“Sorry.” Sasha made a pouty face, then sipped her wine.
“What are these anyway?” Julian picked up the pill bottle and read the label. “Xanax. Can I have one?”
“Sure, take two.”
“Will you join me?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” Julian opened up the pill bottle and took out two, but palmed them and only pretended to put them in his mouth. “Here’s to us.”
“To us.” Sasha drank some wine, but Julian sipped his wine, let his hand fall, and dropped his pills out of view.
“What else do you have?” Julian scanned the labels on the pill bottles. “Ativan? Ambien?”
“Ativan for anxiety and Ambien for when I fly. But you can’t mix Ambien with Xanax. They’re both antidepressants.”
“Right, everybody knows that.” Julian picked up the bottle of Ativan. “Can I have one?”
“Go for it, I’ll join you this time.”
“Right, totally.” Julian opened the bottle of Ativan, turning his back to Sasha, and blocking her view with his body. Quickly he took an Ativan from the bottle, swapped it for the Ambien, and pretended to take a pill, turning toward her. “Here’s yours,” he said, dropping the pill in her drink.
Sasha giggled. “Good idea!”
“I’m full of them.” Julian smiled. He didn’t really want to kill Sasha, but he had no choice. It had been the same with David, who had drunk-dialed Julian last week, blubbering over Kyle. David had been feeling worse as the twentieth anniversary approached, and he’d wanted to come clean, especially since he had a baby on the way.
A kid changes everything, David had said when Julian had gone to talk to him, meeting him at David’s cabin in the Hudson River Valley. They’d talked and drank, and David got drunker and drunker, almost nodding off. He’d told Julian he’d thought about suicide and even told Julian where he kept a gun. Julian had gotten the gun and shot David in the head with David’s own hand, so the blowback would be on his fingers. Then Julian had left the cabin, and since no one had known he was there, no one looked for him after he’d gone. Getting away with murder was empowering, and practice made perfect.
“I’m so shhleepy.” Sasha slurred her words, leaning back against the pillow.
“Rest, baby.” Julian shifted toward her. “It’s been a long, hard day.”
“It really has.” Sasha closed her eyes, and Julian reached for her wineglass, dropping in another Ambien.
“Here, Sash, have more wine. It’ll help you feel better.” Julian brought the wineglass to Sasha’s lips, and she tilted her head back while he poured some into her mouth. It trickled down her lips, but Julian kissed her quickly.
Sasha giggled, drowsy.
“Rest, Sash.” Julian watched her eyes close and her body relax. Her head tilted to the side, and a strand of her lovely hair fell across her brow. She was so beautiful, even now. He took her hand, holding it in his, and he began to enjoy the experience of watching as her breath slowed down. He’d been watching her live, for so long. Now he’d watch her die.
He watched her chest rise and fall, slower and slower, shallower and shallower. His loving gaze traced the shape of her breasts in her silky dress, the line of her bra, which was so thin he could detect the outline of her nipples. He knew what her breasts looked like, so there was no need to disturb her now. He didn’t want to touch, he wanted to see. Over the years, he’d watched the videos she posted online and kept tabs on her. He knew everywhere she’d traveled, everything she’d done.
Julian moved her hair from her face, watching her die. He finally had Sasha all to himself, and no other man would ever have her, after him. Her breaths grew fainter. Her chest moved up and down, more and more slowly. She grew very still.
Twenty minutes later, he noticed her chest stop moving. She was completely still. Julian knew she was gone, but not for him, because he would always possess her. They’d shared this ultimate moment, joining them together, forever.
Julian checked Sasha’s neck for a pulse. He got none. He left her wineglass and pill bottles, then picked up the pills he had dropped and his wineglass. He left the room and hurried to the kitchen, tossing the pills down the garbage disposal, washing and drying his wineglass, then bringing it and the dishtowel back to the bedroom. He restored his wineglass to the tray and used the dishtowel to wipe Sasha’s cell phone and pill bottles clean of his fingerprints.
Julian pulled his cell phone from his pocket, pressed 911, and waited for the emergency dispatcher to pick up.
“This is 911. What is your emergency, please?”
“Oh God, please send an ambulance, right away! I think my friend overdosed! This is Julian Browne, at 981 Cobblestone Trail Road. . . .”
CHAPTER 58
Larry Rucci
Larry sat on the bathroom floor, holding the birth control pills. Allie had gotten them filled just last month, while they were supposedly trying to conceive. She’d hidden them in the back of the base cabinet, where he’d never be expected to go. She must’ve stayed on the pill this past year. Meanwhile she’d made a show of marking the days she was ovulating on the calendar, taking her temperature, even checking her mucus, which he used to joke about.
Is it snotty enough? Larry would ask. Ovulation sex!
Well, the joke was on him. Evidently, his wife didn’t want to have a baby. Or didn’t want to have a baby with him. Either way, she wasn’t going to get one.
Larry swallowed hard. All this time, he’d thought their problem was that they couldn’t conceive. He couldn’t have felt more stupid. He put the birth control pills back, keeping her secret for her. He didn’t even understand why he was doing it, except that he didn’t want her to be unhappy.
Happy wife, happy life.
Larry grabbed his Dopp kit, toothbrush, and razor, and left the bathroom. He stuffed the toiletries in his backpack, zipped it up, then picked up his bags, loped his backpack over one shoulder, and left the bedroom without looking back. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He just wanted to end his marriage. He wanted to put himself out of his misery. He climbed down the stairs, picked up his keys and messenger bag, and left the house, slamming the door behind him. When one door closes, another one opens, his mother used to say.
He walked down the front stoop and headed down the street. He’d always loved Davidson Street, one of the most charming streets in Center City, right near Fitler Square. It was lined with three-story townhouses, all authentically two hundred years old, their marble stoops worn with use and their red brick façades soft and saggy in places. He and Allie had been lucky to buy here, and Larry assumed Allie would stay. She could have the house. He’d give her whatever she wanted. He was done.
Ginkgo trees lined the block, their leaves fluttering in the breeze, pretty in summer. In autumn, they shed stinky berries that Larry would usually end up tracking into the house, to Allie’s consternation.
There’s a bootscrape out front for a reason, his beloved wife would say.
Larry sighed, hoping that going forward, his every thought would not concern Allie. He beelined toward his car, an Acura he’d been lucky enough to get a spot for, so he could park indefinitely with his resident sticker. He was no longer a resident. He chirped open the trunk, put his gear inside, got in the car, and started the engine.
He drove away, feeling something inside him turn off, like a big switch had been thrown. The love switch. He wasn’t in love anymore. He had maxed out. Her reserve, her secrecy. Now her lies. He was done. He was fresh out of luck, and maybe finally out of love. The two things that had always defined him.
Larry turned right, then took another right, driving north toward the center of town, thinking about where to go. One of his favorite hotels was the Rittenhouse, so he headed in that direction. They had a great restaurant where he took clients and a great bar in the lobby, with a happy hour. He was determined to get happy.
He navigated the one-way streets of Center City, traveling west on Walnut,
along Rittenhouse Square, which was beautiful this time of year, its old-school wrought-iron fencing surrounding shrubbery, flowers, fountains, and a wacky statue of a goat. Larry found himself thinking of dumb stuff like that, instead of his wife’s birth control pills. Ex-wife’s.
He took a left around the square, then a right into the entrance to the Rittenhouse, pulling up in front. A tall doorman in a classy gray uniform approached him with a professional grin, and Larry remembered his name was Joe. Larry was the kind of guy who remembered names. Allie, on the other hand, could meet somebody five times and never remember their name. He’d been the one at the cocktail party, whispering in her ear, like her assistant.
“Hey, Joe,” Larry said, getting out of the car. “Good to see you again. How are you?”
“Terrific, you going to be an hour or two?”
“No, a couple days. You don’t need to leave it out front.”
“You got it!” Joe said, and Larry handed him the key with a twenty. Another doorman held open the glass door, and Larry went to the desk and checked in, giving his Amex and ID to the young clerk, who, if she was surprised to see an address only five minutes away, was professional enough not to say anything.
“Miss, if somebody could unpack the car and take the stuff to my room, that would be terrific. I’m going to grab a drink.”
“You got it, Mr. Rucci,” the clerk said, smiling, and Larry thanked her, turned around, and headed to the bar off the lobby. He opened the doors, realizing that he was entering the bar as a single man, a first in recent memory. He plastered on a smile and reminded himself that he was a litigation partner with a trim waistline, a working dick, and an excellent sense of humor, at least until he’d found the birth control pills.
Larry waded into the noisy crowd, thick with men and women in suits, ties, and dresses, their hair moussed, dyed, or plugged, everybody yakking away. The air smelled of freshened perfume and expense accounts. Everybody looked younger than him.
Larry threaded his way through the crowd, slid onto a barstool, and rested his elbows on the old-fashioned marble bar. He sat in front of the bartender’s supply of sliced lemons, limes, and maraschino cherries, which reminded him of Allie, too. She loved maraschino cherries.
He waved at the bartender, a young guy whose neck was blanketed with tattoos. Larry had no tattoos, so he doubted he’d ever get laid again. “I’ll have a beer,” he started to say, then caught himself. “No, make that a double malt.”
“You got it!” the bartender said, and Larry wondered if everybody here was taught to say you got it, and if so, it was fine with him. A divorce? You got it!
Starting over? You got it!
“Hi,” someone said in his ear, and Larry looked over to see a young woman standing there, smiling. For a split second, he almost looked behind him. But she was talking to him.
“Hi,” Larry said back, recovering his composure.
“I think I’ve seen you at the Litigation Section meeting. You were on a panel.”
“I’m always on a panel,” Larry said, because it was true.
“I know how you feel. I’m in the Young Lawyers Section.”
“Good for you. I’m in the Half-Dead Lawyers Section.”
“Ha!” the young woman laughed, then extended her hand. “Lacy Dalrymple.”
Lacy is a name? Larry thought, but didn’t say. He shook her hand. “Larry Rucci.”
“Lacy and Larry! Funny!”
Funny. Larry felt uncomfortable, since he was more used to Allie and Larry. Luckily, the bartender set his drink down, and he took a gulp.
“I think you did a CLE program, too.”
“That I did.”
“It was about client relations. I bet you’re great at client relations.”
“I’m a ‘people person,’ my wife says,” Larry blurted out, feeling his face go red. Jesus Christ, help me. I have no idea how to talk to this fetus.
“I can tell.”
“Thanks, I think. By the way, I mean my ex-wife.” Larry felt a lawyerly impulse to correct the record. “I’m newly separated.”
“That’s obvious.” Lacy grinned. “You still have your ring on.”
“Oh, right.” Larry looked at his own hand, stricken. He’d totally forgotten. His ring was practically a part of him. “I guess I should take it off, but I don’t want to lose it, here, in a bar.” Shut the fuck up, Larry. Shut up.
Lacy sat down next to him, setting her red wine on the bar. “Want some company?”
“Sure,” Larry said, trying to get his act together. He gulped his whiskey, which burned his throat. He tried not to choke. He’d already established himself as a happy-hour rookie and newly minted single guy. He noticed that Lacy had on a wedding band plus a major sparkler, one which Allie never would’ve worn. She didn’t want him to spend the money on her, saying she didn’t deserve a big ring.
You deserve a ring as big as a meatball! Larry had said.
“Larry, what firm are you at again?”
“Dichter & O’Reilly.” Larry realized that she was trying to make conversation with him, but he didn’t know if it counted as flirting. She was married, and it had been so long since anybody had flirted with him. The only back-and-forth conversations he’d really had with young women were job interviews, so he tried to tell himself he was interviewing Lacy for a position. “So, Lacy, where do you work?”
“Morgan Lewis. I’m an associate.”
“In what section?”
“Labor. I’m in labor. That’s the joke.”
Larry laughed, trying to think of what to say next. Where do you expect to be in five years? What’s your greatest strength? What’s your greatest weakness? None of those were good questions at a bar, but Lacy started talking, telling about her practice, then launching into funny stories about the partners she worked for, some of whom he knew, and they started trading stories, then gossip, and ordered another round of drinks, and Larry finally relaxed, whether it was because of the booze, the pretty young girl, or the fact that his heart was so broken he had nothing left to lose. And when it was time, he found himself asking Lacy if she wanted to go upstairs.
She answered, I do.
Larry managed a smile, trying not to think of his wedding day.
CHAPTER 59
Allie Garvey
Allie hurried down the hall past the plaque that read BARTON DINNERSTEIN, ESQ., ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. She’d thought about seeing a lawyer for so long, but David’s funeral felt like a catalyst. She remembered reading Dinnerstein’s name in the newspapers, so she’d looked him up online and he’d agreed to see her for a consultation. He had graduated from Brandeis University and Yale Law, and had practiced law for forty years.
His office was lined with stuffed bookshelves, and a gray file cabinet that squatted next to the door with accordion files stacked on top. More accordion files were piled on the floor, topped with yellow legal pads, xeroxed cases, and black notebooks. The desk was cluttered with files, legal pads, and an old laptop, and behind the wall of paper sat Barton Dinnerstein. He was in his late sixties and his frame was so compact that his gray suit hung on him. He was balding, with black reading glasses, and his hooded eyes were a sharp blue.
“Hi, I’m Allie Garvey,” she said, from the threshold.
“Please, come in.” Barton smiled and stood up as Allie entered the office, shook her hand, then eased into his chair. “So, Allie, sit down, please, and tell me what I can do for you today.”
Allie sat down opposite him. “So it’s hard to explain,” she began to say, then stopped. She felt her face flush with shame.
“My dear, please continue, I’ve heard it all.”
“It’s just . . . hard. Is everything we say confidential?”
“Yes, unless you’re about to commit a crime. Are you?”
“No, but I think I may already have. I feel like I did. I don’t know where to start.”
“Begin at the beginning.” Barton linked his fingers on his papers.
&nbs
p; “Well, um, it began twenty years ago, with me and three kids I knew from Brandywine Hunt.” Allie hesitated again. “I’m not going to name them, if that’s okay.”
“Names and identities are privileged. But do what makes you feel comfortable.”
Allie began, telling him about seeing Sasha in the woods that very first day, and in time, the words came easier, then the sentences, memories, and feelings. She even told him about her flashbacks and how she would lie awake visualizing what had happened. Tears came to her eyes, and Barton passed her a box of Kleenex but didn’t interrupt her. She finished telling him about David’s funeral and her talk with Ryan, because even though she didn’t know if that was legally important, she couldn’t stop talking until the end.
“Well.” Barton met her eye, his lined expression grave, as she finished. “I can see why this affects you so deeply.”
“It does, and I want to know what I’m guilty of. I feel like we killed Kyle, and I don’t know if we should go to the police or tell Kyle’s mother. I feel like a murderer. I’ve felt like one for the past twenty years. Or like an accomplice, because even though I didn’t know the gun was loaded, if someone else did, I’m protecting a murderer by keeping it secret.”
“Let me explain the law.” Barton pursed his thin lips. “Under the Pennsylvania Crimes Code, the crime of murder requires an intentional killing. You did not kill anyone intentionally. You did not know the gun was loaded, and you believed it was not. Legally speaking, you made a mistake of fact, which negates the requisite mens rea, or intent to kill. Your mistaken belief was bona fide, reasonable, and about a relevant fact. Therefore, you are not a murderer.”
“Thank God.” Allie sensed that she was in good hands. Barton emanated a professorial calm, and she felt close to him, having told him a story she’d never told anyone else, not even Larry. Barton didn’t seem to judge her, nor did he seem to absolve her. He merely informed her, so she listened quietly.
“You’re not chargeable with attempted murder, nor are you an accomplice or co-conspirator, by the same rationale.” Barton cleared his throat. “Under Section 2503, voluntary manslaughter, an intense passion to kill is required, also absent here. Section 2504 is involuntary manslaughter, but even with respect to that, you aren’t chargeable. Nor is there reckless endangerment, under Section 2705. It is not reckless to be handling what you believed to be an unloaded gun.” Barton tented his fingers. “The only other relevant statute is Section 2505, causing or assisting a suicide, but you’re chargeable under the statute only if you intentionally caused a suicide by assisting or by deception, which you did not do.”
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