by Mary Kubica
“I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
He says, “Let’s just say that yours wouldn’t be the first husband who ever had eyes for Mrs. Baines.”
And then he offers a flinty stare, waiting for some response, for me to become indignant.
I won’t give in.
I swallow hard. I force my hands behind me; they’ve begun to shake.
“Will and I are happily married. Madly in love,” I say, forcing my eyes on his. Will and I were madly in love, once. It’s a half-truth, not a lie.
The lie comes next. “Will has never had eyes for any woman but me.”
Officer Berg smiles. But it’s a tight-lipped smile. A smile that says he knows better than to believe this. “Well,” he says, careful with his words. “Mr. Foust is a very lucky man. You’re both lucky. Happy marriages these days are a rare bird.” He raises his left hand to show me the bare ring finger. “Married twice,” he confesses, “divorced twice. No more weddings for me. Anyhow,” he says, “maybe I misinterpreted what they said.”
My willpower isn’t strong. I know I shouldn’t and yet I do. I take the bait.
“What who said?” I ask.
He tells me, “The mothers at the school pickup line. They stand in clusters outside the gate, waiting for their kids to be released. They like to talk, to gossip, as I’m sure you know. For most, it’s the only adult conversation they have all day until their husbands come home from work.”
It strikes me as a very misogynistic thing to say. That women gossip, that husbands work. I wonder what Officer Berg thinks of Will’s and my arrangement. I don’t ask. He goes on to say, “It’s just that, when I questioned them, they alluded to the fact that your husband and Mrs. Baines were quite—What’s the word they used?” he thinks aloud, deciding, “Chummy. Yes, that’s it. Chummy. He said that they were quite chummy.”
My reply is immediate. “You’ve met him. Will is outgoing, easy to get along with. Everyone likes him. This doesn’t surprise me.”
“No?” he asks. “Because the details,” he tells me, “surprised me a bit. The way these women said they would stand close, their conversations hushed, whispering words so that no one else could hear. One of the women had a picture.”
“She took a picture of Will and Morgan?” I interject, incredulous. Not only is she gossiping about my husband, but she’s taking photos of him—for what purpose?
“Calm down, Dr. Foust,” he says, though it’s patronizing the way he says it. On the surface, I am calm, though inside my heart is racing. “She took a picture of her son coming out of school. He’d received the Principal’s Award,” he explains, finding the photo that this woman shared and showing it to me. Her son stands in the foreground. Maybe ten years old, a mop of flaxen hair that hangs into his eyes, his winter coat unzipped, shoe untied. In his hands he holds a certificate that reads Principal’s Award, a big deal in elementary school, though it shouldn’t be. Because by the end of the year everyone gets one. But for the kids, it’s a big deal. The boy’s grin is wide. He’s proud of his certificate.
My eyes move to the background. There stand Will and Morgan, just as Officer Berg described. They stand close in a way that makes my stomach churn. He’s turned toward her, facing her, his hand on her arm. There’s sadness on her face, in her eyes. It’s plain to see. His torso is bent at the waist so that he slopes into her by twenty or thirty degrees. His face is only inches from hers. His lips are parted, eyes locked on hers.
He’s speaking to her, telling her something.
What was Will telling her when this picture was taken?
What was he saying that he had to be standing so close to say it?
“Looks a little suspect, if you ask me,” Officer Berg says, snatching the photograph from me.
“I didn’t ask,” I think aloud, getting angry, unable to stop the words that come next.
“I saw you,” I remember just then. “I saw you put something into the Nilssons’ mailbox, Officer. Twice. It was money,” I say. An indictment.
Officer Berg remains composed. “How did you know it was money?”
“I was curious,” I tell him. “I watched you. After you left, I went to see.”
“Mail fraud is a federal crime. It carries a hefty penalty, Dr. Foust. Up to five years in prison, a steep fine.”
“But this wasn’t mail, was it? Mail goes through the postal service. This didn’t. You put it there. Which, in and of itself, is a crime, I believe.”
To this, he says nothing.
“What was it, Officer? A kickback, hush money?” Because there seems no other logical explanation why Officer Berg would secretly place an envelope of bills in the Nilssons’ mailbox, and all at once, puzzle pieces drop into place.
“Did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie?” I ask, dismayed. “To say he saw me when he didn’t?”
Because without a murderer, Officer Berg needed only a scapegoat, someone to blame for the crime of killing Morgan Baines.
He chose me.
Berg leans against the countertop. He wrings his hands before him. I take a deep breath and gather myself, spinning the conversation in a different direction. “How much does obstruction of justice go for these days?” I ask.
“Pardon me?”
I make sure my question is clear this time. “How much did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie for you?” I ask.
A beat of silence passes by. All the while he watches me, surprise turning to sadness. “I almost wish that was the case, Doctor,” he says, lowering his head. “But no. Unfortunately not. The Nilssons have fallen on hard times. They’re nearly broke. Their son got in some trouble, and George and Poppy spent half their savings to help him out. Now there’s talk that the city might take their home if George can’t find a way to pay his municipal taxes on time. Poor George,” he sighs. “But George is a proud man. It’d kill him to ask for help. I keep my donations anonymous, so it doesn’t feel like a handout. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything,” he says.
He takes a step closer to me and says, “Look, Dr. Foust. Between you and me, I don’t think you’re capable of murder. But the truth is that spouses don’t always make the most viable alibis. They’re subject to bias; there’s a motive to lie. The fact that you and your husband both claim you were at home when Morgan was killed isn’t an impenetrable alibi. A prosecutor may see right through that. Add to that witness statements, and we have ourselves a bit of a problem.”
I say nothing.
“If you help me, I will do everything I can to help you.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
He says, “The truth.”
But I’ve already told him the truth. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you,” I say.
“You’re certain of that?” he asks.
I tell him I am. He stares awhile.
And then, in time, he tips his hat at me, and he leaves.
SADIE
At night I find it hard to sleep. I spend most of the restless night awake, on alert, waiting for Imogen to creep into the bedroom. Every sound worries me, thinking it’s the opening of a bedroom door, footsteps padding across the floor. It’s not. It’s just the house showing its age: water through pipes, the furnace quickly dying. I try to talk myself down, reminding myself that Imogen only came into our room the one time because of something I’d done. It wasn’t unprovoked. I tell myself she wouldn’t come again, but that doesn’t come close to allaying my concerns.
I’m also thinking about the photograph Officer Berg showed to me. I wonder if, in the photograph, Will was consoling Morgan because she was already sad? Or if Will had said or done something to make her sad?
What power would my husband have over this woman to make her sad?
In time, morning comes. Will goes to start breakfast. I wait upstairs as Imogen, just down the hall, gets ready for
school. I hear her moving about before she clomps down the stairs, her feet heavy and embittered, spiteful.
Downstairs, I hear her talking to Will. I move into the upstairs hall to listen. But, try as I might, I can’t make out their words.
The front door opens and then slams closed. Imogen is gone.
Will is standing in the kitchen when I come downstairs. The boys are at the table, eating a French toast breakfast that he’s made.
“Do you have a second?” Will asks, and I follow him from the room to where we can speak in private. His face is inexpressive, his long hair pulled back into a tidy bun. He leans against a wall; he holds my gaze. “I spoke to Imogen this morning,” he tells me, “about your concerns,” and it’s his word choice that gets on my nerves. Your, as in mine. Not our concerns. I hope he didn’t approach the conversation with Imogen that same way. Because then she’d hate me more than she already does.
“I asked her about the photograph you said you saw on her phone. I wanted to see it.”
He chooses his words carefully. That’s not lost on me. You said you saw.
“And?” I ask, sensing his hesitation. He drops his gaze. Imogen has done something, I think. “Did she show you the picture of Alice?” I ask, hoping that Will, too, saw the same thing I saw. The step stool standing vertical, far out of reach of Alice’s dangling feet. The half of the night I wasn’t kept awake thinking about Will and Morgan, I was thinking about this. How a woman could spring five feet from a stool and land with her head in a noose.
“I looked at her phone,” Will says. “I looked through all the pictures. Three thousand of them. There was nothing there like what you described, Sadie,” he says.
My blood pressure spikes. I feel hot all of a sudden and angry. “She deleted it,” I say rather matter-of-factly. Because of course she did. “It was there, Will. Did you check the recently deleted folder?” I ask him, and he tells me he did check the deleted folder. It wasn’t there either.
“Then she permanently deleted it,” I say. “Did you ask her about it, Will?”
“I did, Sadie. I asked her what happened to the photograph. She said there never was a photograph. She couldn’t believe you’d make something like this up. She was upset. She thinks you don’t like her.”
At first I say nothing. I can only stare, struck dumb by his statement. I search Will’s eyes.
Does he, too, think I made this up?
Tate calls to Will from the kitchen. He’s hungry for more French toast. Will goes to the kitchen. I follow along. “She’s lying, you know?” Otto, at the table, gives me a look as I say it.
Will dishes another slice of French toast onto Tate’s plate. He says nothing. His lack of a reply hits a raw nerve. Because if he doesn’t believe Imogen lied, then he’s suggesting I did.
“Look,” he says, “let me think on this a little while, figure out what to do. I’ll see if there is a way to recover deleted photos.”
Will hands me my pills and I swallow them with a swig of coffee. He’s dressed in a Henley and cargo pants because he teaches today, his workbag packed and waiting by the door for him to go. He’s reading a new book these days. It’s there, jutting out from his workbag on the floor. A hardcover with a dust jacket, the spine of which is orange.
I wonder if Erin’s photograph is inside this book, too.
Tate stares sideways at me from the table. Though I’ve tried to apologize, he’s still mad at me for what happened the other day with the doll and his game. I decide to pick up a new Lego kit for him today. Legos make everything better.
Otto and I go. He’s quieter than usual in the car. I see in his eyes that something is wrong. He knows more than he lets on, about the tension in Will’s and my marriage, about Imogen. Of course he does. He’s a fourteen-year-old boy. He isn’t stupid. “Is everything okay?” I ask. “Anything you want to talk about?”
His reply is short. “Nope,” he says, looking away.
I drive him to the dock and drop him off, searching the waterfront for Imogen. She isn’t here. The ferry comes and the ferry goes. When Otto is gone, I step from my car and go to the ticket window. I purchase a ticket for the next ferry to the mainland. I get back in my car and wait. When the ferry arrives, not thirty minutes later, I drive onto the vehicle deck and put the car in Park. I turn it off and leave my car there, walking up the steps to the upper deck of the ferry. I sit on a bench and stare at the ocean as we go. It’s only eight o’clock. I have nearly the whole day in front of me. Will, off to work, won’t know how I’ve spent my time.
As the ferry makes its way across the bay, a sense of relief washes over me. Our island shrinks in size and becomes just one of many islands off the coast of Maine. As the mainland draws near, a city swells before me, with buildings and people and noise. For now, I push my thoughts of Imogen aside.
The police are looking for a scapegoat only. Officer Berg is trying to pin this murder on me. In order to clear my own name, I need to find out who killed Morgan.
I use my commute time wisely, searching my phone for information on Jeffrey Baines’s ex, Courtney, who lives somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic. I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s easy enough to assume. She doesn’t live on the island with us. And I watched the other day, after the memorial service, as she and her red Jeep boarded the ferry and disappeared out to sea.
I type “Courtney Baines” into the web browser. Finding her is almost too easy because, I come to find out, she’s the superintendent of the local school district. Her name pops up nearly everywhere. It’s all very professional, nothing personal. Superintendent Baines approving salary increases for teachers and staff; Superintendent Baines expressing concern over a string of recent school violence.
I find an address of the administrative building and type it into my map app. It’s an eight-minute drive from the ferry terminal. I’ll arrive by 8:36 a.m.
The ferry steers into the terminal and docks. I jog down the steps, from the upper deck and to my car. I start the car and, when given the go-ahead, I pull from the ferry.
I head out onto the street and follow my directions toward the school district’s administrative building. The city is nothing compared to Chicago. The population is less than a hundred thousand; not one building surpasses fifteen stories tall. But it’s a city nonetheless.
Located in the heart of downtown, the administrative building shows its age. I drive into the lot, search for a place to park. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Superintendent Baines when we meet.
I make a plan quickly as I weave through the parking lot. I’m a concerned parent. My child is being bullied. It’s not so hard to believe.
I step through the first row of cars. As I do, I spot Courtney Baines’s Jeep, the same red Jeep I watched pull from the Methodist church. I go to it, look around to be sure that I’m alone before reaching a hand up to tug on the car’s handle. It’s locked, of course. No one with any common sense would leave their car unlocked. I cup my hands around my eyes and peer inside, seeing nothing unusual.
I make my way into the administrative building. Once inside, a secretary greets me.
“Good morning,” she says, and, “What can we do for you?” speaking in the first-person plural, though there is no we here. She’s the only one in the room.
When I tell her I’d like to speak to the superintendent, she asks, “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
I don’t, of course, and so I say, “This will only take a second.”
She looks at me, asks, “So you don’t have an appointment, then?”
I tell her no.
“I’m so sorry, but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked today. If you’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow, we can get you in.” She glances at the computer screen, tells me when the superintendent will be free.
But
I don’t want to see the superintendent tomorrow. I’m here now. I want to speak with her today.
“I can’t do it tomorrow,” I tell this secretary, making up some sob story about my sick mother and how she’ll be going in for chemotherapy tomorrow. “If I could just speak with her for three minutes, tops,” I say, not sure what I think I’ll accomplish in three minutes—or what I think I’ll accomplish at all. I just want to speak with the woman. To get a sense of the kind of person she is. Is she the kind of woman who could kill another? That’s what I want to know. Would three minutes tell me this?
It doesn’t matter. She shakes her head empathetically, says again how sorry she is but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked for the day.
“I can take your phone number,” she suggests. She reaches for paper and a pen to jot my information down. But before I can give it to her, a woman’s voice—one that’s surly and astute—comes through an intercom, beckoning the secretary.
I know this voice. These days, I hear it nearly every time I close my eyes.
I’m not sorry for what I did.
The secretary pushes her chair back and stands. Before she goes, she tells me she’ll be right back. She leaves and I’m alone.
My first thought is to go. To just leave. There’s no chance I’m getting past the secretary without resorting to desperate measures. Times aren’t desperate, not yet. I make my way toward the door. On the wall behind me is a coat hanger, a cast-iron frame with matching pegs. A black-and-white houndstooth coat hangs from it.
I recognize the coat. It belongs to Courtney Baines. It’s the same coat she wore the day she slipped out of Morgan’s memorial service and hurried to her car.
I take a deep breath. I listen for the sounds of voices, of footsteps. It’s quiet, and so I go to the coat. Without thinking, I run my fingers along the wool. I sink my hands into the pockets. Immediately my hand clasps down on something: Courtney Baines’s keys.
I stare at the keys in my hand. Five silver keys on a leather keychain.