Her Last Breath

by Hilary Davidson

  “You haven’t set foot in this office in a year,” my father grumbled. “And when you stop by, you go see your sister but not me? What has Juliet ever done for you?”

  “She’s made me completely miserable,” I admitted. “But I needed to talk to her about Caroline.”

  “Juliet’s the last person I’d ask about her. She was like a scorpion with a kitten.”

  “She told Caroline about Mirelle,” I said quietly.

  I expected him to be furious. My father had a strict code about family secrets, and Juliet had violated his cardinal rule. But he appeared deflated, resting his elbows on the desk and cradling his head in his hands for a moment. “I knew it had to be either Juliet or Ursula.”

  “You knew?” I asked, stepping closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, son. I was hoping things would work out between you and Caroline. I didn’t want to meddle.” He sighed. “Caroline asked me about your first wife. She was upset, but she wouldn’t tell me how she found out.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was a mistake, that it wasn’t a legal marriage. I thought that was what she was upset about. I was wrong. She asked me how the girl died.”

  I felt as if I were trapped in a vat of acid; I was burning up, inside and out. “You told her?”

  “I said drugs were involved, that you were high when it happened. I tried to be vague about details.” His head drooped, as if his neck had just decided to quit its job. “Don’t hate me. I ended up giving her a version of the truth, because I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “What version?”

  “I told her you’d gone through a terrible time when you were a student in Berlin. She already knew about the drugs. I think she knew you used to self-harm.” He glanced at me, as if for confirmation; I nodded. “I told her you got involved with a terrible woman who made everything worse. And that one night, you were playing some kind of . . . uh, game . . . together, and she died.”

  No wonder Caroline had wanted to divorce me. Not only had she discovered a dead woman in my past, but my father had implied that it was from a sex game gone wrong. “I don’t know how Mirelle died,” I said.

  “Bloodily,” my father answered. “Juliet took photos of you.”

  My sister hadn’t mentioned that part, but I had no doubt she’d shown Caroline whatever she’d snapped.

  “Caroline wanted to know why you hadn’t gone to jail, or even been charged,” my father added. “She was persistent, and I cracked. I admitted that I had you whisked away to a rehab facility in another country. That I covered things up as best I could.” He stared into the distance. “I felt like she didn’t look at me the same way again after that. We were always so close, and she was as sweet as ever, but there was a gulf between us.”

  “You admitted you covered up a crime,” I said. “What reaction were you expecting?”

  “I hoped she would understand. A man can do a bad thing without actually being bad himself.”

  It was the ends-justify-the-means argument I’d heard my father make all my life. It didn’t seem to apply here. “Juliet just attacked me for never telling Caroline about Mirelle. But how could I? She would have hated me. Anyone would.”

  “Juliet is a snake, and you shouldn’t listen to anything she says. I wish you’d come back and work for the family business, Theo. You’re away on your own too much, and it’s affecting you. What’s past is—”

  “Don’t say it.” I felt light-headed, almost sick. “Why did you summon me here?”

  “We need to talk, son. About your alibi.”

  “My alibi? For what?”

  “For Caroline’s death,” he said.

  I stared at my father, barely able to breathe. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  My father waved his hand in the air dismissively. He was a large man with a face creased like ancient parchment, a look that was emphasized when his brows were tightly knit together, as they were at that moment. “Please don’t lie to me, Theo. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Are you accusing me of killing my wife?” My voice was tight and strained. “I wasn’t even in New York when it happened.”

  “I know that’s not true, Theo.”

  I froze. How could he possibly know that?

  He stared at me balefully before getting up and making his way to the bar trolley. He poured himself a scotch. “Drink?” he asked me.

  “No, and you don’t need one either. You’re talking nonsense.”

  It was a challenge to read his expression in the dusky light of his office. His face was crowded with shadows that crept through its hollows and peaks.

  “Son, you seem to be unaware of several cold, hard facts,” he said at long last. “I know you lied to the police. You pretended you weren’t in New York, when I know you were.” He took a drink and carried his tumbler of scotch back to his desk.

  “Look, Caroline had a heart condition. The police said there was nothing suspicious about her death. I don’t even know what you’re trying to accuse me of.”

  “I’m not saying you did anything to Caroline.” He took a drink. “But you lied to the police, and I fear that will come back to haunt us. You told them you were flying back from Bangkok, but they can check on facts like that.”

  I stood there, breathing hard. He was right. It had been stupid of me to lie to the police about something so basic.

  “Look, Caroline was like a daughter to me. But you’re my flesh and blood. I want to help you if I can. Just tell me the truth. Were you seeing another woman? No judgments, son. I just think it’s better if I know what we’re dealing with.”

  There was menace swimming under his words, circling like a shark. I had seen another woman, but not in the salacious way my father meant.

  “I don’t need help,” I said.

  “Maybe you don’t. But I’m here for you, son. I hope you know that.”

  He said it so kindly. If anyone had been listening, they would’ve given him a father-of-the-year medal. But I’d accepted his help before, and I knew that he always expected an exponential return on whatever he gave. If he had his way, I’d quit my work and rejoin him at the company; he’d made it clear, many times, that was his dream for me. I’d tried to work in the family business and had only proven to myself that I didn’t want to be involved.

  “I should go,” I said.

  “Theo, I saw your hand.”

  I glanced at my left hand, which I’d thrust into candle flames at the church. The palm was red and blistered, but I wasn’t in any mood to explain.

  “I noticed it the day Caroline died,” my father added. That got my attention. He wasn’t talking about the burn, but the cut on my right hand. It hadn’t been a deliberate injury.

  “What about it?” I asked. It was mostly healed up, though still discolored.

  “There was broken wood and glass at your house,” he said. “Don’t worry, I cleaned it up. But Theo . . . there was some blood.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him the truth about what had happened. “I’ve been having nightmares again,” I said quickly.

  “Oh, no.” His face changed in that moment; his affable self vanished and left behind a blinking husk who looked as if he had swallowed pure vinegar. “About the attack?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t lying, exactly; I was having nightmares, but they didn’t explain the glass and blood my father had mentioned. “Teddy’s roughly the same age I was then. Perhaps that’s why.”

  “I know you tire of me saying the past is past, but it really is, son,” he said. “You can’t go back. You can’t change it; you can’t fix it. All you can do is leave it behind.”

  I assumed my father had regrets. No one who’d lived the life he had—affairs, divorces, shady business practices—could avoid them. But the way he talked, one could deposit those feelings in trash bags and bury them. For me, that was impossible. “I’ve tried.”

  “Try harder. Put it in a lockbox in your brain and push it into a dark
corner forever.” He sighed long and hard, an orchestra of parental helplessness. “Do you think the dreams started again for a reason?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him the nightmare had never really stopped, that it had always lurked in the background. In it, a tiger loomed over me, pinning me down with its body as it swiped at my torso and arms. It wasn’t frantic about it; it was almost calm. The claws were dripping blood, but when I looked closely, they didn’t look like claws at all, but gleaming knives.

  I’d stopped talking about it years ago because my father had sent me to a variety of behavioral therapists, all of whom tried to cordon off my brain from the trauma I’d suffered when I was three and a half.

  “Teddy is always asking to go to the zoo,” I said cautiously.

  “You don’t need to be fearful for Teddy. He’s not going to get into any animal’s cage these days.”

  My father usually avoided talking about my accident; I jumped at the opportunity to discuss it more directly. “Do you remember exactly how it happened to me at the Berlin Zoo?”

  “It was your mother’s fault,” he answered quickly. “I wasn’t even there that day. When I saw you, it was at the hospital. It was awful. I should never have let your mother take you to the zoo. She was deranged. She probably put you in there to bond with the tiger.”

  I heard a terrible echo in my head at that moment. My father had said similar words about my mother many times. It was as if he didn’t realize that would make me wonder if I’d inherited some mental defect from her.

  There was an uneasy silence between us. “I should go,” I said finally.

  “Shall we have dinner together later?” he suggested, as if we were one big, happy family. “We need to spend more time together, now that Caroline’s gone.”

  “I have work to do.”

  I didn’t add that I didn’t want to spend time with him because I knew he was lying to me. Juliet lied too; so did Ursula. I’d thought I could trust Caroline, but I’d been wrong. In my entire family, there was no one I could count on to tell me the truth.

  CHAPTER 18

  DEIRDRE

  Jude’s city hall office was only two express stops away from Grand Central. I took the 4 train north and exited the subway, heading east on Forty-Second Street. A massive sign with the words TUDOR CITY in bold letters sat in the sky near First Avenue. Almost twenty-five years in New York—my entire existence—and I couldn’t understand how I’d missed it before.

  I found a stone staircase on the block between Second and First Avenues, and I headed up. The development hovered a block above the rest of Midtown, and while that didn’t sound like much distance, it felt serene when I clambered to the top. There was a small park to my left and another to my right, across the viaduct that bridged Forty-Second Street. Ben’s building was right in front of me, its towering beauty hidden by massive scaffolding. The top floors were visible, with white stonework dramatically edging the red brick. It was clearly a stunner. On my way in I checked out the stained glass around the arched doorway and the polished suit of armor lurking just inside. Tudor City was committed to its theme; I had to give it that.

  “I’m visiting Ben Northcutt in 13G,” I told the uniformed doorman. He was wearing a surgical mask, which wasn’t that common anymore in Manhattan, though you still saw a lot of them in Queens and the Bronx.

  “Your name?”

  “Deirdre Crawley.”

  I waited while he called upstairs, muttering my name into the receiver. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell her.” He hung up. “Mr. Northcutt isn’t available right now.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d rushed over, desperate to talk to Ben. I hadn’t expected to find the door slammed in my face.

  “Sorry, miss, he’s busy.”

  I wandered outside, unsure what to do next. Reagan often joked about my failure to pass the marshmallow test, but she wasn’t wrong. I was an impatient person who would happily take one marshmallow that instant instead of two in twenty minutes’ time. I crossed the street and stood in front of the little park. I tried leaning against its wrought-iron fence, but that was uncomfortable. I checked my messages and waited. I had no guarantee that Ben would appear, but I had literally nothing better to do.

  Half an hour later, his sandy head popped out the front door. He really did look like his author photo.

  “Ben!” I called.

  His head swiveled in my direction. He frowned.

  “I’m Deirdre,” I said. “Caroline’s sister. I wanted to meet you.”

  “Hey,” he said, coming toward me. “I was going to reach out later tonight. I wish we could talk now, but I’ve got to meet with someone.” He glanced at his watch. “Could we talk tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I just—”

  “Great. I’ll text you.” He started moving away, down the steps. I realized he didn’t even have my number. He was blowing me off.

  “Was Caro meeting you the morning she died?” I yelled after him.

  He stopped suddenly and turned. “Don’t.”

  “I need to know. Was that why she came here? Because she was seeing you?”

  He trotted up the steps so we were face-to-face again, glancing to either side, even though the street was empty. “Keep your voice down.”

  “I talked to the police this morning. They need to know Caro was coming here to meet you.”

  “How does that matter?” He sounded exasperated.

  I lowered my voice. “My sister sent me a message saying her husband was going to kill her. She wrote it before she went out, the morning she died. On the day of her funeral, I confronted Theo, and he told me Caro was seeing someone else. Clearly, he meant you.” We stared at each other. “You need to tell the police about it. It changes things. It gives Theo a motive to hurt Caro.”

  “I know Theo’s responsible for her death,” Ben said. “But it’s not that simple. I can’t talk to the police.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “How much did Caroline tell you about what she was doing?”

  I didn’t understand the question. “Meaning what?”

  Ben shook his head. “I know your sister loved you, but I don’t think she told you what was really going on. I don’t need a loose cannon blowing shit up.”

  “You can either tell me what you mean, or you can tell the police. I’m not keeping secrets about the affair you two were having. If that’s why Theo killed her, the cops need to know.”

  Ben leaned forward, so close I could smell spearmint on his breath. “What Caroline was doing was illegal. You want to make that fact public and burn down your sister’s reputation? Go ahead. But that’s on you. You should think about what she wanted, not what you want.”

  He turned and rushed down the steps, leaving me speechless. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was afraid to find out.

  CHAPTER 19

  THEO

  When I walked out of my father’s suite, I thought I was done with my visit to Thraxton International. But an invisible cord pulled me toward Caroline’s office.

  I hadn’t been there since I’d left the company, more than two years earlier. Caroline’s domain hadn’t changed. The walls were a calming blue, and the furnishings were nineteenth-century vintage and in perfect condition. The desk was elaborately carved mahogany with snarling lion faces and clawed feet; it had a dozen drawers, each marked with a different carved flower. There was an elaborate teak cabinet and a glass-fronted bookcase, and a curious Victorian sofa, reupholstered in white satin, with two plush seats facing away from each other. It felt like a perfect metaphor for my wife: everything under lock and key, and nothing ever confronted directly.

  I was staring at photographs when I heard a sound from the doorway. I turned and saw Hugo Laraya watching me. He was the first friend I’d made in law school and still the best. My father, always swift to appraise a person’s value, snapped Hugo up immediately when he graduated, placing him at the white-shoe New York firm that Thraxton International kept on retainer. I
couldn’t blame Hugo for taking the job, but it had put up a wall between us, especially after I left the company.

  “They told me you were skulking around in here,” Hugo said.

  “I’m sure my family has every security camera in the building trained on me.”

  “C’mon, Theo. You wouldn’t believe how often your dad says he wishes you’d come back to work here.”

  Hugo leaned against the doorframe with the insouciance of an otter who’d been hired to shoot a Dolce & Gabbana advertisement. The top of his dark mop of hair rose just above my shoulder, though he usually wore a hat, carefully styling his silhouette to appear taller. He was of Filipino descent, but he embodied an impeccable, Waspy elegance that graduated into dandyism. That day, he was decked out in a gray Saville Row suit with a pale-olive fedora and patterned pocket square. We were the same age, but he always seemed older. It was probably the hats.

  “I always wondered how Caroline managed to accomplish so much with such a pristine desk,” Hugo said. “This room looks more like a stage set than an office.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine,” Hugo said. “You know what? I’m going to grab a coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  He set a large ivory envelope embossed with the name of his firm—Casper Peters McNally—on Caroline’s desk and left the room.

  The invitation was too enticing to pass up. I knew Hugo was an excellent lawyer, so this wasn’t a slip-up. There was a reason he’d left the room, even if he was legally barred from telling me what it was. I slid the pages out of the envelope.

  The first document was a request for a restraining order to prevent me from taking my son out of New York.

  I flipped through the rest quickly. I didn’t have time to read much, but the gist of it was clear: my sister was launching a legal case stating that I was too unstable to parent my own child.