by Shari Lapena
They share a long, uncomfortable silence over the line, but neither one reaches out to the other; they are both too frightened.
“Goodbye, Ted,” Lisa says, and hangs up the phone. She suddenly has to sit and put her head down between her knees to keep from fainting.
EASTER SUNDAY, 11:02 P.M.
Sheila sits up in bed, trying to read, but the book isn’t holding her attention. Her mind keeps returning fretfully to earlier that evening. Fred has already fallen asleep beside her, snoring irregularly, in fits and starts. She looks over at him, annoyed. She watches him with loathing. It’s hard to feel anything else for him, even though he’s dying. He’s been such a bastard. Why did she ever marry him? He’s made everyone’s life a misery.
He means to change his will in his sister’s favor—he’s getting his affairs in order. He always wants to hurt the kids. And she’s never had the power to stop it. She hasn’t been a very good mother.
She’s been so anxious these last few weeks, knowing what Fred is going to do. She’s worried about how the kids will react when Fred dies soon and they find out. They’ll be so angry. And there’s nothing she can do about it.
She hears the doorbell ring downstairs. She looks at the clock radio on her bedside table. It’s late—11:03. She freezes and waits. Who would come at this time of night? But the doorbell rings again. And again. She can’t just ignore it. She pushes back the covers and slides her feet into her slippers, grabbing her housecoat and pulling it on as she leaves the room, Fred still sputtering behind her. She turns on the light switch at the top of the stairs, and it lights up the staircase and the front hall. She holds the smooth handrail as she makes her way down the carpeted steps. The doorbell rings again.
She opens the door and stares, confused by what she sees. There’s someone in a hazmat suit standing on her doorstep. She’s so surprised she doesn’t recognize who it is at first. She notices the cord in the person’s right hand. It happens almost too fast for conscious thought—the recognition, the horror of suddenly understanding. And then she turns and tries to get away. She’s not fast enough and is yanked backward by her neck. As she feels the cord squeezing tightly around her throat, Sheila tries to grab her cell phone on the end table, but it gets knocked away. . . .
61
Two days later, Jenna sits in the now-familiar interview room, her lawyer straight-backed and alert beside her. She’s not going to say anything. She has no intention of confessing. She doesn’t feel guilty. They had it coming.
Detective Reyes is staring at her as if he knows everything, as if he can get right inside her head and read her thoughts. Good luck to him. It’s dark in here, inside her head. But she knows they don’t have any physical evidence, despite what they’ve said. They can’t have found the bloodied disposable suit and gloves and everything else. She knows they haven’t. They’re bluffing.
“Have you ever driven Irena’s car before?” Reyes asks.
So they know about the car. She figured that’s why they arrested Irena. But why have they let her go? Irena doesn’t have an alibi for that night. Jenna knows that. She was going to go home after Easter dinner at the Mertons’ and go to bed with a good book. That’s what she said.
Have they figured out that somebody else might have used her car? Irena would have told them about the spare keys, trying to save herself. But they all knew that Irena kept a spare set of keys in the backyard.
“Have you ever driven Irena’s car before?” Reyes repeats.
Her lawyer has told her to deny everything. “No.”
“That’s interesting,” Reyes says, “because we have DNA evidence putting you in the driver’s seat of her car. We found a hair from your head.”
“That’s impossible,” Jenna says quickly, thinking so that’s what they found, that’s their physical evidence. She’s fucked up, she realizes now, her heart pounding, saying she’d never been in Irena’s car. It’s hard to think clearly, in this small, hot room, with everyone staring at her. She can feel herself starting to perspire and she brushes her hair back nervously.
“What is the relevance of this?” the attorney asks.
Reyes answers. “We have a witness who saw Irena’s car—he remembered her vanity plate—parked at the end of the Mertons’ driveway on the night of the murders.”
Now the attorney gives her a quick glance and looks away. “We’re done, no more questions,” the attorney says. “Unless you have something else?”
Reyes shakes his head. The lawyer rises. “Come on, Jenna, we can go.”
But Jenna takes her time, her confidence rebounding. She says, “It’s perfectly understandable how a hair from me got in Irena’s car. I always hug her when I see her, and usually she gets into her car right afterward. That must be how the hair got there.” She rises to her feet to leave.
“The thing is,” Reyes says, his frustration showing, “we know Irena was at home that night. She was on the phone, talking to a friend, at the relevant time. We know someone else must have used her car that night. And we haven’t found DNA from anybody else in her car, just yours. And we know you found out earlier that night that your father was going to change his will.”
“That’s never going to be enough, and you know it,” the attorney says. “As my client has pointed out, that hair could have been a transfer from a hug.”
Jenna smirks at the detective and follows her attorney out of the room without another word.
62
Ever since they released Irena, Catherine has been on edge. They’d never found out why they arrested her, or why they let her go. Irena isn’t answering her calls, or her front door, which is unnerving. And they had taken DNA from all of them, two days ago.
Catherine hears the doorbell ring and rises quickly, startled. She feels dizzy, suddenly. Are they here to arrest her now? They can’t be. She hasn’t done anything. But she feels the panic rising in her chest. Fear for her unborn child.
She reaches to open the door, a deep dread in the pit of her stomach. “Audrey,” she says in surprise. Her voice turns icy. “What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?” Audrey asks.
Catherine hesitates, then steps back and opens the door wide. Ted has joined them now, and he’s got that expression on his face that she has come to hate—a look of fear. It makes her want to shake him. They make their way into the living room and sit down.
“I’ve been talking to Irena,” Audrey says.
Catherine stares back at her, her heart in her throat, and steels herself. Why would Irena talk to Audrey, when she won’t talk to them? She’s afraid to look at her husband. “Why would Irena talk to you?”
Audrey says, “Irena and I have known each other for a long time. We understand one another. I took care of her cat while she was arrested.”
Catherine looks back at her in dismay.
Audrey explains about Irena’s car being seen. She adds, “Irena says that someone else must have used her car that night.”
Catherine tries to speak, but her mouth is dry.
Then Ted says, his voice flat, “That’s—that’s ridiculous, surely?”
Audrey replies, “Actually, they know someone else must have used her car that night, because she was at home, on the phone. They have records.” She pauses, clearly delighting in passing on this information. “She says that all of you kids knew that she kept a spare set of keys in the backyard.”
Catherine doesn’t respond, but she glances quickly at Ted and registers that he has gone a shade paler.
“And I know something else. They found DNA evidence—a hair—from someone else in the driver’s seat of that car, even though Irena says none of you have ever been in her car, as far as she knows.”
“How do you know that?” Ted asks, his voice accusatory, as if he thinks she’s making all this up.
“I know a newspaper reporter who’s friendly w
ith someone in the lab. She told me, hoping I would give her a story.”
“Whose DNA was it?” Catherine asks, her mouth dry. She can barely get the words out.
“Jenna’s.”
Catherine sinks against the back of the sofa, a tumult inside her. Jenna. She takes a deep breath. Jenna knew that night that their father was going to change his will. Jake told the detectives. Catherine had been troubled when Irena was arrested; it seemed to turn the world upside down. She’d thought all along that Dan had done it, that he was the one most like their father. She’d always worried about his strange, stalking behavior; she knows about his habit of driving around alone at night. He inherited their father’s worst impulses, she thought, but not his genius for business. “So they think Jenna did it?” she says finally. “Are they going to arrest her?”
Audrey shakes her head, clearly frustrated now. “My reporter friend says it won’t be enough to arrest her for murder. Apparently they interviewed her and let her go.”
Catherine doesn’t want the family name dragged through the mud. She wants it all to go away. She realizes, almost with a feeling of surprise, that it’s going to be okay. Nothing terrible is going to happen. Jenna won’t go to prison; she won’t even be arrested. And neither will Dan. Everything is going to be fine. They can breathe again, now that they know. Life will go on. The scandal will recede, eventually. And they’ll all be rich. The only one going to jail is Rose.
She suddenly feels as if a terrible burden has been lifted from her shoulders. She has to stifle the impulse to smile. Instead, she looks appropriately grim and says, “Thank you, Audrey, for letting us know.”
“I thought I should tell you. I wasn’t sure anyone else would.”
Catherine narrows her eyes at Audrey. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’ve always disliked Jenna the most.”
Audrey gets up to leave. “Fred should never have been murdered at all. I should have got my rightful share whenever he died of cancer, which would have been soon enough.” She strides to the front door and turns around for a final comment. “You know what I’d really enjoy? Seeing Jenna convicted.”
* * *
• • •
dan is at home when he gets a call from Catherine. He feels his body flood with adrenaline as Catherine explains everything. He closes his eyes in relief for a moment. The detectives will back off him now. And it’s good to finally know. It’s good to know which of your siblings you have to keep an eye on. How odd that he has Audrey to thank for it. “What should we do?” Dan asks. “I mean, do we tell her we know, or what?”
Catherine is quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, thinking. “I don’t think we can let her get away with it with us, you know?”
Dan is silent. He doesn’t want her to get away with it at all.
Catherine says, “Can you come over tonight? We have to let Jenna know we know and reassure her that we’re never going to say anything.”
“Okay,” Dan says reluctantly. “If you think that’s wise. You know what a temper she has.”
* * *
• • •
the atmosphere is palpably tense in Catherine’s house that evening.
Now that the moment has arrived, Catherine finds that she’s nervous and glances at Ted for support. He looks on edge too. She doesn’t know exactly what she expects—some sort of cold denial from Jenna—but they must reveal to her that they know. She and Dan will have to keep an eye on Jenna and hope she will never have any cause to murder anyone else.
Irena, who had finally answered her call, had declined her invitation. She didn’t want anything more to do with them. Irena told her she had decided to retire and move south when she got her bequest, that she would send her a Christmas card. And then she hung up. Catherine could hardly blame her. Her loyalty only went so far; she’d almost been framed for murder.
They are all here—except for Audrey—she and Ted sharing the sofa, Jenna in one armchair and Dan in the other, Lisa sitting beside him in the other chair Catherine has pulled up. Catherine has already poured everyone a glass of wine, and is nursing her fake gin and tonic.
Catherine aims to make her voice as neutral as she can and says, “We found out, Jenna, that the detectives found your DNA in Irena’s car, that they think it was you who murdered Mom and Dad.” She watches Jenna’s expression grow cold, her mouth taking on an angry shape. “But it’s all right,” Catherine continues. “Because nothing’s going to happen. That hair in Irena’s car—it’s not enough to arrest you. It’s going to be okay.” There’s a moment of loaded silence.
“How dare you,” Jenna says in a menacing voice.
Catherine recoils. She’s seen her sister like this before; she’s frightening. Catherine glances at the others for support. “We know, Jenna. There’s no point in denying it to us. We’re not going to do anything.”
“They don’t know anything,” Jenna says icily. “They found a hair of mine in Irena’s car. They don’t know how it got there—but maybe you do.” She looks nastily back at Catherine and Catherine feels sick. She can’t mean to put this on her. She glances up quickly at Ted, but he’s staring at Jenna as if there’s a snake coiled in the chair.
“Or maybe it was you, Dan,” Jenna says, turning to him.
Dan gapes at her.
Jenna says, “I don’t know who, but one of you killed Mom and Dad and put my hair in Irena’s car.”
“No one else put it there,” Catherine says quickly, as the situation becomes clear to her and her nerves lurch crazily. This is what it has come down to—Jenna murdered their parents. But now Catherine’s own husband will never be entirely sure that it wasn’t her. She glances at Lisa, and she sees the desperate uncertainty there as Lisa stares at the side of Dan’s head. Who will she believe? Then Catherine turns back to Jenna—but Jenna is looking at her more calmly now, her confidence restored.
Jenna says, “I never left my house that night, although I can’t prove it. But we all know each of you were out for hours.”
Catherine, silently panicking, thinks, This fucking family.
63
Jenna drives home from Catherine’s, her headlights piercing the darkness along the dirt road, remembering that Easter night. She’d been in a murderous mood when they left. She dropped Jake at the train station—she didn’t want his company, and he didn’t try to change her mind. Then she went home and thought about it and put together a plan.
Jenna drove to Dan’s house. Dan’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Wearing latex gloves from her cleaning cupboard, she snuck into his garage through the unlocked side door. Dan’s car wasn’t in the garage either. He’d gone out for a drive, she thought, because he’s sick that way. She knows about his creepy habits. She used a small flashlight she’d brought—she’d deliberately left her cell phone at home—to collect the disposable coveralls and booties she already knew were there. Then she drove to Irena’s house. As expected, her car was parked on the street, and her house was dark. Jenna parked her own car farther down the street, out of sight of Irena’s house, and, careful not to be seen, located Irena’s spare keys in the back, under the planter. Then she drove Irena’s car to her parents’ house, arriving shortly before eleven, and, killing the headlights, pulled in and parked at the end of the drive.
The night was dark and still. Probably no one would see the car parked here, but if they did, it would be Irena’s car they’d see, not hers. She hadn’t wanted to risk anyone seeing her own car, her Mini Cooper, anywhere near the place that night.
She got out of the car and stared at the house for a moment. There was a faint light coming from the master bedroom. Jenna walked to the backyard with her canvas bag of gear. There, she took off her shoes and jacket and pulled on the disposable coveralls, an extra pair of thick socks, and the booties. Once she was suited up, the hood pulled tight against her face, no hair escaping, she felt a strange sen
se of invincibility. She took the electrical cord she’d brought with her and went back around to the front and rang the doorbell. No one came. She rang the bell again. And again. Finally, she could sense lights going on, over the stairs and in the front hall, filtering out through the living-room windows to her left, and at last her mother opened the door, as she knew she would.
For a moment, her mother stood there, not getting it. Maybe she didn’t recognize her with the hazmat suit covering her completely, even her hair, and changing her shape. Her mother didn’t understand what she was here to do. And then she recognized her, and she knew. The look on her face. She backed up, turned and stumbled toward the living room. But Jenna was right behind her and brought the electrical cord up fast around her neck before she could even scream. She held the cord tight, dragging her mother farther into the living room, trying not to make too much noise, squeezing hard until her mother finally stopped struggling and sagged against the cord. It took longer than expected. Then she lowered her to the floor. Jenna felt nothing. She went back and quietly closed the front door. Then she returned to the body and struggled with her mother’s rings, wrenching them off. It was difficult, with the gloves. She heard her father calling from upstairs.
“Sheila, who is it?”
There wasn’t time to remove the tricky diamond studs from her mother’s ears. Jenna moved quickly into the kitchen through the back of the living room, avoiding the front hall where her father would come down the stairs. She put the electrical cord and the rings down on the counter and withdrew the carving knife from the knife block. “In here,” she called, hoping he wouldn’t look inside the living room first. If he did, she would improvise. She would chase him down.
She stood like a statue in the dark kitchen and waited for him. She remembers grabbing him from behind as he passed by her and slitting his throat in one clean stroke, the blood spurting all over her hand. The rest is a bit of a blur—it was different from killing her mother. Something in her took over. By the time it was done, she was panting with effort, exhausted, and covered in blood. She sat on the floor for a minute, resting. She knew what she had to do next, and she had to be quick.