“Yes,” Sidney said, remembering Daniel’s name marked on the list from the St. Lucian Police Department’s file. Sidney looked at the open yearbook. The picture of Grace and Ellie stared back at her. “That’s not the news I was expecting.”
“My guy mentioned something else,” Gus said. “The print came from a Pro-Line orthotic shoe. Pro-Line makes this type of specialty shoe for people with gait problems. My guy’s still working on the specs, but he thinks he narrowed it down to a specialty shoe for someone with neuropathy in their feet, or some other neurological problem that causes a degradation in gross motor skills and makes walking difficult. That make any sense to you?”
CHAPTER 57
Saturday, July 22, 2017
AFTER THIRTY MINUTES IN CENTRAL PARK, GRACE FIGURED IT OUT. Derrick was a bad actor and a worse liar, and as soon as the plan dawned on Grace, she pushed herself off the railing of Belvedere Castle and ran toward Tudor City. Being alone with Marshall was a terrible idea, especially if Sidney had pieced together Grace’s past and was looking to confirm things by extracting information from him.
Grace ran out of the mouth of the park, hat pulled low and sunglasses hiding her face. Somewhere along the journey, her hat blew off or was knocked off when she sideswiped a fellow pedestrian. Grace never hesitated as the hat spiraled on the sidewalk. She kept a frantic pace toward Windsor Tower.
Henry Anderson had been her first mistake. Falling in love so soon after the accident was a miscalculation, considering Marshall’s fits of rage. Grace and her parents were shocked when they first saw the wrath in Marshall’s eyes when he became angry that first year after the accident. They’d quickly learned that this behavior was common in TBI patients, and it took many months to understand how to manage Marshall’s anger. But Grace was young, and the love she felt for Henry Anderson was real and not easily ignored. She should have predicted how Marshall would respond. But despite the metamorphosis in mood and temperament that Marshall went through in the months after the accident, anticipating that her younger brother was capable of murder was impossible. At the time, Grace did not fully understand the “new” Marshall that was evolving. She had no idea that his damaged brain had changed him so completely. And she was clueless to how helpless Marshall was when these dark fits of rage came over him.
Back then, she didn’t understand how far Marshall would go to ensure that Grace stayed by his side as the chronic and progressive damage from his trauma stole his independence. Things came clearly into focus, however, the night of Henry’s death when Marshall entered their hotel room at Whiteface Mountain and asked to have a game of chess. Then, while they played on the Lladró chess set she had given him after the accident, Marshall calmly confessed that he not only knew where Henry’s body was located, but how it had gotten there.
“I’m going to be helpless, Grace. I can already feel it in my hands and feet. The damage to my brain will eventually leave me withered and destitute. I heard the doctor tell Mom and Dad what to expect. You’re the only one who will take care of me. You and I are connected, Grace. Since we were kids. It’s always been you and me. We have to keep it that way.”
As Grace ran now down the subway stairs, she remembered Marshall’s confession. She remembered her revelation from that night as well. She was no longer talking to her brother, but instead some damaged version of him. A stranger she had created with her bad decisions that fateful night when she climbed behind the wheel of their car. It was Grace who had decided to leave the party that night. It was Grace who had insisted on driving, despite Marshall’s pleas that he take the wheel. It was Grace’s decision to ignore the most logical solution of allowing Ellie to handle the responsibility.
As Grace slipped into the subway car just as the doors were closing, she remembered again that game of chess when Marshall confessed to what he’d done to Henry. She remembered the corner of one of the pinewood chess cases, which was stained pink from Henry’s blood having soaked through the nylon bag Marshall always carried his chess set in. She remembered her promise, too. Her promise of silence. Her promise to allow Henry’s death forever to be considered an accident, as police had defined it. She remembered her pledge of loyalty to Marshall, and her commitment that she would forever be by his side as his condition worsened. She remembered their mutual understanding of their existence: Grace would not be here without Marshall, and Marshall without Grace. She was alive because Marshall had saved her. Marshall was alive because Grace needed to be saved. Even if their parents would not admit as much, Grace and Marshall knew the truth. Their sibling bond was stronger than anything else. It would persevere—even through the death of the boy she loved. Grace would give up her dream of delivering babies in order to understand the neurological condition that plagued her brother.
The subway car bounced and swayed. Grace checked her watch. Without the cover of her hat, she noticed the stares from passengers around her, which fell onto her unhidden face. They all pretended to read their phones, a device Grace had not yet acquired since her release, while they stole quick glances at her. She kept the sunglasses in place and ignored the gawking. Instead, her attention shifted to Daniel Greaves. She had felt herself falling for him when they found themselves together that summer. Grace knew her budding relationship with Daniel would likely cost her friendship with Charlotte, but she could not deny the feelings that were developing. That is, until a cool conversation with Marshall, when he mentioned that Daniel was stealing her the same way Henry had stolen her years before. To protect him, Grace had abruptly ended things with Daniel. He never accepted Grace’s explanation that he should be with Charlotte, or that Grace’s friendship with Charlotte was worth too much to ruin it.
By the time she met Julian in medical school, Grace felt that she had a better handle on understanding Marshall’s condition. The years of different medications had finally been refined. His mood swings occurred less frequently, his temperament calmed. There had been, over the years, a growing independence as she and Marshall were separated while she was away, first at college and later at medical school. Marshall, Grace believed, had adapted to his condition and had accepted his limitations and his future prospects. The medications were working, and his physical therapy was keeping him away from a wheelchair and maintaining his individuality.
The first time she introduced Marshall to Julian was at Sugar Beach. It was a few days later—on that ill-fated night in March of 2007, when Marshall stood at the door of her cottage covered in blood and with his Lladró chess set hanging in the nylon bag from his fist—when Grace realized how badly she had miscalculated her brother’s progress. She was saddened, not just that the man she loved was gone, but also that the brother she once knew was gone as well. Marshall was replaced now by this weeping person in front of her, a person incapable of controlling himself. A person she had created. She knew she would protect him, even though it would cost her dearly.
Today, with her newfound freedom, she was happy to dedicate her life to helping Marshall exist. And she had told him as much when she returned home from Bordelais, a long conversation had over their first game of chess in more than a decade. But now, Grace worried for Sidney. The elaborate plan to get Grace out of the apartment could only mean that Sidney wanted to be alone with Marshall. It explained Sidney’s hastened departure the other night, when she had come to discuss a pressing issue but never got to it, instead departing quickly after her chess match with Marshall.
Grace’s fear was that Sidney was now attempting to extract information about Henry Anderson and Julian Crist out of the very person from whom she should hide every detail of her discovery.
The subway mercifully slowed. Grace snaked through the doors as soon as they cracked open, and raced up the steps toward Windsor Tower.
CHAPTER 58
Saturday, July 22, 2017
SIDNEY BLINKED HER EYES AS SHE HELD THE PHONE TO HER EAR. She looked down at Marshall’s feet as he sat in his wheelchair, still contemplating the chessboard and his n
ext move. She saw thick-soled, black high-top shoes with heavy Velcro straps that provided stability to his wobbly ankles.
“You still there?” Gus asked through the phone.
Sidney tried to bring her breathing under control. Her eyes darted from Marshall’s ugly orthotic shoes, to the open yearbook next to him, and the love lock on top of it. She looked at Marshall’s old chess set resting next to their current game board. One of the pinewood cases was positioned halfway into its storage bag—a sheer material with a cinch string at the mouth, which she knew immediately was made from organza fabric. She looked at the corner of the compact Lladró chess case, noticed the smooth titanium elbow that covered the pinewood. She thought back to Livia Cutty’s description of the shape of the weapon that likely caused Julian and Henry’s skull fractures. Any of the case’s four rounded edges would be a perfect match.
Grace asked me to put my chess set away because it brings back bad memories for her.
In an instant, it came together, and Sidney understood how badly she had gotten it all wrong. Her gaze finally moved to Marshall, who was still staring down at the chess pieces, analyzing his next move.
Without warning, Marshall looked up from the chessboard and made eye contact with her. Sidney wanted to leave calmly, to point casually to her phone and let him know she needed privacy. She’d be just a minute in the hallway. She’d done a similar thing hundreds of times. But during the second in which she hesitated, Sidney saw the hint of recognition in his eyes. Her face, she realized, told Marshall Sebold everything she didn’t want him to know.
The phone dropped from her hand as Sidney stood quickly, the chair screeching across the hardwood and toppling backward. She turned toward the door, noticing from the corner of her eye that Marshall, too, was hurrying to stand from his wheelchair. She managed only two steps before she felt it. A synapse that radiated through the neurons of her central nervous system, producing a jolt that coursed over her body. It started in the back of her head, a quick shock that stalled time and made her limbs heavy. Her legs noodled as she tried to lift them for another step. The hardwood floor rose up to fill her vision before the world went black.
* * *
The apartment door burst open and Grace ran into the living room. Marshall stood over Sidney’s body, his old Lladró chess case and the nylon bag that had held it for the past ten years, hanging from his clinched right fist.
“No, Marshall,” Grace whispered.
“She knew. She was talking with the detective from Whiteface. Gus. I heard her say his name. She knew everything.”
They both looked down at her body. A syrupy puddle of dark red blood was creeping from underneath her and spreading across Ellie Reiser’s hardwood floor.
“What do we do?” Marshall asked. He looked down at his old chess set hanging from his right hand, the strings of the satchel that held it wrapped tightly around his fist. He looked up at Grace next, as if he were surprised to see it in his hands. There was blood on the mesh pouch. He held it out for Grace to take.
“Help me, Grace.”
She looked down at the body and the blood; then she looked up into her brother’s eyes.
“You’re going to listen to me very carefully,” Grace said. “And you’re going to do everything I tell you.”
She took the nylon bag that contained the Lladró chess set. It wasn’t the first time Grace Sebold’s brother stood in front of her, covered in blood and asking for guidance.
Gros Piton
March 29, 2007
The blood was a problem.
He’d swung his chess set so aggressively that it split Julian’s scalp, the gash spitting blood in a fast splatter across his face and shirt. It covered his hands and arms. His aggression was a manifestation of his anger. Julian acted like she belonged to him, looking at Marshall with pity and sorrow for the life that might have been. Marshall had an image of the way his life should be, and also the way it likely would proceed from here. He couldn’t change the past, but he would make sure his future got no worse. He knew what was coming. He could feel it in his tightening muscles and his defiant neurons. His fine motor skills were already failing. His ability to walk would soon leave him. His speech too. His aptitude for clear thought had succumbed to intermittent bouts of cloudiness. The combination of his ailments would come together in a perfect storm that would require more help than his parents could offer. Marshall believed the one who was responsible for his condition should be the one who stood up to assist. Running off with Julian Crist could not happen, the same way Henry Anderson was not allowed to take a bigger role in Grace’s life.
Marshall needed Grace. He needed her now, and he’d rely on her more in the future. During their last “life management” meeting with his therapist, Marshall’s parents had discussed in-home care. Basically, a stranger coming into the home at some point in his future to bathe him, change his clothes, and help him get to the toilet. Marshall was managing these things on his own now, but his therapist preferred presenting future events so Marshall had time to “process” the change that was coming. She had flipped open a brochure for a full-time facility, where those with traumatic brain injury and other chronic, debilitating conditions eventually “gathered.” The therapist presented it like an opportunity, something to look forward to. His parents and the therapist had only gotten that far in their discussion of his future because Grace had been gone at medical school and had not been around to protest. Being in New York for residency would be a benefit, as she would be closer to him. But the idea that she would spend that time with Julian ate at him. Like Henry Anderson, Julian could not be allowed into Grace’s life.
Marshall knew Julian’s death would be a shock, but Marshall and Grace shared the secret of Henry Anderson. He knew she’d absorb this secret as well. They existed, Marshall and Grace, because of each other. They would endure together. It was the only way.
The spray of blood startled him and froze him. The blunder made his mind wander. He began to analyze his mistake and look for a solution, even before his current task was complete. He saw Julian stagger to his feet. Without thinking, he lifted his foot, kicked him forward, and watched him stumble to the edge of the bluff and over the side. The chance that this would be considered an accident, like the last time, was close to zero, given the blood that covered the granite bluff. It was a terrible error.
He made it back to the base of Gros Piton, breathing heavily. When he wiped his brow, the back of his hand came back smeared in red. He could only imagine a picture of himself, speckled in blood and sweat, with his chess set hanging from his shoulder as he ran through the resort. He waited in the shadows of Gros Piton while the purple glow of the setting sun spilled from the horizon and poured onto the white sand of Sugar Beach. A tuk-tuk was not an option, so the long trek back to the cottage would be on foot. His silhouette cut across the corner of the beach, unnoticed by those watching the sunset, as he headed into the foothills of the resort.
He was staying in a two-bedroom villa with his parents, and that, too, was not an option. Instead, he veered to the right when he made it up the steep incline. The door was locked when he tried the handle, and he worried that Grace had already left to meet Julian. He knocked loudly. When Grace answered, he simply handed her the bag that held his chess set.
“I need your help.”
PART V
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
JURY DELIBERATION DAY 4
Harold stood next to the chalkboard. His hands were covered in a white, dusty coat of chalk. On the board was a detailed summary of the three previous days of deliberation. He had taken the morning to review meticulously their discussion from each day, making sure each juror was on the same page and that there was no confusion about the facts presented during the long trial.
“It’s now three o’clock on day four. I think we’ve had a very careful, and sometimes spirited, discussion about the case. I know I’ve learned a great deal from listening to each of your opinions, and I hope my o
wn views have helped shape our decision. When we sat down four days ago, we took an initial vote that had us nearly split in half. Today, after a careful review of the facts, and unless there are objections, I propose we take our second vote to see where we stand as a group. To complete this process, we all know we must come to a unanimous decision. Are there any objections to conducting an open vote again now?”
There were not.
“Okay,” Harold said, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I’ll need a show of hands. First I’ll ask who believes she is guilty. Then I’ll ask who believes she is not guilty. Are we clear?”
All twelve agreed they were.
CHAPTER 59
Thursday, September 13, 2018
THE COURTROOM WAS STANDING ROOM ONLY. EACH PEW WAS PACKED, shoulder-to-shoulder. The front pews held family and friends. Those of the victim on one side; those of the accused on the other. The rest of the crowd was made of eager spectators that considered a spot in the courtroom more coveted than World Series tickets. Those standing in the back of the court were media; they not only clogged the rear walkway, but they also spilled out into the hallway. Those not lucky enough to gain access stood outside on the courthouse steps.
Local news stations and every cable news program had cut into regularly scheduled programming to bring the world the verdict live as it happened. After four days of sequestered deliberation, news had broken that the jury was back with a decision. Attorneys had been summoned, the judge was in chambers, the defendant was en route, and the jury members were being shuffled into the courthouse from their deliberation room. The participants had taken some time to assemble, which gave cable news a gratuitous hour to rehash the last three months of drama. Legal analysts, after witnessing closing arguments, had predicted the verdict would come immediately, perhaps after only a few hours of deliberation. But as the days passed, the experts predicted a hung jury. They all took to the airwaves now to offer new predictions. It was being called the trial of the young century, rivaling even the theatrics of the O.J. Simpson trial of the ’90s.
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