The First Cut

by Ellery Kane

  Officer Kellogg (aka Frosted Flakes) knocks his baton against the bars. “Hey, Lawson. Somebody wants to see you.”

  “Don’t tell ’em nothin’, Doc. Snitches get stitches.” These are Marbles’ words of encouragement. And I flash her a weak smile.

  Truthfully, I haven’t stopped holding my breath since Luke walked me into the Monterey County Jail yesterday afternoon, where they booked me on one count of PC 518, extortion. According to Ivy, it’s a felony that carries a two- to four-year term in this high-class joint or a ten-thousand-dollar fine.

  Last night, I’d lain awake, wide-eyed, on my rock of a bed and listened to Marbles snoring beneath me. I couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling of inevitability. That I’d somehow been headed here on a long and broken road since the day Wallace Bergman walked into my office. And now that I’ve arrived at my destination, concrete and barbed wire, the universe won’t let me go.

  From the corner of the interview room, Jack Donovan nods at me like he knows it too. This is where I’m meant to be. And next to him, Doreen Lennox is no better, burying her nose in a thick file folder. Of damning evidence. That’s probably why she can’t even look at me.

  Ivy’s there too, every bit the hard-nosed attorney I’m paying her to be. She’d told me she’d worked for the DA, before she came over to the dark side. When I’d frowned at that, she chuckled. “It’s just an expression,” she’d said. But it seemed like the truth. Did she see it too? That I belonged here. That I’d done things darker than dark.

  “Sit down, Ava,” Jack says, pointing to a chair opposite all of them. And I fall in line before the firing squad. “We have a few more questions for you.”

  “I told you yesterday. I don’t have anything more to say about the extortion charge. I’m innocent.”

  I glance, helpless, at Ivy, and she bares her perfect teeth. “This is ridiculous, Detective. Ms. Lawson has been nothing but cooperative. Overly so, in my opinion. What more could you possibly want to know?”

  “This is not about extortion. This is about murder.”

  I know he means Ian and Kate, but all I see is a charred hillside and the burned-out frame of a Jaguar.

  “My client invokes her Fifth Amendment right to remain silent, and—”

  Doreen smiles at Ivy, the same way she’d smiled at me that first day. Charming. “She doesn’t have to say anything, ma’am, but we’d like to show her a few things, if that’s alright.”

  Her hands rest on the folder, guarding it like a treasure trove. And I need to know what’s inside. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll hear them out.”

  “Good.” Before Ivy can protest, Doreen slips her fingers inside and withdraws a familiar photograph from the top of the stack. “Let’s start with something you’ve already seen.”

  The black-handled knife with a blade that measures eight inches, according to the sad gray ruler that lies alongside.

  “Look familiar?”

  I nod. “You showed it to me last Tuesday.”

  “Right.” Good girl. As if there will be a grade at the end of all this. “Now what about this one?” She produces a second photo, prodding the Hydra sloshing about in my stomach. And I feel sick.

  “That’s my house. I didn’t give you permission to—”

  Jack raises his hand, and I stop speaking, ashamed of myself for cooperating in my own demise. I’m not shocked. How could I be? But the speed of it all has me spinning.

  “We didn’t need permission. Based on the circumstances of your recent arrest and the connection to one of our deceased victims, we obtained a search warrant. Care to comment on what we found?”

  “She absolutely does not,” Ivy says. And I manage to pry my eyes from the handle protruding from my sweater pocket long enough to shake my head no.

  “Well, suffice to say, it’s a match. The two knives are from the same set. And this knife . . .”—Doreen taps the edge of the first photo—“is our murder weapon.”

  Jack clears his throat. Like whatever is about to come out of his mouth needs its own introduction. “I like you, Ava. I always have. And there was a time when I thought you might be part of our family one day. But you’ve lied to me. You sat at my dinner table and lied. And then, you told me you’d never thrown anything into the water at Ocean Beach. That old man who saw you, he picked you out of a photo lineup. Said he was ninety-nine percent certain. That’s good enough for me.”

  “We’re done here,” Ivy says, smacking the table with her palm.

  “Were my fingerprints on it?”

  “Ava. I said we’re done. That means stop talking.”

  “One more thing,” Jack says, undeterred. “We got a call from a nurse at Cliffside this morning. They found a cell phone hidden in your mom’s room. And it looked like it had blood on it. Now, who do you think that phone belonged to, Avenging Angel?”

  He whips another photo from the file as I fight the urge to scream my throat raw. Ian, from the front this time. An angle I hadn’t seen. Plaster-white face marred by angry red scratches on his cheek. Eyes closed but not like he’s sleeping.

  “Ian, I guess.” I look away when Jack produces another shot. An autopsy photo of Ian’s chest, eight numbered wounds. “Someone called me from Ian’s phone . . . from his number. Why would I do that? Why would I hide it in my mom’s room?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Cooper was there the day after the murder.” My voice trembles as it rises. “You should ask him.”

  Jack doesn’t react like I’d hoped. With righteous indignation. Curiosity. Anything really. He just signals to Officer Kellogg—the take-her-away nod—and lands a final blow. A knockout. “The DA amended your charges to reflect one count of first-degree murder.”

  Marbles would probably spit in his face or maybe she’d say nothing, shrug it off like any other Friday. But me, I do what I always do lately. I make it worse.

  “One?”

  ****

  I watch Judge Pardee’s mouth move below his mustache, his lips hidden by wiry gray, but all I hear is Marbles. Damn girl, you got a body on you? That’s jail speak for murder, apparently. And word travels fast.

  “Ms. Lawson, do you understand the charges against you as I’ve read them?”

  Ivy eyes me with concerned annoyance, prompts me with a whispered, “Go ahead. Answer the question.” I wonder if she’s ever fired a client.

  “Uh, could you repeat the last one? I’m just a little rattled right now.” The sounds of guilt reverberate around me. The hushed whispers from the gallery. The frantic scribbles of reporters’ pens meeting paper. Above it all, my own shaky voice.

  “Your Honor,” Ivy adds through gritted teeth. A few purposeful head-nods toward the judge, and I finally get it.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  “Certainly understandable given the nature of the offenses for which you’ve been accused. In addition to one count of felony extortion, it is alleged that on or about February 14, 2018, you did willfully, unlawfully, and with malice aforethought, murder Ian Culpepper, a human being, as defined by section 187 of the California Penal Code. It is a felony.”

  A human being. What an odd thing to say. And I see Ian on our wedding day, slipping a ring on my finger. Ian asleep on the sofa, a book half-open on his chest. Ian in bed, poised above me, eyes fiery with lust. Ian, half-dragging me back to the car as Wallace burned. He’d said we didn’t do anything wrong. And I’d railed against it and wanted to believe it, all at once.

  A nudge from Ivy, and I startle. The courtroom suddenly seems too bright, too open. And I squint up at Judge Pardee. “How do you plead, Ms. Lawson?”

  “Not guilty. I didn’t kill Ian. Or Kate.”

  “Let the record reflect that the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty.”

  I only half-listen as the attorneys argue about what happens to me next. As Ivy parses me
out in lawyer-speak. Not a flight risk, no criminal history, valued member of the community, an ailing mother. As they agree to set bail at two million dollars. And Judge Pardee tells me I’ll need to relinquish my passport and my firearm.

  But my mind is stuck somewhere else.

  On my own words. And the hair’s breadth between innocent and not guilty.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  This is what my life has come to. I say goodbye to Marbles, return my jail uniform—the red-and-white jumpsuit that made me look like a deranged candy striper—and collect my belongings. My cell phone comes back in its own body bag, a clear plastic one, with the SIM and SD cards taped to the back. I give it a proper burial in the trash can right outside the station. A dead-end for bloodhound Jack, just in case he tries to track me. I try not to think of what he’s already sniffed out on it. Some good, like the calls from Ian’s number. What murderer would do that? Some decidedly not good, like the text Ian sent me on Valentine’s Day night.

  Ivy had warned me not to go home. To hole up for a few days in a hotel instead. “Let it all blow over,” she’d said. As if it would be that kind of storm. A quick downpour. But I refuse to act guilty.

  So I take a taxi back to my house instead. The same house I’d bought with my dead husband’s hush money and put up as collateral for bail. The one I’d be damned if anybody could keep me from. Especially not them. The reporters who swarm the sidewalk out front like ants at a picnic, moving faster now as they sense my approach. I’m what’s for dinner. The main course.

  “Do you want me to walk you to the door?” Even the taxi driver feels bad for me. Or maybe he’s seen me on the news and would rather keep on my good side.

  I shake my head and climb out, too exhausted to cover my face.

  All I want is to lie in my bed and sleep until it’s over. But it feels impossibly large, a mammoth cloud darkening my whole sky. The sort of storm you build an ark for. And it only gets bigger when I open the door and take in what’s gone. My laptop. My sneakers. The infamous sweater. And the cherrywood knife block with its one empty slot.

  I sit on the sofa, reeling. All my secrets laid bare.

  Well, not all of them. With Ricky arrested, I’d seen the writing on the wall. Writ just as conspicuous as a blood-red Ava on an ornate mirror. On Wednesday, before all hell broke loose, I’d wiped my hard drive. Deleted the Pacbell email account along with all my text messages. And dropped the Nikon’s memory card down the garbage disposal, relishing the delicate crunch of its bones.

  Still. I can’t help but feel exposed. Because a hundred cameras are trained on my front door. Because Jack had called me Avenging Angel. But mostly because someone had been to my mother’s with Ian’s bloody cell phone. Someone had been in my house before the police, planting that knife and taking another. Someone had wanted me to look like a murderer. To feel like one. And now I do.

  I shower fast with the door open and the curtain half-pulled. Tug my damp hair into a ponytail and leave a trail of wet footprints to the bedroom. I’m half-dressed when the doorbell rings. Each insistent push of the buzzer hits a nerve at the base of my spine, and a chill zips through me.

  I pull on my robe and pick up the vase from the edge of my dresser, creeping toward the door. Through the peephole, I see a man in a blue uniform. And I gulp. What now?

  But he’s not a policeman.

  “What do you want?” I shout the words with my mouth flush against the door.

  “Registered mail for Ava Lawson.”

  “Can’t you just leave it?”

  “You have to sign for it, ma’am. And I’ll need to see your ID. I can come back later if, uh—” He glances over his shoulder at the ants, excited and circling the perimeter. “If it isn’t a good time.”

  “Who’s it from?” I ask.

  He smacks the oversized envelope against the window, and I lean in close.

  My address is neatly typed at the center. In the left corner, a printed logo: G&M for Goldstein and Myers, Attorneys at Law, 1615 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles.

  The same G&M who’d crafted our divorce decree and bullied me into Ian’s nondisclosure agreement. Ruthless and efficient.

  “One minute,” I say, scrambling for my purse. Certain that whatever is in that envelope has to do with Ian. And just like our broken vows—for better or worse—I’ve never been able to resist that.

  ****

  The office had been cold. That’s why I’d been shaking. With Goldstein perched on the conference table between Ian and me, the pen had quivered in my hand.

  Irreconcilable differences. A nondescript phrase, so void of emotion it could have read tin can or sliced bread. It didn’t sum what had gone on between us, layer upon rotten layer of wrong.

  “You should’ve taken a Xanax,” Ian had whispered. “It would’ve helped.” And I’d steeled myself then, a giant fuck you, signing my name at the bottom as neatly, as purposefully, as I ever had.

  But the papers on my coffee table take me right back there. The same look. The same feel. That same thick, expensive stock. And the words? Just as revelatory.

  I regard Mr. Goldstein’s letter with awe and suspicion before I pick it up and read it again.

  Dear Ms. Lawson:

  I am writing to you at the instruction of my client, your ex-husband, Ian Culpepper. As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Culpepper passed away on February 14, 2018, under suspicious circumstances. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss. Enclosed you will find a sealed communication from Mr. Culpepper, as well as the prenuptial agreement I executed on his behalf with Kate Pope. Mr. Culpepper directed me to provide these documents to you in the event of his death. If I can be of further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me at the number below.

  Sincerely,

  Ira Goldstein, Attorney at Law

  Inside the larger envelope is another. Sealed, just as Goldstein promised, with Ian’s signature scrawled across the flap, dated January 1, 2018. Over one month ago. And well before the are-you-fucking-kidding-me conversation.

  I hold it in my hands, afraid of it. Like that other note, twenty-one years ago. But there’s no backing out. I slide my finger under the glued edge, rip it open, and unfold the letter inside.

  Dear Ava,

  I know what you’re thinking right now in that twisted mind of yours. I can picture you with that little furrow between your eyebrows. You’re wondering why the hell you should care about anything I have to say, but you’re curious too. And I’m obviously dead, so you feel a bit sorry for me. Or maybe you don’t.

  Perhaps this won’t matter at all, but I feel I owe it to you anyway. A warning of sorts. When I married Kate, I thought she was different, and I tried to be honest with her. I told her everything. And that’s the irony of my life. I picked the wrong girl to get it right with.

  After Kate and I lost the show, she said I’d pushed too hard for ratings. She accused me of planting alcohol in the Shermans’ dressing room and encouraging them to unwind between segments. She called me a hypocrite and a murderer. I tried to help her get past her doubts, but then she started cheating on me.

  First, I heard rumors about her and Dan Jarvis, a professor at MCC. The pervert denied it, and so did she. So, I let it go. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And if that’s all it had been, then maybe Kate and I could’ve gotten past it. But it didn’t stop there. She met this sorry sucker.

  And Aves, I think she told him about W.B.

  My eyes keep reading, two pages worth, but my heart seizes there. Stops. On that line.

  I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement. I’d kept my mouth zipped shut. Locked that secret inside me and tossed the key down the well. And let it grow big and vicious as a monster, feeding on all the good things it found.

  And Ian? What had he done?

  He’d told her.


  My fists clench so tight, my knuckles whiten. And I understand the knife’s blade line between love and murder. How easy it is to step over. If Ian wasn’t already dead, I would have no choice but to kill him myself.

  ****

  The rain is my undoing. Because it begins the same as it did Valentine’s night. With a single fat drop on the window, trailing like a tear. Then another and another and another. Until the whole pane is marked with tear tracks, and the world outside blurs behind them.

  I’m right back there, fleeing from the mansion on Cortez Road. Driving way too fast, borderline reckless on the slick streets. Wipers whipping across the windshield with a quiet fury. And a scream stuck in my throat like a shard of bone. Then, bursting through my own door, soaking wet and shivering. So cold it had taken Luke to warm me.

  Suddenly this house is the last place I want to be. But I’m trapped here and frantic as a netted bird. I pace from window to window as the rain picks up. Harder now. And my undoing becomes my saving grace. Because the ants don’t like rain, naturally. Some run for cover inside the warmth of their stations’ vans. Others give up and head for home. A few of the hardy little buggers prop up their golf umbrellas, determined to wait it out. But when the wind starts tugging at their canopies, pulling them downside up, they admit defeat.

  While the rain pounds against the now-empty sidewalk, I open a duffel bag and prepare my getaway, full speed ahead to anywhere but here. I scoop up a handful of underwear and socks. Toss in a few T-shirts and my toothbrush. Tuck Ian’s letter beneath it all like a precious jewel or a sordid secret. Because the truth always is. Precious and sordid.

  Breathless, I lug the bag into the hallway and grab my keys, mentally tucking myself into a nondescript hotel bed. Locking myself behind a deadbolt and a security latch. Safe inside a room with very few hiding places. And only one way in and one way out.

  The wind gusts outside the door like a warning whistle. And with my hand on the knob, I freeze. Is that . . . ? I lean in, look closer.

  A small brown spider scuttles up the frame toward the beginnings of its web in the corner. It stops, and we regard each other with suspicion. The rain patters like a child’s stamping feet against the roof, but all I hear is Maddie’s little voice. The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout . . .