by Shari Lapena
Karen looks back at her and makes a quick calculation. She has to tell Brigid something. “They’re investigating a murder.”
“A murder!” Brigid looks aghast. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“I don’t know.” Karen shakes her head. “Some man was shot. All they know is that my car was in the area, and because I was driving so fast and had my accident, they think I might know something about what happened. Like probably I was a witness or something. So they keep coming around prodding me to see if they can get me to remember something. They want me to help nail whoever it was that killed that man. But unfortunately, I haven’t been much help.” How fluidly the lies come, she thinks.
“Do the doctors have any idea how long it will take for you to remember?”
Karen shakes her head again. “I may never remember, because of the trauma of it—they think maybe I saw something terrible happen.”
“Well, you’ve got other things to do than do the cops’ jobs for them. Let them figure it out,” Brigid says. She gets up and grabs a box of cookies from the cupboard and brings them back to the table. “Want one?” Karen takes a cookie out of the package. Brigid takes one, too, has a sip of coffee, and says, “So you still have no idea why you left the house so quickly?”
Karen hesitates and says, “Apparently I got a phone call, but I don’t remember who from.”
“And the police can’t figure it out?” Brigid asks over her coffee cup, her eyes wide.
Karen is now sorry she’s told Brigid anything. She doesn’t want to tell her about the burner phone. How’s she going to explain why the police can’t figure out who called her?
“No, they can’t,” Karen says rather abruptly, wanting to be done with the conversation. She swallows the last of her cookie and gets up to go. “I really should be going, I was on my way out for a walk.”
The two of them get up from the table. As they go out through the living room, Brigid asks, “Do you think you’re in any danger?”
Karen turns back abruptly and looks at her. “Why do you say that?” Perhaps Brigid can see the fear in Karen’s eyes.
“Just, you know, if the police think you’re a witness, and that you know something . . . maybe someone else might think so, too.”
Karen stares at her, saying nothing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you worry,” Brigid says. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. It’s okay. I’ve thought that myself,” Karen lies.
Brigid nods. They’re both standing outside on the front porch now. “But Tom’s not going to let anything happen to you.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Tom’s agreed to meet his brother, Dan, at their favorite greasy spoon for lunch. Dan also works downtown; their offices aren’t far apart. When Dan called earlier this morning, he sounded worried. Tom’s been keeping him pretty much in the dark. Suddenly Tom felt guilty for not staying in better touch.
He also feels the need to talk to someone he can trust. And right now, it feels like his little brother is the only person who fits that description.
When Tom gets to the restaurant, he finds a table in the back corner and waits for his brother. When Dan arrives, Tom waves him over.
“Hey,” Dan says. “You don’t look so great.” There’s concern in his eyes.
“Yeah, well—” Tom says, looking up at his brother. “Have a seat.”
“What’s going on?” Dan asks, sitting down. “I haven’t heard from you in the last couple of days. How’s Karen?”
Tom says, “She’s doing okay.” But his distress must be coming across loud and clear. Dan could always read him pretty well.
“So what are you not telling me, Tom?” Dan says, leaning toward him. “What the fuck is going on?”
Tom takes a deep breath and leans in closer, pausing while the waiter drops a couple of menus on their table and moves out of earshot. Then he tells Dan everything—about the dead man, the gloves, the call from the burner phone.
Dan looks back at him in disbelief. “This doesn’t make any sense. What would Karen be doing there? And who the hell would be calling Karen on a burner phone?”
“We don’t know,” Tom says. “But it made the police suspicious.”
“No kidding,” Dan says. “So . . . what do you think Karen was up to that night?” Dan looks worried.
“I don’t know,” Tom says, and shifts his eyes away. “She still says she doesn’t remember.” Tom wonders if Dan can sense his own doubt. There’s a long silence between them, and then Tom says, “Maybe we should order.”
“Sure.”
As they review the menu, Tom tries to decide whether to tell Dan the rest—that he’s starting to wonder about Karen’s past, that she might be hiding something from him. What if he’s wrong? But first, there’s something else he needs to talk to Dan about. The waiter takes their order and Tom sets the menu aside. “The police are asking questions about me.”
“About you? What the hell are you talking about?” Dan asks. He looks genuinely freaked out now, as if he’s afraid of what he’s going to hear next.
Tom leans in closer to his brother and lowers his voice further. “They’re asking where I was at the time of Karen’s accident—at the time of the murder.”
There’s a long, pregnant pause while Dan stares at him. “Why the hell would they be asking you that?” Dan says.
Tom swallows. “I never told you this, but . . . you know that neighbor of ours, Brigid, who lives across the street? I think you’ve met her.”
“Yeah, sure. What about her?”
Tom looks down at the table, ashamed of what he’s about to admit. “I was involved with her, before I met Karen.”
Dan says, rather sharply, “Isn’t she married?”
“Yes, but—” He meets Dan’s eyes briefly then shifts his gaze away. “She misled me—she said her marriage was already over, that they were separating. But she was lying.”
Brigid had tricked him into an affair. He’d only realized it when Bob invited himself over for a beer one evening, obviously unaware of what was going on between Tom and his wife, and it became clear that Bob had no idea that his marriage was in trouble. That she’d lied.
Tom had been easy enough to manipulate. He’d felt an overwhelming attraction to her. There was something terribly exciting about Brigid, about her disregard for boundaries. She was his walk on the wild side.
But as soon as Tom realized that she’d lied to him about the state of her marriage, he broke it off. As he expected, she didn’t take it well. She coaxed, she sobbed, she screamed. He was afraid she might do something rash. Tell her husband about them. Slash his tires. But then she’d calmed down and agreed not to tell Bob. Shortly after that, Tom met Karen. When he became serious about her, he made Brigid promise not to tell Karen about what had happened between them. He was ashamed of sleeping with another man’s wife, even though it was only because he’d been deceived. He didn’t know then that Brigid and Karen would become close friends. He’d watched it happen with deep dismay. He’d had a few uncomfortable moments—he didn’t completely trust Brigid not to say something—but Brigid had kept her side of the bargain. For a long time, his only relationship with Brigid has been as a friend of Karen’s. Until she called that day.
“So,” Dan says slowly, “what are you trying to tell me, Tom? Are you sleeping with her again? Were you with her that night?”
Their food arrives and they abruptly stop talking until they’re alone again.
Tom’s feeling very uncomfortable with this conversation. He looks earnestly at his brother and says firmly, “No. I’m not sleeping with her. Like I said, it was over before I even met Karen. And Karen doesn’t know about it. She thinks we’re just neighbors. We agreed to keep it quiet.”
“Was that wise?” Dan asks.
“In hindsight
, no.”
“So why can’t you tell the police where you were, Tom? Christ, please don’t tell me you’re mixed up in anything—” Dan looks distraught.
Tom interrupts him. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not involved in this thing that Karen’s tangled up in, whatever the hell it is. I promise you that.” He hesitates. “But—Brigid called me that day, the day of the accident, and asked me to meet her that evening. She wanted to talk to me about something. She said it was important.” He runs his hands through his hair. “But she never showed up. I waited for over half an hour. And now the police want to know where I was. I told them I was just driving around for a while, trying to unwind, because work is so stressful. I lied in front of Karen.”
“What a mess,” Dan says.
Tom nods. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
“You have to tell the police the truth. And Karen is going to find out.”
Tom frowns unhappily. “I know.”
“So what did Brigid want to talk to you about?”
Tom looks up uneasily at his brother, and tells him about the dark-haired man snooping around the house that day, and Brigid’s suspicions about Karen’s past. “She says she saw some TV show and what that man said made her think that maybe Karen disappeared from another life and that she’s using an alias,” Tom says.
“Seriously?”
Tom nods. “I know—it sounds ridiculous, right? But she told me she wanted to meet me that night and tell me in person because she thought if she tried to tell me over the phone I’d just hang up on her.”
“Why would you?”
Tom looks away. “She used to call me—and I’d hang up on her. But that was a long time ago.”
“So, why didn’t she show up, then?”
Tom looks Dan in the eye again. “She said her sister needed her—her sister’s always having a crisis. Anyway, she’s got this idea in her head now about how little we know about Karen’s past, how she has no relatives and so on.”
“She’s right about that,” Dan says slowly.
“And I started to think about it—my God, Dan, what if Brigid’s right?”
Chapter Twenty-six
Tom returns to his office after lunch, but he’s not back long when the receptionist out front buzzes him and tells him that “two gentlemen” are here to see him. The two gentlemen can only be those damned detectives. He saw them just last night. Why do they want to talk to him again today? Tom feels sweat start to form down the middle of his back beneath his shirt. He takes a moment to compose himself, straightening his tie a little, and then says, “Send them in.”
Tom comes out from behind his desk as Detectives Rasbach and Jennings enter his office. “Good afternoon,” Tom says, closing the door behind them. He remembers how Dan urged him to cooperate with the police. He must tell them about Brigid.
“Good afternoon,” Rasbach says pleasantly.
Tom dislikes Rasbach’s pleasantness. From his experience, it’s always hiding something disturbing. Tom returns to his desk and wonders anxiously if they have a bombshell to drop. First it was the gloves at the murder scene. Then the call from the burner phone. What will it be this time?
“We have a few more questions,” Rasbach begins, as they are all seated.
“I’m sure you do,” Tom says.
The detective regards him impassively. “Where did you meet your wife?” Rasbach asks.
“What difference does it make?” Tom says, surprised.
“Bear with me,” Rasbach says mildly, “and answer the question.”
“She was a temp, here at the office. She was only here for a couple of weeks. She’s a bookkeeper, but she was new in town so she was doing a bit of temping. She wanted to be placed in an accounting firm. She worked on our floor for two weeks. When her assignment was over, I asked her out.”
Rasbach nods and tilts his head to the side. “Do you know much about your wife?”
“I’m married to her—what do you think?” Tom says testily. His mind is racing. What have they found out? His heart begins to pound. That’s why they’re here. To tell him who his wife really is.
Rasbach waits a moment, then leans slightly forward and assumes a more sympathetic expression. “I don’t mean do you know what her favorite toothpaste is. I mean, do you know where she came from? Her past?”
“Of course.”
“Which is what?” Rasbach asks.
Even though he suspects he’s walking right into a trap, Tom can’t think of anything else to say, so he tells them what Karen has told him. “She was born and raised in Wisconsin. Her parents are dead. She has no brothers or sisters.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, lots of things.” Now Tom glares at the detective and says, because he can’t bear the tension any longer, “Why don’t you get to the point?”
“All right,” Rasbach says. “Your wife is not who she says she is.”
Tom looks back at him, deliberately impassive.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Rasbach says.
“Nothing you people say surprises me anymore,” Tom replies.
“Really?” Rasbach says. “It doesn’t surprise you to learn that you’re married to a woman who disappeared and took on a new identity?” The detective leans forward and fixes his eyes on Tom’s and Tom finds that he cannot look away. “Your wife was not born Karen Fairfield.”
Tom sits perfectly still. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he admit his suspicions about Karen? Or pretend he has no idea?
Into the silence, Rasbach presses. “Your wife has been lying to you about who she is.”
“No, she hasn’t,” Tom says stubbornly.
“I’m afraid so,” Rasbach says. “She invented Karen Fairfield and a background for her. It was well done, considering, but not good enough to bear real scrutiny. She would have been fine if she’d kept her nose clean. If she’d stayed out of trouble, no one would probably ever have been the wiser. But showing up at a murder scene was not a smart move.”
“I don’t believe it,” Tom protests. He tries to look indignant, but he knows he probably just looks like a desperate man in denial of an ugly truth.
“Come now,” Rasbach says. “You don’t trust your wife much more than I do.”
“What?” Tom snaps. “What are you talking about? Of course I trust my wife.” Tom feels himself flush up to the roots of his hair. “If you’re so goddamned smart,” Tom says, before he can stop himself, “who is she, then?” He immediately regrets asking, dreading the answer.
Rasbach sits back in his chair and says, “We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out.”
“Well, when you find out, I’m sure you’ll let me know,” Tom says bitterly.
“Of course we will,” Rasbach assures him. He gets up to leave and adds, “By the way, have you had a chance to think any more about where you were that night?”
The son of a bitch. Tom steels himself; he knows this is going to be painful. “I didn’t tell you everything last night,” he says. Rasbach, standing, looks back at him, waiting. “I didn’t want to tell you because you’ll twist it into something it isn’t.”
Rasbach sits down again. “We deal in facts, Mr. Krupp. Why don’t you give us a chance?”
Tom glares at him. “I was supposed to meet someone. Brigid Cruikshank, a neighbor from across the street.” Rasbach looks at him, waiting for more. “She called me and wanted to meet at eight thirty. Down by the river. I went there, but she didn’t show up.”
Rasbach retrieves his notebook from his suit pocket. “Why not?”
“She says her sister needed her.”
“Why did she want to meet you?”
“I don’t know,” Tom lies. He doesn’t want to tell the detective about the dark-haired man Brigid saw around their house that morning. Brigid said she hadn’t told the detec
tives about him.
“You haven’t asked her?”
Tom knows he has to tell them. “If you must know, before I met my wife, Brigid and I had a—well, we had an affair.”
Rasbach looks back at him steadily. “Go on,” he says.
“It was very brief—I broke it off, just before I met Karen.”
“And does your wife know?”
“No, I never told her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Why the hell do you think?”
“And you have no idea why this—Brigid—wanted to meet you that night?”
Tom shakes his head. “No. Karen’s accident put it right out of my mind somehow.”
“You’re not sleeping with her now?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I see.”
Tom wants more than anything to take a swing at the detective. But he doesn’t. As they take their leave, Tom stands up and watches them go. He has to stop himself from slamming the door behind them in fury.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Do you think he knows who his wife really is?” Jennings asks as they settle into the car and buckle up.
Rasbach shakes his head. “I doubt it. He looked terrified that we were going to tell him something about his wife he didn’t want to hear.” He pauses, and adds, “He’s got to be going through hell.”
Jennings nods. “Can you imagine going to bed every night with a woman who might be a murderer? It’s got to take a toll.”
Rasbach is frustrated that they haven’t been able to find any missing persons who match Karen’s profile. “Who the hell is she?” he wonders out loud. “I’d like to bring her in for questioning, but I don’t want to spook her.” He considers for a moment. “If we had enough to arrest her, we could get her prints and see if we could get an ID that way. We know she’s involved somehow. But the evidence we have against her now isn’t enough.”
“Trying to find out who she is is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Jennings says. “You know how many people disappear in this country every year?” Rasbach raises his eyebrows at him. “I was speaking rhetorically, of course,” Jennings adds.
