by L. C. Warman
Becks perked up a little at the name. “About Evan?” He massaged his temple as he spoke.
“Yup. So you guys are starting your company here, right? In St. Clair.”
“Yes.”
“And you intend to keep it here.”
“For now.”
“For now?”
Becks shifted. It seemed like an effort for him to focus on the conversation. Rick guessed that his mind was still running over the events of the night before, struggling to piece them together. He felt a rush of pity, then chided himself for it. “For now, yeah,” Becks said.
“Would it surprise you to hear that Evan plans to move the business to Florida?”
Rick expected the bomb to drop, for Becks to react, even in his sluggish state. But Becks did not look surprised at all.
Instead he asked, “Where did you hear that?”
“I heard it around. It’s not a shock to you?”
“No. It’s—we’re not telling people about that, not yet.”
Rick deflated. “So you knew.”
Becks took a long breath, looking down at his cup of coffee. He blinked a few times. “Whitney doesn’t want to stay in St. Clair, not long-term,” he said. “She wants us to go to Florida. Evan, too. For the business. She has some family down there. We’re not telling anyone yet because of the investors. I’m sorry,” Becks finished, blinking. “Could you get me a glass of water?”
Rick walked to the kitchen to fulfill Becks’ request, puzzled. He had been so sure of himself before. But the further he pried into Becks’ life, the more mysteries and contradictions he seemed to find.
When he passed the water glass to Becks a minute later, he asked, “What about a clause in the contract, saying that Evan can move the company anytime he wants?”
Becks downed the water. Rick had to repeat the question two more times before Becks seemed to focus on it. “Oh,” he said. “That. There’s a clause about…anyway.”
“You can tell me.”
Becks gave Rick a skeptical look. He seemed exhausted, not thinking quite right. Lack of sleep, perhaps, and intense stress. “I shouldn’t trust you,” Becks said.
“You’re smart not to trust anyone. But this is off-the-record, I swear. And I want to know for your own benefit. Anything like that in the contract?”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” Becks said dubiously. “No. There’s—there’s something about decision-making if I’m—if one of us—” Becks sighed. “At first there was a clause that Evan would have the decision-making power in case of my…incompetence. But I had him change it. That either one of us would have decision-making power in case of another’s…incompetence.” He made a face at the word. Rick felt another stab of unease.
“Smart. You didn’t want him calling you out specifically in the contract. Or trying to have you declared mentally unstable and taking it from you.”
Becks shrugged. “Whitney agreed. She said it was better that way.”
“Evan was okay with it?”
“Evan is okay with anything so long as the contract gets signed.”
“Right, because you all signed it at the party, didn’t you? Or right after?”
“No. Evan is coming by this afternoon to sign it. Some lawyers and witnesses are coming over, too.”
Rick felt a fluttering in his chest. “Is that so,” he murmured. “Well, is there any rush? Do you have to sign today?”
Becks gave him another dubious look.
“I’m just saying,” Rick said. “There’s no rush, what with the murder investigation and all.”
“You think Evan will want to pull the plug if I’m arrested.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know him. I’m just thinking, what’s the rush?”
Becks shrugged. “We’ve waited long enough,” he muttered.
They sat in silence for some time. Rick tried to think; he still so badly wanted to find out the truth, and more than that, to find that the truth was not what he had feared. He had not been returning his editor’s calls for the past few days; he had sent over a half-hearted article about the “increasing questions” around the investigation, but it had barely mentioned Becks at all, instead focusing on the rest of the cast of characters who had attended the party. Rick had felt particularly hopeful that Sam was another prime candidate—Sam, who was an alcoholic, who had a history of assault, who disliked Gina. Or even Evan, who if he had not plotted to move the business to Florida behind Becks’ back, at the least seemed a little too eager to get his hands on Becks’ money. But what could Rick think when he had this version of Becks before him, the version that was confused, angry, defensive?
“Once the police find out what happened to Gina—” Rick began.
“She shouldn’t have said anything about Whitney,” Becks burst. “She shouldn’t have insulted her. It wasn’t right. It’s not fair.”
“No, she shouldn’t have.”
“Whitney and Evan are the only people who are still here for me,” Becks said again, fiercely. He seemed to have forgotten that Rick was there. “They stood by me when no one else did. And she—she tried to tear them down. Why? Why did she care? Was she trying to get back at me?”
Becks’ hands began to shake. Rick encouraged him to drink water and hurriedly went to refill his glass. Part of him felt like a coward for wanting to leave the house right then in case…no. Steeling himself, Rick brought the glass back to Becks and sat a little further down the couch from him.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” Rick said gently. “It wasn’t any of her business. I’m sure she was just being herself…just messing around. It doesn’t excuse it. But no one took those insults seriously. And you aren’t the only one who disliked her.”
Becks shook his head.
“Seriously,” Rick continued. “The police will have their hands full. You should have seen the way half the room looked at her.”
“Like who?”
“Sam O’Nally, for one. You know he had an altercation with her before? And he has a history, too, and—” Rick stopped, realizing the same line of reasoning could be used to implicate Becks. Becks only shook his head.
“Sam’s my friend,” he said. “He—he didn’t have to come out and support me. Not after everything that happened. But he did.”
“Well one of your friends is a murderer,” Rick said, and then wished he could take it back. Becks’ hands shook again as he reached for his water glass. “I just mean—”
“It wasn’t Sam,” Becks said fiercely.
Silence descended again. Rick waited, heart rate picking up, wondering if the next words would come: It was me. Becks’ breath grew rapid and shallow. He leaned back on the couch, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“You okay?” Rick said finally. Becks nodded without straightening. “Listen. If you need anything, you call me, okay? Where’s your phone?”
Becks grunted and pointed to the table. Rick had him unlock it, feeling like some sort of co-conspirator. He didn’t want to explain himself to Becks’ wife and had a feeling that no one else in the Becker extended family would exactly understand his motives. He entered his number into Becks’ contacts and handed it back. “You call me anytime you need something,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think you did it,” Rick said, not sure if he believed himself. But because you’re broken, just like me didn’t quite have the same ring to it. “You call me if you need anything, and maybe—I mean, I’m not telling you to keep secrets, but…I can’t imagine Whitney would be thrilled.”
Becks pocketed his phone and shrugged. “There’s nothing you can do anyway,” he said, his voice almost mournful. “You should probably leave.”
Rick did, suddenly feeling the need to get out of the oppressive house, away from the sad footballer and the potentially imminent return of his wife.
Death was in that house, Rick thought to himself as he left. Rick just didn’t know whose.
C
hapter 28
Evan arrived at the Beckers’ house at noon precisely, briefcase in hand. He knew that the lawyer and witnesses wouldn’t be arriving until 12:30—knew, too, that the lawyer would certainly still be grumbling about having to make a home visit, because Whitney had insisted that Becks was not well enough to go out yet. He wanted time with both of them, alone, before the entire party arrived.
He knocked on the door, trying to take a deep breath. The whole last week had left him feeling rattled. Everything had been so promising…had been looking up so much….Why did Saturday night have to end so horribly? He knew he never should have invited that Gina Tiller woman. He realized it was unfair, but he felt almost like she had schemed to be murdered, that somehow, in some twisted way, it was at least a little bit her fault.
The door swung open, and Whitney stood on the threshold. She wore no makeup, and her hair was drawn back into a tight ponytail. She still looked beautiful, of course, beautiful and hard. Her eyes assessed Evan coolly.
“How is Becks?” Evan said, to cut the silence.
“I don’t know if we should do this today,” Whitney said. “He hasn’t been well.”
Evan felt his gut twist again. He didn’t know what to say to Whitney. She knew just as much as he did how crucial it was that the business get moving. Otherwise, it would never get off the ground. And sure, they each had enough money to last them a few years—but after that? What about their future?
“Let me talk to him at least,” Evan said. “As a friend.”
“Evan—”
“Whitney, please. He shouldn’t feel isolated.”
She scowled at that, but after another few seconds of deliberation, moved aside to let him in. Evan hated the sudden change that had come over his friend’s life because of that one stupid tackle. He was one of the only people who believed Becks, really believed him, when he said it had been unintentional. But the change in public opinion was too swift after that. Nothing could keep Becks’ career alive. The rumors started almost as soon after, and Becks was left, in the snap of a finger, without a career, without a purpose, without any dignity. Even his sanity was questioned.
Evan knew it had been hard on his friend. He had tried to be there, over those first few weeks and months. It had been he who had suggested a business venture, thinking it might distract Becks. What it had grown into had been a surprise. By the time of the welcome party, Evan had his hands full, but he felt—he had to feel—that everything was in Becks’ best interest, ultimately. It hadn’t been easy, but then, nothing was.
He found Becks sitting on the couch, the lights dimmed low. His friend’s arms were crossed as he watched some replay of a recent football game. Whitney came over and shut it off. “What did we agree about football?” she said.
“Don’t mother him,” Evan said.
Whitney gave him a harsh look. Evan ignored it and sat next to Becks. “Give us a minute, Whit?” Evan said.
But she punished him by sitting in the armchair adjacent and folding her own arms, in an unconscious parody of her husband’s position. Evan scowled and turned to Becks.
“How you holding up, man?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. And I can tell you, I’m not. I’m pretty…shook, is that the right word? This whole thing has been a colossal mess.”
That got Becks’ attention. Becks looked up at him with dark-circled eyes. “For you, too, I guess.”
“For all of us. It’s a tragedy. Horrible. One of the worst possible things that could happen.”
“I messed it up.”
“No.” Evan’s voice was emphatic. “Don’t talk like that. Of course you didn’t.”
Becks shrugged.
“Listen. Nothing that happened at that party was your fault. Do you understand? Whitney here says you haven’t talked to the police yet—when you do, don’t give them any ideas.”
“Don’t worry; I don’t remember much from that night.”
Whitney and Evan exchanged a glance.
“It’ll be okay,” Evan said, squeezing Becks’ shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, right? We’ve had a terrible setback—absolutely terrible. But we’re going to work through it. We’re going to move forward and put this all behind us.”
“How?”
“Well, for one, we’re going to sign those papers today. Finally become official, for the business. How about that?”
“No.”
Evan’s heart skipped a beat. “No?”
“No. I’m not signing any papers.”
“Daniel,” Whitney said, leaning forward. “Honey?”
“Let me handle it,” Evan said brusquely. “What do you mean, Becks? Not feeling up to it today?”
“It’s a stupid idea. Going into business with me. I’m poison.”
“Don’t say that, man.”
“I am. Everything I touch gets destroyed. You don’t want to start this with me. Really. I’m backing out.”
Evan leaned back. “You’ve thought about this, then.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re decided?”
“Yes.”
Evan stood up and began pacing the room. “Becks,” he said. “Look. I’ll be honest. I want this—I need this—just as much as you. You’re not doing me any favors, you understand? I put a lot into this. I want to do this with you.”
“Don’t put that on him,” Whitney said, voice low and dangerous. “If he’s not comfortable right now, he’s not comfortable.”
“You were doing fine without me,” Becks said, with a weak smile. “And I think you’ll be better off without me. I’ll invest still, if you want. Give you some money to start your own company. But I don’t want to be part of it.”
“But that’s basically what it is,” Evan protested. “You’re the funds, I’m the hands. I’ll be working for you, Becks.”
“No. I don’t want to be a partner.”
“So you’d rather just give me a bunch of money and be done with me?”
“Evan,” Whitney hissed. “Give us a moment, please. And for God’s sake, stop pressuring him.”
Evan shook his head and rose. He couldn’t begin to make sense of the stream of emotions running through him. The papers were almost signed—almost signed! Why was Whitney being a fool? Why was Becks on some new pilgrimage of martyrdom? It was nonsense, all nonsense!
He hadn’t quit his steady, lucrative job on a whim. He had seen an opportunity, not just to make money but to help his friend. He had put his life on hold for Becks and for Whitney. He understood, more than anyone, that Becks had a right to pull out whenever he wanted…but he had expected it early on, in the first few weeks and months when they had discussed the project. Not now. Not when there was so much more to lose. Not when it had blossomed into something greater than Evan had ever dreamed.
He walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He tried to remember that Becks was all alone; his family had turned strange and scheming when Becks had made his money. His friends and fellow players had all left him after Becks was kicked from the league. Now Becks had only the last few shards of his dignity—for all the good they would do him, for however long they lasted.
What if Evan just called it off right now? What if he walked over to Whitney and Becks and announced that he was pulling out, that he was going to move to Florida without them and clean his hands of the whole mess? He thought with some satisfaction of the look of shock and even possibly hurt on Whitney’s face—she had made things difficult for him recently—but then guilt took over, and Evan let the image dissipate. No, he couldn’t do it because he couldn’t bear the look of betrayal that would be on Becks’ face. Not at leaving the company; Becks would probably welcome that. But at leaving him. And Evan knew that this look, this look of hurt, was something that he feared day in and day out. He would never let it happen. He would never let Becks think that one of the last people he trusted had hurt him, too.
Even if sometimes, Evan had no c
hoice.
He downed the water and returned to Whitney and Becks. Whitney was still whispering in a low voice to her husband, who looked pale and a little disoriented. “Let’s wait another few days,” Whitney said, looking nervously at Evan. “How about that?”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Becks said.
“And you don’t have to, honey. Friday morning, you can make the call. Cancel for good, or we call in the lawyers again to sign. How’s that, Evan?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Evan said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. He didn’t like the optics of it—forcing a sick man to sign papers. Maybe a delay would be best. But Evan didn’t know. The stress of the last few days was getting to him; he could barely think straight sometimes.
Thank you, Whitney mouthed, and Evan just nodded. He reached over and squeezed Becks’ shoulder, patted Whitney, and strode out the door. As he did, a weight seemed to lift from his chest.
That should tell me something, he thought. But I’m just a glutton for punishment, aren’t I?
Chapter 29
Aaron picked up the phone on the second ring. Next to him, Eliza looked up curiously.
“Becks?” she asked, seeing Aaron’s stricken expression as he answered.
Aaron shook his head quickly. He struggled to listen. “Yes,” he said, with a lump in his throat.
A few seconds later, Sam O’Nally came on the line.
“You have my number memorized, huh?” Aaron tried to joke, and then wished he hadn’t.
“They let me use my phone,” Sam said sullenly. His mouth sounded thick, stuffed with cotton. “Listen. I need someone to post bail.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing!” Sam said. “Look, misunderstanding.”
“What did they book you on?”
“Trespassing. Disorderly conduct. Like I said, nothing serious. But I need bail.”
“What about your family, Sam?”
“You think if they were talking to me I’d call you?”
Aaron stood and began strolling towards another room, hoping Eliza didn’t see the movement as too suspicious. He felt her eyes following him as he went.