The End of Her: A Novel

by Shari Lapena

  In these last few weeks, Cheryl has begun to notice some subtle changes in Devin—moodiness, a certain self-centeredness that she’s not used to. Kids go through phases, everybody knows that. But she’s keeping an eye on it.

  She takes the newspaper and her coffee into the living room. Gary has gone to work and Devin has already left for school. She sees an article on the front page of the Denver newspaper: INQUEST TODAY INTO DEATH OF PREGNANT WOMAN IN SNOWBOUND CAR.

  She reads the article with interest. She remembers the original story; it made all the Denver papers. It had resonated with her because the woman who died was pregnant. It was so sad. She’s startled now to see that there are some questions about it, that it might not have been an accident after all.

  How awful, she thinks.

  She’ll have to watch the news at six and get the details.

  * * *

  • • •

  PATRICK IS WEARING a well-cut navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and a conservative blue tie. He has been advised by his lawyer on his attire, and everything else. He sits in the stopped taxi in front of the local courthouse in Creemore, Colorado, leery of the reporters standing nearby, waiting for him. The time has come. The air is brisk now; it’s mid-October, and it’s always cooler in the mountains. They arrived here last night, he and Stephanie, for what is expected to be a one-day hearing. The twins are staying in Aylesford with Stephanie’s friend Hanna.

  It feels strange to be back here, in Creemore.

  It’s been a hellish few weeks. The notification of the coroner’s inquest, the meeting with the lawyer in Denver, his concern about Stephanie. The twins have finally and rather suddenly gotten over their colic—the only good thing that’s happened in the last few shitty weeks. They now go down without too much fuss at around 10:00 p.m. and sleep until about 6:00 a.m. The screaming and crying stopped without warning, just like the doctor said it would. They couldn’t believe it, kept expecting the peace to end.

  But it hasn’t been the blessing they hoped for, because Stephanie seems to have lost the habit of sleep. She is now plagued with insomnia, all, no doubt, because of him. She lies in bed staring into the dark, or wanders the house in the middle of the night like some tortured Lady Macbeth. She looks worn out, her shoulder-length hair limp, her skin pale, her eyes puffy. She no longer wears makeup, although she has made an effort today. His attorney had impressed upon her how important appearances are at times like this—she must look well rested, confident, and supportive of her husband. She looks none of these things, he thinks, glancing sidelong at her. He hadn’t wanted her to come. He thought it would be too much for her, and that she should stay home with the twins. But the attorney felt it was important that she be there.

  And she’d wanted to come. In fact, she had insisted on it.

  He desperately wants this to be over—for the jury to quickly find that the death was accidental so that they can go home and put this behind them. Stephanie will finally start to sleep again, she will regain her equilibrium, and things will go back to normal. And Erica won’t be able to touch them.

  They’ve sat in the cab for too long, and now the reporters are swarming around the vehicle. Stephanie looks at him, tense.

  “It’s going to be all right, Stephanie,” he says. “After today, this will all be over.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and kisses her on the cheek. She nods at him and turns away to unbuckle her seat belt.

  They get out of the cab and begin to walk. Television crews follow them, and reporters with large microphones. Of course. This is big news in this little town—and in Denver, and even across the state. He’d seen the paper at breakfast this morning in the hotel: INQUEST TODAY INTO DEATH OF PREGNANT WOMAN IN SNOWBOUND CAR.

  He’d read the entire article and then passed it to his wife. It didn’t say anything they didn’t know already; there was nothing in the article about Erica and what she might say. The journalists shout their questions.

  Was it really an accident?

  Mr. Kilgour, did you deliberately kill your wife?

  Why do they even ask such questions, Patrick thinks bitterly, striding forward, holding Stephanie’s hand—do they expect him to answer?

  Do you know what new evidence has been uncovered?

  Do you have anything to say in your defense?

  Stephanie stumbles twice, latching on to his arm for support. He helps her up the steps and inside. Somehow they make it without Patrick lashing out at anyone.

  It’s a modern room with a dais at the front, a witness box, long tables for the lawyers. This is supposed to be a nonadversarial proceeding, a fact-finding mission, but to Patrick, it doesn’t feel that way. His eyes shift over to the jury box, now empty. He shudders involuntarily.

  The coroner’s inquest is in open court, with the public and the media permitted to attend. And they’ve taken advantage; the place is almost full. The press is keen to hear salacious details about how he might have deliberately murdered his wife and unborn child. How they will love this, Patrick thinks, his bitterness growing. Patrick sits down in the first row of seats, with Stephanie rigid beside him. The sheriff who questioned him after the accident, and the coroner, will be called as witnesses. He and Erica will be called. There shouldn’t be any surprises. He glances at Stephanie, tense beside him.

  Patrick’s gaze sweeps the courtroom nervously. Then, suddenly, he sees the sheriff, Michael Bewdly. Patrick almost didn’t recognize him because he’s not in uniform. He’s in plain clothes now—he’s not the Grant County sheriff anymore. Patrick’s attorney, Robert Lange, has told him that the former sheriff will probably be adamant that they made the right finding. Next he sees the current sheriff arrive—his uniform gives him away—and take a seat on the other side of the courtroom. He will be at the inquest to listen to the evidence, Lange warned, in case, after the jury returns its verdict, he needs to decide whether to move ahead with further investigation or criminal charges. Patrick looks at the sheriff and swallows, then turns away, his eyes searching the courtroom. He recognizes Lauren, Lindsey’s sister, sitting toward the back, as if she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s there. Then—another face he recognizes, although the man is somewhat older. It’s the coroner, George Yancik. He was there that day, leaning over Lindsey’s body in the snow, studying the car in the snowbank. But it’s Erica who worries him. It’s her word against his. Where is she?

  He hears a slight commotion behind him and turns to look. It’s her, as if he’d summoned her somehow. She’s in a charcoal-gray business suit, her hair up, makeup kept to a minimum. She looks professional, and he feels a tremor of fear run up his spine. He’s afraid she will come across better than he will—it has been his fear all along that they will believe her over him. He feels Stephanie stiffen as Erica sits in the front row on the opposite side of the room without looking at either of them.

  Lange comes up to Patrick then and leans in close. “You okay?” He glances quickly at Stephanie, as if worried about how she’s holding up.

  Patrick nods. “We’re fine.”

  “Good, we’re about to start.” Lange moves away and sits at counsel’s table.

  Moments later, the six jurors file in and take their seats with a minimum of fuss. Patrick, unsettled, watches them come in. These six people might determine the course of the rest of his life. The idea frightens him. He has never thought of himself as a coward, but right now, he’s scared. He feels himself clenching his jaw and forces himself to relax as the judge enters from a side door and sits at the dais. The jurors are sworn in. The coroner is represented by an attorney by the name of Susan Spellman. Patrick has elected to be represented by his own counsel.

  They begin. The judge addresses the court with opening remarks. Coroner’s counsel then addresses the jury and calls the first witness. Patrick knows that as each witness is called, Lange will have the opportunity to ask relevant questions of t
he witnesses and challenge them in cross-examination.

  First the coroner’s attorney calls the coroner, George Yancik.

  34

  Yancik walks briskly to the witness box. As he takes his place, Patrick notes that he seems slightly nervous as he’s sworn in. That’s not what they want. They don’t want the coroner to be on the defensive. It makes Patrick anxious too.

  Once they establish his credentials, the attorney asks, “Did you, as the Grant County coroner at the time, attend at 712 Dupont Street, Creemore, on the morning of January 10, 2009?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Tell us about that morning, and what you found there.”

  The coroner says, in a clipped voice, “A 911 call had come in at eight twenty-nine a.m. I was notified of the sudden death of a woman and made my way there immediately. When I got there, a woman had been pulled out of a vehicle and laid out on the snow.” He clears his throat. “I observed the heightened color indicative of carbon monoxide poisoning and declared her dead at the scene.”

  “Can you tell us what you did then?”

  “I spoke to the woman’s husband, Patrick Kilgour. He was obviously distraught. I asked him what had happened and he told me that his wife had been waiting inside the running car while he shoveled it out. It had been snowing heavily for a couple of days before. I immediately examined the vehicle. It was parked at the end of a cul-de-sac, backed almost into a snowbank. The exhaust pipe was packed with snow. From this I determined that it was most likely the victim had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, but I ordered an autopsy, to be sure.”

  “And who performed the autopsy?”

  “I contracted it out to one of the forensic pathologists we use, Karen Soley.”

  “Did you make any further investigations into the death of Lindsey Kilgour?”

  Yancik shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, as coroner, it is my responsibility to investigate deaths. I took charge of the scene, ordered the body to be taken away and autopsied. The sheriff at the time, Mike Bewdly, questioned the husband, Patrick Kilgour, down at the Sheriff’s Office, as he appeared to be the only actual witness. The sheriff spoke to me afterward about that conversation.”

  “And what did the autopsy show?”

  “The autopsy confirmed that the victim died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “And was there anything revealed in the questioning of Patrick Kilgour, as reported to you by the sheriff, that led you to have any suspicions as to the manner of death?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “And based on your observations, your investigation, and the autopsy, what was your conclusion?”

  “I concluded that the death had been accidental.”

  “Thank you.”

  Patrick’s attorney stands and says, “No questions, your honor.”

  The coroner leaves the stand and retakes his seat.

  Susan Spellman says, “I call Michael Bewdly to the stand.”

  Michael Bewdly rises and moves heavily to the witness stand. Patrick watches him closely.

  “You were the Grant County sheriff at the time of the death of Lindsey Kilgour, is that right?” the attorney asks, once the witness has been sworn in.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell us what happened after the coroner arrived.”

  “The coroner arrived and took control of the scene, as was proper. Once that was done, I escorted Patrick Kilgour to the Sheriff’s Office to speak to him about what had happened.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He told us—myself and my investigating officer at the time, Dan Abbott—that his wife had got in the car to stay warm until he’d finished shoveling. When questioned, he said he was unaware that the exhaust pipe of the car was plugged, and unaware of the dangers of such an occurrence.” The former sheriff clears his throat and volunteers, “This happens every year somewhere in the United States after a heavy snowfall—people aren’t as aware of the dangers as they should be.”

  “Did you have any suspicion at all that it might have been deliberate?”

  “None at all.”

  “Did you ask him if he had a policy of life insurance on his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask him about the state of his marriage?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  Again, Lange stands up and says, “Why did you not ask Patrick Kilgour about his marriage, or about possible life insurance?”

  “It—it was just so obviously a tragic accident, I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  “No more questions, your honor,” Lange says and sits down.

  So far, everything is going their way, of course. Patrick has nothing to worry about until Erica takes the stand. He tries to relax, but knowing she will appear makes that impossible.

  Ms. Spellman says, “Next I’d like to call Ken Dingwall.”

  Once the witness is sworn, the attorney asks, “Mr. Dingwall, did you underwrite a life insurance policy on Lindsey Kilgour?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what were the circumstances surrounding the purchase of that policy?”

  “The two of them, Patrick and Lindsey Kilgour, came into the office in November of 2008. They explained that they were newlyweds—they were obviously expecting a baby—and wanted life insurance policies on both of them.”

  “And how much were these policies for?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars each, with a further one hundred thousand each in the event of accidental death.”

  Patrick hears a buzz of excitement travel around the courtroom.

  35

  Stephanie hears the whispers and feels anger at everyone in the courtroom. They all want her husband to be guilty.

  Ms. Spellman asks, “Is it . . . unusual to have an additional amount in the event of accidental death?”

  The insurance professional is clear and confident. “No, not at all. Most young people are more likely to die from accidental death than from natural causes. So accidental death coverage is something we encourage.”

  Lange has no further questions, and the witness is sent back to his seat.

  Stephanie feels her shoulders relax slightly. So far, it has gone well. But Erica hasn’t given her evidence yet.

  As if her mind has been read, Erica Voss is called to the stand, and Stephanie feels her heart begin to race. She watches Erica walk with noticeable poise to the witness box, and then turns her attention to the jurors—how are they reacting to her? Everything boils down to whom they will believe—this woman, or her husband.

  “Ms. Voss,” Ms. Spellman says, “do you know Patrick Kilgour?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Can you please explain the nature of your relationship with him?”

  She nods. “I met Patrick through Lindsey, his wife. Lindsey and I were friends. In spite of that”—she hesitates and then says—“I had an affair with her husband, Patrick, in the weeks before her death.”

  There’s a frisson of heightened interest in the courtroom. This is what they’re all here for, Stephanie thinks bitterly. This much has been leaked; there had been mention of a possible affair in the newspaper. She has just confirmed it.

  “A sexual affair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was this affair casual, or would you say it was serious?”

  Erica appears to take a moment to compose herself and says clearly, “It was serious. We were in love.”

  Stephanie hears murmurs in the courtroom and several gasps. The jurors are looking at Erica with great interest. Stephanie glances at her husband beside her; his profile is set, his jaw tight. He’s staring at Erica as if he loathes her.

  “How often did you meet?”

  “It began one night when a bunch of us had gotten together for drinks. Lindsey had gone
home earlier. Patrick and I both got drunk. We ended up back at my apartment, in bed. After that, we took every opportunity we could to be together, but it wasn’t easy, because he was married, and Lindsey wanted him at home.” She adds, “We would meet at lunchtimes during the week. His wife would make him a lunch to take to work, but he’d come to my apartment and we’d make love.”

  Stephanie hears the murmur of disapproval go around the courtroom.

  “Did the two of you ever talk about being together, about telling his wife?”

  “Yes. He told me he didn’t love her, and he resented being tied down by her. He didn’t want a baby at that stage in his life. They argued a lot. He said he wanted to be with me.”

  “Did you or he ever talk about making concrete plans to be together?”

  Erica bites her lip. “Not in so many words. He said he wanted to be free of her. But I thought he was talking about divorce, not murder.”

  Another gasp around the courtroom; the judge bangs his gavel and everyone falls silent, riveted by her testimony.

  “Tell us what happened on January 10, 2009.”

  “I got a phone call from Greg Miller. He was a friend of Patrick’s, from work. We all used to socialize together. He called me and said there had been an accident. I got over there as fast as I could.”

  “Did you talk to Patrick?”

  “No. I was in shock. He was hysterical, sobbing. But then, when no one was looking, he caught my eye, and—the look in his eyes was one of triumph.”

  “Triumph?”

  “Yes. I knew then that he’d killed her on purpose, and that he thought he was going to get away with it.” She pauses, looks suitably upset—the first break in her composure. “I think he expected me to be . . . glad.”

  Another murmur of shock makes its way across the courtroom.

  “Did you speak to him after that?”

  She shakes her head. “Not then. He tried to speak to me but I avoided him. I went to the funeral and I avoided him there too. I thought he’d killed her on purpose, because of me, but I was too afraid to say anything. I was afraid the police would think I was involved in it. I felt guilty—I thought he’d murdered her to be with me. I couldn’t even look at him after that. I knew what he’d done.” She pauses and then adds, “And by then I knew I was pregnant with his child.”