to get you. Lou said no matter what happens, I couldn’t tell anyone I saw him that night.”

  “Did Dad say what happened? Did he say anything about Terrance?”

  “No,” Ethan whispers. “I had no idea until I saw the police on my walk back from CVS. I should have told you then. I don’t know why I kept that promise to him. I’ve been so scared, Jules.”

  “You lied to me. After everything that’s happened, you lied.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jules. I swore to Lou, and I thought, Why not pretend it never happened? What’s the harm in that?”

  I think of that morning I woke up hungover and feeling stupid for getting drunk at the gala. How my knees were red and sore. My hair was wet. The scent of my honeysuckle shampoo burns my nose at the memory. Oh. My. God. “Did you put me in the shower, Ethan? That night?” I scream. “You washed my hair when I was passed out?”

  “There was dirt everywhere, and you were bleeding down your legs. Lou said you could barely walk and kept falling. I thought it best to clean you up.”

  I shiver at what he’s saying. At what he did to me. “There was blood?”

  “Only on your legs from where you fell,” Ethan says. “Mostly dirt. I think. Everything happened so fast. Where are you? Let’s talk in person.”

  “This looks so bad, Ethan. You could go to jail. I could go to jail. My dad could go to jail. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was freaked out. You were a wreck and crying when you weren’t passing out. I don’t know—I did what I thought I had to do. What your dad said to do. I didn’t even realize that . . . you know, the murder was the same night. Until later.”

  “What exactly did my dad say?”

  “Nothing,” Ethan whispers. “When I tried to talk to him about it later, he pretended he had no idea what was going on.”

  “Surely he didn’t . . .” I can’t finish that sentence. Tears fill my eyes, and the stars blur as I stare up at the sky. “I saw a videotape of Dad dragging me home from the Sider. Is it possible . . . could he have . . .”

  “Don’t say that, Jules. Don’t go down that road.” His voice is harsh and as firm as I’ve ever heard. “Your father made one mistake a long time ago. But don’t put this awful murder on him too.”

  “Then maybe it was me.” I start to cry harder.

  “No, Jules, no. You had one bad night. You shouldn’t be punished your whole life for it.”

  “But he lied to the police. He’s covering something up.” I wipe my cheeks. “We are in real trouble, Ethan.”

  “Come home,” he says. “Don’t make this worse.”

  “I have to know the truth,” I yell into the phone. “You made your choice. You pretended it never happened, but something did happen. I am tired of the lies. I’m tired of pretending everything will be fine. Maybe we don’t deserve for everything to work out.”

  “Jules, you have to calm down. You have to listen.”

  “I can’t live with myself not knowing the truth.” I hang up and feel so mad and alone. I have never ever been angry like this at Ethan.

  He calls, and I send it to voice mail. Then he texts:

  CALL ME BACK. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THIS!

  I respond: You had weeks to talk to me. But you didn’t. I’ll talk when I’m ready.

  Turning off my phone, I go through the gate. After finding the key that’s always there, I open the sliding door. The smell of a cigar wafts around me, and I wonder how Mom manages to mask the scent if Dad can’t even be bothered to go outside.

  Hurrying to his office, I’m about to barge inside, accusations blazing, but then I hear Terrance’s voice. I gasp, putting my hand over my mouth. My God, am I still drunk? Am I hallucinating? I listen and hear him again.

  “Listen, Lou, crime is a construct,” Terrance says. “So is punishment. We aren’t healing what’s broken in our communities because we only know how to criminalize. We turn real people into the crime they committed. People vanish in all that stigma. They turn into monsters because that’s how we treat them. That’s who we’re creating with our so-called justice system.”

  “But, Terrance,” my father says to him, “you can’t blame society for these crimes. The people did them.”

  “That’s true,” Terrance says. His voice so strong and clear. “But how do we treat them? Give them poor legal representation. Throwing them into jail without bail they can afford or decent counsel. We are setting them up for a lifetime of crime. And worse, we have them in our control for that period of time. Why don’t we address the reasons they are in jail? How they can make amends with those who they harmed? How does a man being held in prison actually help his victim heal? That is not justice, Lou. It’s what we’re told is justice so everyone else doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable.”

  “Can you believe he said that?” I hear my dad interrupt, and I realize it was a recording of Terrance on my dad’s show. Neither had ever mentioned this to me. “What kind of man . . . what kind of social justice guy says there’s no such thing as crime? That it’s a construct, whatever that jive means. I bet ol’ Professor Castle would take his words back now.”

  I recoil at what my father said, shocked he’d be so cruel.

  Dad is filming his show. I didn’t realize it went so late at night, but I don’t listen regularly.

  “Okay, now to finish our hashtag storming-the-castle segment, let’s take a question.” Dad pauses, and I hear him clicking on his computer. “Here’s a good one. One of our regular Lou Crew viewers
is Leon from coal-country Pennsylvania. He asks this: ‘Lou, why do you think the police are coming after your family? Who do you think killed that Castle guy?’ Good questions, Leon. Here’s what I learned way back when. People are always looking for bad guys. And if you don’t stand up for yourself and you don’t protect your family, then they may come for you. I don’t know who killed Castle, and honestly, I don’t need to know. What matters, what has always mattered, is that the police and everyone else leave my family alone. That’s what we deserve: no more, no less.”

  The cigar smoke stings my eyes, and I watch it wafting into the hallway, creating a thin fog in the dim circle of lamplight. His words don’t make sense. He’s posturing and lying, but even still, do I have the courage to accuse him?

  “Juliet,” I hear my mother whisper down the hallway. “Come here!”

  I leave where I was listening at the door and approach. “Mom,” I say softly, “you’re up?”

  “Your father is upset,” she says. “Best to let him work through it on his show. Come this way.”

  She leads me to the back of the house, past my old bedroom and my sister’s too. My mother opens the door to her bedroom, and I freeze. How long since I’ve been in here? Ten years, maybe? Maybe the day of my wedding, when I needed to change for the reception around the pool in the backyard?

  She puts her arm around my shoulder and takes me into her room. She shuts the door and faces me with a soft expression. “Why are you bothering him, sweetie?”

  Her room smells like vanilla and maybe almonds. Everything is the same as when I was a girl. The bedspread is mint green with faded purple flowers. Her overstuffed chair with a stack of gardening-design books. The dressing table with makeup and perfume bottles. I adored her room as a girl, and I can see my father is nowhere in here. They’ve long had separate spaces and separate lives.

  “Mom.” I take her by the hands and steady myself as the weight of the day finally descends. “Do you think . . . is it possible that Dad would have . . . attacked Terrance?”