by L. C. Warman
“He’s doing well.” Whitney gave her another bland smile, and Eliza suppressed a shudder. When she had met Whitney, back in junior year, Whitney already had a promise ring from Becks and spoke about her future as though it would depend solely on Becks’ football career. Eliza remembered thinking that first, Whitney was nuts, next, that she was lucky (once she met Becks and saw how he treated her), and third, that only someone like Whitney could flourish in that kind of relationship. Whitney was organized, disciplined, and matter-of-fact: she helped organize Becks’ life and was his emotional support when things went wrong. In fact, Whitney and Becks spent so much of their free time together that Eliza would bet she never would have actually become friends with Whitney, had they not been assigned to work on junior project together, something that necessitated weekly library meet-ups and a few Friday night box-wine-fueled brainstorming sessions as well.
Now? Now Whitney was still organized, disciplined, and matter-of-fact: her focus was just different. Eliza knew the rumors. Eliza knew that Whitney knew the rumors. Still, Whitney went through the motions, played the part, deflected any and all suggestions that there might be something wrong with Becks—even if all of them could tell how off he had been acting at the party, how much he had deteriorated over the past few months. Whitney looked exactly like herself, except more strained, as if the skin stretched over her bones had begun to tighten and thin, as if her smile were one millimeter away from breaking.
Whitney ordered a cocktail, and Eliza indicated that she would have the same. Eliza didn’t know the reason for the distance between them: she could only assume it had to do with Whitney’s desire to keep Becks safe, but it hurt nonetheless. Eliza could keep a secret. She would keep it.
“Listen, I wanted to ask you,” Whitney said, as their azure drinks were deposited before them in martini glasses. “Sam O’Nally. How much do you know about him?”
Eliza snorted. “Washed up football player. Not like Becks,” Eliza rushed to correct. “I just mean, he’s been retired for a few years now. Raging alcoholic. Some people say CTE too, but I don’t know. I suppose it presents differently in everyone.”
Whitney shifted uncomfortably but did not respond.
“Why?” Eliza pressed. “Has Becks been talking to him?”
“No. He came over yesterday and wanted to talk to me.”
“Sam did?”
“Yes.”
Eliza frowned. “That’s funny, because he’s been calling and trying to meet with me.”
For some reason, Whitney looked almost relieved at this fact. “Well, I don’t feel so targeted then,” she said, with a short laugh. “What does he want with you?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t picked up. What did he say to you?”
Whitney frowned. “It was nonsensical. He basically wanted money, I think. He was kind of threatening us.”
“Threatening you?”
“Yes. Implying Becks had something to do with it. That if we’d pay him, he’d keep quiet about it.”
“Moron!”
“I agree,” Whitney said, taking another sip of her drink. “Anyway, I told him to get lost. You’ll have to tell me if that’s what he wants from you, too.”
Eliza shook her head. She had been friendly with Sam only briefly, when she had first been dating Aaron, because Aaron was friendly with everyone. Even then it didn’t take her long to see that there was an uncomfortable edge to the man, which only seemed to worsen after his retirement. She had figured he had something to say to her about Becks—whether because Becks actually had something to do with what happened to Gina that night, or because Sam wanted to tell her that Becks did.
Either way, Eliza wasn’t chomping at the bit to speak to him.
“I’ll handle Sam,” Eliza said. “Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not,” Whitney said, tensing. “Sorry—I mean, we’re fine. We’re dealing with things. Have the police talked to you yet?”
“No. You?”
“No. Did you—did you see anything that night?”
Eliza felt a wave of pity for the woman. Suspecting what everyone else did, even if they were smart enough not to say it yet. Gina Tiller could have tumbled off the balcony, sure. Or she could have been killed by any one of the dozens of people who probably disliked her. But even Whitney seemed to believe that the truth lay closer to home. That Daniel Becker, the beloved golden boy, had finally finished his downward spiral.
“I didn’t see anything,” Eliza said. “You were with Becks, I’m guessing?”
“Most of the night,” Whitney said stiffly.
Eliza reached over and squeezed her hand. “It will be all right, Whit. I’ll come visit. I’ll even bring Aaron, if you think it would cheer him up.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you, but—he’s fine. No need for visitors.”
“Let us come over. We’ll cook for you, or order pizza. I’m sure Becks wouldn’t mind the company, after—”
“No.”
Eliza drew back at the force of the word, suppressing a shudder.
Chapter 24
Sam paced back and forth in the apartment building’s lobby. He could see the security guard eyeing him, deciding if he wanted to make trouble with the six-five bear of a man trodding on the place’s red-striped carpets. Try me, Sam thought, fists clenching. Just try me.
The clock struck seven as he completed his fifth lap. Eliza couldn’t have been at work this long—she was a socialite, for goodness sake, the kind who had a media job at some fancy television station just for some cocktail conversation, not the kind to stay late and work hard at anything because daddy’s money would always be a soft cushion.
Night and day from the world Sam O’Nally grew up in.
Finally, five after seven, the door to the apartment complex swung open. Sam saw the refracted light from a hundred raindrops on the door, then the figure of Eliza emerging from the darkness, swinging shut her umbrella and pulling her raincoat more tightly about her. Sam had only a moment to think how warm the March evening must have been for rain before Eliza caught sight of him and blanched.
He cut across the room to her; Eliza swung sideways and made for the elevators. Sam felt the security guard stiffen and saw his hand go to his pocket (for a cell phone, the guards never carried), and then Sam was in front of Eliza, a grin spreading across his face that he meant to be friendly.
“Got my messages, I suppose?” he said.
“Sir, if you could—”
“Told you I was here to see her,” Sam said, jerking one thumb at Eliza. Eliza, to her credit, seemed to recover, straightening her shoulders and holding her umbrella in front of her feet like a walking stick. “Isn’t that right, Eliza?”
“You didn’t warn me you were showing up here, Sam.”
The security guard shifted his weight nervously. “Sir, if you could just—”
“We’ll talk in the lobby,” Eliza said coldly. She ignored the security guard. “Come on. There’s a couch in the center.”
“I’d rather talk in private.”
“I didn’t invite you, Sam. You’re not coming up to my place.”
Sam followed her back out into the lobby. “Do you want me to…?” The security guard trailed off, then shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed, and retreated back to his stand. Sam gave him a hearty wave.
They positioned themselves on the circular red couch in the center, benches snaking around a giant tree in the middle of the complex, kept alive either by the glass ceiling of the place (currently pattering with raindrops), by magic, or by some combination of the two. Sam bet a tree like that could live in St. Clair, glass ceiling or no. Things grew in unexpected places in that town. He shuddered.
“Go on, Sam,” Eliza said curtly. “You know you shouldn’t be showing up unannounced to women’s homes.”
“I wouldn’t have to do anything unannounced if you had just texted me back.”
Eliza shrugged.
Sam picked a hair off of his jeans, trying
to think where to begin. He wanted money; of course he wanted money. Eliza had money. But she wouldn’t give it to him. That was one thing he learned about all of these rich folks: they always felt more entitled to money than you, no matter how much extra they had. He had once been walking with the son of a millionaire whose father had made a number of generous donations to the football team. Together they had spotted a twenty-dollar bill on the ground. “Right on!” the twenty-one-year-old heir had shouted, snatching up the bill and pocketing it. Meanwhile, Sam hadn’t even gotten a contract yet and had been living in a squat apartment with the heat turned off to save money.
“I’m wondering,” Sam said carefully to Eliza, “what you saw at the party.”
Eliza frowned at him. “That’s vague, Sam.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You want to know if I saw who killed Gina.”
Sam shrugged. “In that arena, sure.”
“And I suppose you’re implying that you have information on that.”
She was so smug. So sure of herself. Sam wanted to say a few things right there that would knock her off her pedestal. Things that would rock her world.
“I might know something,” Sam said, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to say anything.”
“I’m not giving you any money.”
Sam flushed. “I wasn’t asking you to.”
“Then why did you want to meet?”
Sam couldn’t answer. He felt humiliated; a quick twist of his head showed him that two people were just a few feet away on the couch, heads bent together over a book, possibly listening in and pretending to read. He hadn’t come to ask the stupid woman for money. Of course he hadn’t—not like that, at least. Why had she said that?
“Do you remember that night?” Eliza pressed. “Aaron told me that sometimes you black out. At parties. You were drunk, weren’t you? Do you think anything you say to the police will hold weight?”
Sam flushed further. His hands began to shake. A horrible thought entered his head: what if she knew already? What if she was in on it? Sam didn’t know all the details…he had seen something…he had thought…and what did Eliza have on him?
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Eliza said. “But look at it this way, Sam. You have a history of assault. And I’m not counting that incident with Gina. Two men, separate occasions, when you were drinking.”
“One of those charges was dropped,” Sam said hotly.
“Probation for the other, was it? And you’ve also had, what, three failed lawsuits in the past two years? You need money. You have a history of aggression and drinking. I’m saying this as your friend, Sam. Let it go. Don’t go around making threats—I’m not saying you are, I’m saying that’s what it looks like. It will be better for you in the long run.”
“You don’t know what’s good for me,” Sam said. The words were like lava in his mouth. He was having trouble thinking and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. Eliza stiffened and drew back. “You don’t know why I came to talk to you.”
“All right. Then why did you?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Sam hissed. “Never mind. I knew you wouldn’t help me.”
Eliza blinked. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and sighed.
“You think you’re better than me,” Sam spat. “I know you do. But I’m not the only one who’s made some mistakes, you know. That’s what everyone forgets. That they’re not perfect, either.”
“I never said—”
“And at least I protect my friends,” Sam continued. He wanted to shout the words, wanted to see Eliza’s face crumple and dissolve into tears, wanted her to feel at least a portion of the hurt that he did. “I don’t go running my mouth about their business. Especially not to people who can hurt them.”
Eliza went still. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do. What would your friends think if they knew? What would Aaron say?”
Eliza stood abruptly. “I don’t need to sit here and listen to this,” she said, but her voice was pinched, and she looked nervous. “Get out of here, and don’t try to see me again.”
Sam watched her stride towards the elevators, head high, not deigning to look back. That’s fine, Sam thought. It will catch up with you at some point, and then…
It wouldn’t solve any of Sam’s problems, of course, but if he had to go down, he wanted to take everyone down with him.
Chapter 25
“You seem a little nervous,” Aaron said as Eliza drove down the highway, jabbing at radio stations with her right hand. “You sure you want to do this?”
“We have to visit him,” Eliza said, finally clucking with annoyance and shutting the radio off. “He needs us. Whitney too.”
“I agree. But I could go alone, if you want.”
“Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know. You seem jittery.”
“I’m not,” Eliza said, and sucked in a deep breath. “Anyway. We’re going, so that’s that. Tell me how physical therapy is coming along.”
“Went this morning, feeling fine,” Aaron lied. He had gone this morning, but his wrist had been throbbing with pain the whole while. “Nothing but rest is going to help that,” the trainer had warned, but Aaron had refused to accept it. Just a few more weeks, and he could take the rest that he needed. Not until then.
“Do you think anyone else knows? About your wrist?”
“No, of course not. Why would they?”
Eliza shrugged.
“Eliza. Why would they?”
She made a face. “How should I know, Aaron? Maybe that reporter is talking. Maybe people inside the place are talking. You’re not exactly low profile, you know.”
Aaron felt the familiar churn in his stomach whenever he let his thoughts drift this way. But no. For his own sanity, he wouldn’t believe it. It would have to be okay.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, Eliza deep in her thoughts, Aaron alone with his. He wondered if Eliza knew more than she was letting on, if she was angry with him for something else, something he had done his very best to hide…
When they pulled up to the Beckers’ house, Eliza parallel parked in three easy, clean motions. They walked up to the front door and knocked.
“She might not answer,” Eliza said, biting her thumbnail. “She doesn’t want any visitors, I think.”
Aaron reached over her and knocked again, loudly.
Seconds later, the door swung open. Becks stood in the threshold.
A wide grin split his face when he saw them, and Aaron felt something like relief mixed with pity, and something else like fear. “Hey man,” Aaron said, clasping his hand in a firm handshake. “How you holding up?”
“Fine,” Becks said, a shadow passing across his face. But he quickly recovered and ushered them in, giving Eliza a quick squeeze when she reached out to hug him.
“No Whitney?” Eliza said. The house was immaculate: glistening baseboards (where Aaron’s mom had always taught him to look first), scrubbed floors, clean countertops with nothing on them save a vase of flowers here and there. Whitney ran a tight ship, no doubt, but Aaron also knew that Becks had always pulled his weight and then some in that department—all the more since his retirement, when Aaron knew that his friend felt that he had to have some other way to prove his utility.
“Out running a few errands,” Becks said. “She usually does in the morning—less busy at the stores.”
“And you stay back and man the house,” Aaron joked.
“She says it’s easier if she runs them alone,” Becks said. Eliza shot Aaron a warning look.
Becks offered them coffee, which both Aaron and Eliza agreed to, before they turned to pull open the window blinds to let in some natural light. “That’s okay, isn’t it?” Aaron asked. It was the one thing about the house that he couldn’t stand—all the blinds closed, the place lit only by artificial overhead lights.
“Whit prefers to have th
em closed,” Becks said, frowning. “We’ll put it back before she comes?”
“Of course,” Eliza said. “She probably just doesn’t like anyone snooping.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Aaron promised.
Aaron felt restless; as Becks made the coffee and Eliza made idle chitchat, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the awkwardness around them. But why? They were all old friends. Had Gina Tiller’s death so changed them? Were their secrets really so poisonous, so insidious? Aaron sat down at the low coffee table next to one of the couches and rubbed his temples.
“You look like me,” Becks said, grinning, as he handed Aaron a cup of coffee. “Headache?”
“No, man, just tired. You’ve been having headaches?”
Becks’ face closed up. “Not recently,” he said, taking the seat next to Becks as Eliza joined them. “No. Not really.”
“I get headaches sometimes,” Eliza volunteered. “Sometimes I’m just dehydrated.”
Silence descended.
“So,” Eliza said, trying to smile. “Becks, tell us how you’ve been since the party. Aaron and I were just talking about it—so tragic, with Gina.”
Aaron winced.
“Tragic,” Becks repeated. “Yeah.” He paused. “I thought you didn’t really like her, Lize.”
“Oh! I-I mean, I didn’t mind her,” Eliza said. “She was—she was a nice girl, I guess. I hope you didn’t tell the police that.” And she laughed, a little too high-pitched, and Aaron looked sideways at her.
“I told that journalist that it wasn’t your fault, what happened with—well, with the Tillers,” Becks said. Aaron’s head swung to Eliza, who blinked, freezing.
“I’m sorry?” she said, and before Becks could answer, “I’m not really sure what you mean, Becks. I don’t have any problems with them.”
Becks held her gaze while Aaron looked from one to the other. More secrets? Ones that he did not know? “Now if—” Aaron began, but Eliza cut him off.
“We really just wanted to check on you,” she said quickly, easily. She even reached over and squeezed Aaron’s knee, as if that would distract him long enough for her to change the subject (it did). “See how you’re feeling, and see if there’s anything we can do for you.”