by Leah Konen
Oh god, John. Oh god, no. He should never have. We should never have . . .
“Jesus,” I managed. “He washed up somewhere?” Acid roiled in my stomach. Around me, the world began to spin.
McKnight raised his eyebrows, patting the notebook in his chest pocket. “I could see how you would say that, since you did see him fall.” He paused, giving me an opening. “But we didn’t find him in the river. Or the woods. We didn’t even find him in DEC territory, to be honest. I’m an Ulster County detective. DEC Officer Parker’s really only here to hand off the investigation.”
Investigation. I sucked in breath. “If it wasn’t in the woods, it must not be John. It can’t be John.”
McKnight’s head tilted to the side, as if trying to make sense of a different language. “Miss King . . .” His voice trailed off.
Tears leaked from my eyes. I couldn’t get it out of my head, the image of his body dashing against the rocks. I’d told Vera we should check on him. I’d told her I was worried. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. It was all fake, something we made up. It’s not real, I wanted to scream. It’s not goddamn real.
None of this was ever supposed to be real.
McKnight cleared his throat.
“John Nolan was found in his art studio, up near Claverack Creek. Ms. Abernathy discovered him there this morning.”
TWENTY-ONE
There’s no way,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s not possible.”
“Well, I’m sorry to say, but it is possible,” McKnight said. “That’s exactly what happened.”
“It can’t be,” I said desperately. “No, you have to be wrong. It . . . it can’t be him.”
McKnight opened the lapel of his suit, digging in the interior pocket. He came out with a crumpled packet of tissues and tossed it on the table, next to the sugar.
“It is him, Miss King. Ms. Abernathy identified him herself.”
I shook my head harder, as if that could push his words away, as the hopes I’d been clinging to shuddered, their foundations cracking. “Oh god, oh god, no. How?”
Parker stole a glance at McKnight, her face paling.
McKnight continued to study me, ignoring my question.
“No,” I said again as their silence stretched out, and before I could stop myself, more sobs were racking me, animal sounds. “No, you’re wrong.”
This couldn’t be happening again.
I couldn’t lose someone I cared about . . . again.
I’d lost too much already.
Besides, the plan was good: no way to mess it up; no way for John to die.
No no no no no.
McKnight tapped his foot against the floor. “I’m surprised it’s such a shock to you, given that you saw him fall off a cliff. Did you expect him to have survived such an accident?”
I had no words. I could only shake my head, feel the tears swim down my cheeks.
He pushed the tissues toward me, but I wouldn’t touch them. He didn’t care about me or John or Vera or any of us. He only cared about trapping me, making me feel small, tripping me up.
I searched Parker’s face for answers, but she looked down at her hands.
“You don’t have to answer that,” McKnight said, as if he were doing me some sort of favor. “But the reason why I kept asking about what you saw . . .”
I paused, wiping at my eyes. Something else was coming, I could see it now. His trump card, the one he’d been holding, waiting to use, the whole time he’d been here. While I was making coffee, breaking a mug, handing him the sugar, he had had this in his head.
“The thing is, his body didn’t show a single sign of a fall.” He blinked, once, twice. Parker looked up, her eyes filling with empathy, understanding. You can tell us. Good cop, bad cop.
“I’d like to know why you lied to us, Miss King.” McKnight said it so coolly, as if there were an answer I could deliver just like that. “You can tell us. Really.” His head swiveled to Parker, then back to me. “We can clear this up right now.”
My breath was suddenly short, my pulse merciless. I could feel myself reddening all over, warmth and guilt coating every inch of skin as my thoughts spun: How? We’d been rushed, but careful. And why was Vera over there this morning? The plan had been to wait for John to contact us. What changed?
Another thought struck me, pushing all thoughts of Vera aside: Ellie.
What if she’d told Davis right away, called him as soon as she left the restaurant? What if Davis had been up here with her, and she’d lied about it? What if he’d found us, me and John together, the drapes left open for anyone to see? The door unlocked, just begging someone to sneak in? I thought Davis would find me, hurt me, but what if he’d found another way to punish me? What if this was it, the ultimate blow? Someone I cared about. The man I had cared about after him.
“Explain what you saw,” McKnight said.
I shook my head.
“Miss King,” he pressed.
“I . . . I . . . It was raining.”
“And?”
“I guess I could have been mistaken.”
McKnight nodded, as if expecting this. “So did you hear Mr. Nolan scream, then?”
It was a relief not to have to lie. “I did.”
“But you didn’t see him?”
I shook my head. “I heard the scream and then saw his backpack and, I don’t know, I just assumed.”
Parker’s gaze narrowed, her good-cop mask temporarily gone. You lied to me. You lied straight to my face.
McKnight crossed his arms and relaxed into the sofa like he owned the place. “Glad we cleared that up. Now, this is important. Did Mr. Nolan have any enemies?”
Enemies? Shit. What had Vera already told them? What if, when she’d found John’s body, she’d completely sold me out? No, it couldn’t be.
Only, if they were asking about enemies, that meant this was serious. This could be a murder investigation.
I pressed my hands to my knees. “There were supposedly rumors about John,” I said. “I don’t know too much because I haven’t been living here that long, but yeah, there were people who didn’t like him.”
“Anyone specific?” McKnight asked.
Sam Alby flashed to mind, spilling wine all over Vera, threatening them with notes, dead animals, slashed tires. But if I told McKnight about him, would he put it together, deduce our plan? I couldn’t risk it, not until I talked to Vera, got our stories straight. “You’d have to ask Vera.”
McKnight stared at me a moment, then adjusted himself on the sofa, took one last sip of coffee. “That’s helpful,” he said, though we both knew it wasn’t. “Thanks for your time, Miss King.”
Parker followed his lead, shifting forward, as if to get up.
McKnight leaned across the coffee table and pressed a business card into my hand, creamy pale and old-school. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”
“Wait,” I said, wheels suddenly turning. A sliver of hope, a tiny space in my chest, because I didn’t want to believe it had been Davis, that I had selfishly brought my mess to them, delivered it to their doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and bruised skin. I didn’t want to believe that I was the reason John had died. Maybe the question about enemies was just routine. Maybe they were still figuring out whether it was foul play or not.
“What?” McKnight asked. “Think of something?”
“Are you definitely sure . . .” My voice faltered, trailing off.
“Are we sure of what, Miss King?”
“That someone hurt him intentionally?” I asked, more tears spilling out.
He stared at me; then he nodded. “That is exactly what we believe. This is a homicide investigation.”
I shook my head, not wanting it to be true.
“Oh,” McKnight added, his notebook reappearing, as if it had only just occurre
d to him. “What did you do last night?”
“Last night?”
“After you made the report to Officer Parker.”
I swallowed, my throat tightening. “Vera dropped me off, and I stayed in. I went to bed early.”
“What time?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe nine o’clock.”
“Didn’t see anyone else?”
“No, of course not—it was so stressful. I came home and watched TV and then I needed to sleep. I couldn’t do much of anything after what happened.”
“Right,” McKnight said. “Well, we’re going to need you to come down to the station and make a proper statement, get your prints, in case they turn up on any evidence, run-of-the-mill stuff. How’s tomorrow—eleven a.m.? That okay with you, Miss King?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding robotically. “Yes, of course.”
“Great,” McKnight said, fake smile invading his face like a virus. “We’ll see you then.”
I followed them to the door. “Hang on,” I said as Dusty watched them eagerly.
“Yes, Miss King?” McKnight said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Know what?”
“That it was a homicide?”
Parker let out a breath. In the daylight streaming through the open door, her complexion looked almost green.
“Mr. Nolan was stabbed,” McKnight said. “Six times.”
TWENTY-TWO
Wretching, I heaved into the toilet, but nothing much came out, only spit and bile.
Porcelain cold against my skin, I remembered how John had been here, watching me do the same, only two days ago. It sickened me that that was one of the last times I’d seen him, ill with alcohol and guilt and shame.
I couldn’t believe I’d never see him again.
I stood, washed my hands and splashed water on my face, then ambled to the bedroom. I opened the top drawer of the dresser, pushed aside my mother’s scarf, and retrieved John’s note, which I’d tucked away next to the photos last night. I traced my fingers along his handwriting.
Please don’t tell Vera. I’ll call you soon.
What had gone wrong?
* * *
• • •
I lay in bed all afternoon. I knew I should call Vera, should go over, hold her tight, but the guilt was too much, the sensation that I had done this, brought this tragedy to them.
Davis raced through my mind. His blond hair, his thick intellectual glasses, his body, nowhere near overweight, but softened from his graphic designer desk job. He wasn’t the sort to live at the gym, and I’d liked that about him. He didn’t seem the type to be able to kill, but he hadn’t seemed the type to hurt me, either.
Could he really have done this?
I remembered a day, early on, sitting on the sofa in our underwear at Davis’s place, before I’d moved in, our legs tangled like pretzels, a glass pipe on the coffee table, weedy ash scattered around like black snowfall. “Would you ever forgive a partner for cheating?” he’d asked me.
“You got something to tell me?”
He grabbed the back of my calf and squeezed. “Of course not. Just hypothetical.”
I pursed my lips. “As long as you’re not going to use this as your road map for cheating later . . .”
“I would never cheat on you,” he said. “Scout’s honor.”
I’d laughed, the gaping, guffawing type that only came out when you were deep in the chemicals of love. “Then I probably could forgive, if it was a one-off and not a whole drawn-out affair, and if the person, not you, since you would never cheat, confessed to me on his own instead of leaving me to snoop. You?”
His hand stroked the back of my leg. “I could forgive you,” he said. And then the stroking stopped. “But I’d have to kill the guy.”
I’d laughed again. It had felt funny at the time.
Now my hands felt clammy, and my stomach twisted, tying itself up in knots. What if?
What if he’d found me, seen me, followed us to the hike, and then—somehow—tracked John?
It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t—
My stomach churned as I remembered the way Dusty’s leash had been cut, the pocketknife Davis always kept on him.
What if that had been his weapon?
A crude tool, a blade so short, he’d had to stab John six times to kill him?
Fingers shaking, I dialed Ellie’s number, praying I was wrong—but there was no answer.
I dialed her again. And again and again.
After who knows how many Hi, you’ve reached Ellies, I tossed the phone onto my bed, shaking my head. It didn’t matter. For a second, I didn’t even care. John was gone. I would never hear from him. I would never meet him in our little hideaway in the Adirondacks. I would never kiss him or hug him or tear myself up about my feelings for him again. I would never be able to tell him everything I’d been thinking about these past two days. I’m sorry, but I’m not. This can never happen again, but part of me is glad that it did. I’ve fallen for you, but I’ve fallen for her, too, and there’s no good solution, but all that matters is that I don’t want to lose either of you.
Please don’t tell Vera.
I heard a noise outside and jolted out of bed. I flipped on the lights frantically, wiped beneath my eyes, then approached the door. Maggie. Part of me wanted to turn around, hide under the covers, make everything—and everyone—go away, but she’d already seen me.
Slowly, I opened the door. “Hi,” I said.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes narrowed in concern. “I saw the police come by.”
“I—” I couldn’t even get a word out. Tears swam in my eyes.
“Oh my goodness,” Maggie said, rushing in without waiting for an invitation, wrapping me in a hug.
She led me to the sofa, and I found myself sinking down, spent. She took a seat next to me, Dusty jumping into her lap.
“Lucy, what happened?” she asked.
I stared at her, blinking back new tears.
John was dead. Stabbed. Fuck.
“Are you hurt?” she asked. “Did someone, did someone attack you?”
“No,” I managed. “It’s just—” I took a deep breath. “We went on a hike yesterday,” I said, voice wavering. “Just a regular hike that John and Vera go on all the time, and John fell.”
“What?” Maggie asked, her jaw dropping. “What do you mean, he fell?”
Already, I was messing this up. I needed to get my new story straight. “I mean, he went up ahead to take some photos, and he disappeared. We couldn’t find him, but we saw his backpack, and so we thought he fell and we called the police. His camera was at the bottom of the ridge, so we—”
“Oh, Lucy,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Is he, was he all right?”
“No,” I said, scooting away from her, attempting to calm my breaths. “The police think . . .” I bit my lip, wondering if I should tell her everything—only it hardly even mattered now. “They think someone murdered him. They found his body this morning.”
She gasped, and Dusty, looking back and forth between us, began to whine.
“Murdered?” she asked. “Here?”
I nodded weakly.
The implication in her words wasn’t hard to read. That sort of thing didn’t happen, not here, in this quaint little town hours away from the city.
Not here, where things were safe—not even to people like John.
“But why do they think— How do they— Is Vera okay?”
“Vera’s fine,” I said, but even as I did, I knew it was a lie. Vera was alive, sure, but she was far from fine. Wouldn’t be fine for a very long time. Maybe ever. And it was all my fault. “I mean, she’s safe, yes.”
“How do they know it was murder? Could it have been an accident?”
“I don’t know,” I said, the lie coming easily. I couldn’t bear to share the details. Stabbed. It was too intimate, too personal. Maggie hadn’t even liked him. “They wouldn’t say.”
“Oh my goodness,” Maggie said. “That’s just, that’s just awful.”
Her eyes focused on a point somewhere in the distance, and I could see it, suddenly: her wheels turning, piecing something together.
“What?” I asked. Her eyes were still locked ahead, avoiding mine, and I reached for her arm. “Maggie, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, shrugging me off. “Only, someone murdered. Someone from our street. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“Is there something else you know, something you need to tell me?”
The clouds in her eyes seemed to clear, and they found mine again.
“Just that I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know how much you cared about him.”
* * *
• • •
I didn’t go over to the farmhouse until after seven. The walk was awful, my flashlight casting shadows everywhere, turning every last twig into something tall and foreboding. I strode quickly, trying to tune out the nefarious sounds of night in the country.
Vera’s car was in the driveway, and John’s truck, too, but no lights were on inside. I knocked anyway, waited.
I was about to turn back when she opened the door. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks sunken. She looked like a ghost, a specter of herself, and she smelled overwhelmingly of cigarettes.
I opened my arms and she fell into them, practically collapsing. She felt so small and bony, her body shaking, her head knocking into my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. She shook harder.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but eventually, Vera pulled away, her eyes avoiding mine. She ushered me in, and I followed her to the living room; she didn’t offer me a drink, only sat on the couch. I took the space next to her, wondering if it was the first time we’d been together here without some sort of alcohol lubricating our interactions.
After a moment, she stared at me. “Did John tell you anything?”