by Leah Konen
“I know,” Vera said. “But why did you run out after Claire Alby, of all people? Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Dusty reached for Vera’s legs, pawing at her tights, but she ignored him, and he hopped onto the sofa instead.
I swallowed, my throat tightening. “I know her from Schoolhouse; I go there for brunch sometimes. She said she wanted to be a writer. We would talk.”
Vera’s eyebrows arched. “What are you, her mentor? That didn’t work out too well for John.”
“No,” I said. I had to get us back on solid ground. There was so much that threatened to tear us apart now—and I knew the police could show her that photo of me in bed at any time.
I took a deep breath. “I didn’t even know she was Claire until today. She told me her name was Al, which I should have put together, but I didn’t. You have to believe me, Vera. I promise.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it tight, as if she no longer had the energy. Her eyes darted around the room. “So the police searched your house?”
I nodded.
“Mine too,” she said, tugging at the hem of her dress. “On the day of the goddamn memorial.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Really?”
“‘We only want to find out what happened.’” She mimicked an officer’s voice, dripping with fake compassion. “That’s what they say to make themselves feel better. They couldn’t show some respect. Not at the expense of the investigation.”
Vera situated herself on the sofa, spine rigid. She looked like a figurine on display: Grieving Woman, Mid-Investigation. “I really don’t know why they’re bothering with me when Sam Alby is probably gloating about what he did to John all over town. But he has an alibi. They think the time of death was sometime between eleven p.m. and one a.m., and Sam was supposedly at Platform all damn night.”
My eyebrows scrunched up. “Platform? The bar?”
She nodded. “Sam’s always there, like every night—that’s why we had to stop going. And because his bar buddies are vouching for him, that’s it, apparently—McKnight just believes him. No need to look into it further. Go for the wife instead. Or you,” she said, letting the words pierce the air.
For a moment, I wondered again if she believed it, that I could have done this to John. If she could really think it of me, maybe the one person in this whole town besides her who believed that John was good.
Cautiously, I approached the sofa. I wanted to sit next to her, feel her warm skin, pull her close to me and never, ever let go. I wanted to beg her to keep me safe, like she’d promised she would, only I knew she couldn’t; not now. I sat, leaving a foot or so of space between us, almost afraid to break her. “Vera,” I said, my voice wavering. “You know I would never hurt John. No matter what the police think. I swear to you, Vera. I swear to god.”
She scooted over, closing the space between us. “I know that,” she said. “I really do.”
Relief, like stepping into a warm bath, like getting a good-night kiss from my mother. She still believed me. No matter what the police had told her, she still believed me.
She won’t, though. Not after she sees that photo.
My eyes darted to the window, then back to her. “I need to tell you something, though, so you understand what’s going on.”
“What is it?” she asked, her voice wavering.
I cleared my throat, as if to force the words out. “Part of me worries that it was Davis.”
“Davis?” Vera asked. “Your ex? That’s crazy.”
I nodded. “I know it sounds that way, but Ellie told Davis where I was, and in town . . .” I hesitated. “I saw Claire in town, and she told me that he’d been around the shops in Woodstock, asking for me, saying I was missing.”
“Oh my god,” Vera said.
“But then McKnight told me I can’t leave, not while they’re still investigating, and so I’m trapped here, just waiting for him, and I don’t know what he’s going to do—I don’t know what he’s already done.” I sucked in a breath. “And now they’re saying I’ve been to the cabin, which I’ve never even been inside. You didn’t tell them I’d been there, did you?”
“God, no,” Vera said. “Why would I? They asked me about you and John, and I told them you were friends. I told them the truth.”
“That’s all they said?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Why?”
I licked my lips. Fear pumped through my veins because, so badly, I didn’t want her to know. But at the same time, she was all I had left, and now I might lose her, too. I didn’t know how long I had before they told her about that photo. I didn’t know how long I had until the questions in her head turned into facts, presented before her, laid out on the unforgiving Formica table in the police station.
“What is it?” Vera asked. “You’re not making sense. Why would your ex want to hurt John?”
I shook my head.
“Lucy,” Vera said. “You have to tell me. Please.”
My lips quivered. “The police took my DNA.”
“It’s okay,” she said hesitantly. “They took mine, too. It’s routine.”
“No,” I said, my face going hot. “It’s more than that. They found a pair of underwear in the cabin. I don’t think they’re mine, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The police think,” I said shakily, “they think that I, that me and John . . .”
Vera took a deep breath. “They think that about practically every woman in town, Lucy. That doesn’t mean that your ex— It still doesn’t make sense.”
I tugged at the neckline of my top, half wishing I could just disappear. Vera was my friend, my best friend—my only friend. I had to try to get ahead of this.
I had to play it right. I had to try.
“They have a reason.” I managed. “That night. That night that you were out of town, getting the car . . . The next morning, I woke up, and John was right there in my bed. Nothing happened, he was fully clothed, only I feel so sick about it every time I see you. I feel so guilty. I’m a horrible friend. I’m not who you thought I was, and I worry that Davis somehow saw that, and he got angry, and—and—and that all of this is my fault.”
I picked at the skin around my fingers, and I imagined rage, good and pure, exploding through the tips of Vera’s fingers. I saw her grabbing me, hitting me, smashing my head against the corner of the coffee table. I would deserve it.
Words flashed in my head—whore, slut, cunt. Awful words, ones you were told to never say about another woman. And yet, I was all of them, everything bad I had ever feared. With my best friend’s husband. I was disgusting. I chanced a look up, but her face was blank, unreadable.
“Lucy,” she said finally, voice smooth.
“I’m so sorry,” I interrupted, words pouring out like jumbled blocks. “Say you’ll forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it. Just say you will. Please.”
She pressed at her thighs, straightening the bottom of her dress. “Lucy, John told me about that night.”
“What?” The shock in my voice was palpable. “What do you mean, he told you?”
“You think we were married as long as we were and nothing inappropriate ever happened? He told me you guys had too much to drink, and he was worried about leaving you on your own, especially since you were so scared about Davis, so he crashed in your bed. He said his clothes were on, and nothing happened.”
“Really?” My mind raced, trying to understand. He’d left me that note, practically begging. Please don’t tell Vera. But he already had.
“Is there something else I should know?” she asked, biting her lip.
He’d told her enough, enough so she wouldn’t ask too many questions. He’d made an excuse, and he didn’t want me to tell her the actual truth, the true betrayal. He’d set it up nicely so our lies would be believable. Twis
ted truths are better than flat-out lies—Vera herself had taught us as much. I shook my head, understanding now exactly what I had to do. If I didn’t screw it up, she’d never know the whole of it. She’d never know we kissed. Even the police had no proof of that. If they showed her the photo, I’d say I had no memory of it—that was true, after all. “No, I just—”
“The police, everyone in town, even some of the people who were at the memorial this morning, they like to think that John and I had this awful marriage, but you saw us, Lucy. You knew us. Do you really think we didn’t love each other?” Her voice cracked. She was crying now, too. “We loved each other enough to share everything. Including this.”
My body broke into sobs, and she leaned in, wrapping me in her arms, our tears mixing, salty stains on our clothing.
“We’re in this together, Lucy,” she said. “I’ll still do anything to protect you.”
She pulled back, looking at me. “And I can see why you’d have those fears, about Davis and everything, but they’re just that—fears. You didn’t cause this, Lucy. And neither did I. It isn’t your fault or mine—it’s Sam’s. Remember that, okay? I still love you just as much as I loved you before.”
“Thank you,” I said, choking back a sob. “I love you, too.”
* * *
• • •
Vera was, as always, my rock.
I followed her back to her place and huddled beside her in bed, Dusty at our feet.
But after she was asleep, I kept getting up, pulling the drapes back every other second to check for Davis.
I was still on high alert, sensitive as Dusty to every tiny sound—cracking twigs, shuffling critters, and hooting owls.
It was after midnight, 12:05, and I’d just looked out the window for what felt like the millionth time, when I heard the ding of a text message.
The sender read as an email address, not a phone number: [email protected].
My throat tightened as I stared at the message, just one sentence:
i know you didn’t do it
THIRTY-ONE
Can I speak to McKnight?”
It was just after nine a.m. I’d gone straight from Vera’s to the station, taking Dusty with me, too scared to leave him in my cottage alone. The receptionist, the same lady from before, looked at me with narrowed eyes, eyeliner drawn on not quite straight. She glanced at Dusty but didn’t say I couldn’t bring him in. “Detective McKnight’s not in yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Go right ahead,” she said, nodding to the chairs.
The wait seemed interminable, but after twenty minutes, he appeared, wearing a faded nylon puffer, a bulging briefcase in one hand and a large Dunkin’ Donuts cup in the other, the smell instantly cueing memories of crowded hallways and sweating bodies, of Penn Station. “Can I help you, Miss King?” He nodded at Dusty. “Hey, little buddy.”
“I got a text last night,” I said. I let Dusty down and gripped the leash tightly so he wouldn’t jump on McKnight’s legs, then held out my phone with my free hand.
McKnight shrugged, his hands full. “You want to go to my office?”
I nodded and followed him down the hall. I still didn’t trust him, but from the masses of papers on his desk and coffee cups littered about, it was clear he was logging hours and working diligently, if nothing else. He tossed some of the detritus into the trash, then gestured toward my phone. “Can I see it?”
A chair sat facing his desk, its seat cushion slashed, murky yellow foam spilling out. I took a seat and pulled Dusty into my lap, then handed McKnight the phone. He stared at it for what must have been ten full seconds, his eyes blank as a freshly cleaned whiteboard, then handed it back to me.
I adjusted in the chair. “So?”
He shrugged. “So what?”
“So obviously someone knows something. Maybe you should be looking for the person who sent this, who knows you’re chasing after the wrong person.”
A gulp of coffee. “Shoot it over to me. I’ll pass it on to forensics.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Pardon me if I’m not jumping up and down, Miss King, but we see things of this sort all the time. Email addresses can be created in an instant. Those can be used to send texts. Anyone with your phone number could have done it. Or anyone who found a way to look up your number, which isn’t that hard, either. You could have created it, for all I know, and sent that to yourself.”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said. “Just like I’m sure a person as smart as yourself sees people falling in the rain when they haven’t.”
I pressed my lips into a thin, tight line, but he only shrugged. “Look, it’s just a text, like all the texts and emails of this nature you’d find on any tip line. It’s an active investigation. People like to find a way to get involved. Like I said, send it to me, and I’ll shoot it over to my guys.”
I pushed the chair back, its legs screeching against the floor, and Dusty hopped off my lap. “Thanks for doing your job.”
“Oh, and Miss King?”
“Yeah?”
“Funny thing. We couldn’t find a record of you having ever lived in Brooklyn at all. Most recent address we found is closer to here, down in Poughkeepsie.”
My chest felt suddenly raw. Sensing my sudden change in demeanor, Dusty’s tail went limp.
“Care to explain?”
I swallowed, buying myself time, then concentrated on keeping my mind clear, my voice still, as I said what I knew I had to say, should it ever come up: “You ever lived in Brooklyn?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
I kept my eyes focused on the tip of his nose. “Well, if you had, you’d know that half of the buildings, the ones that aren’t new luxury condos, are run by slumlords, or at least people who are really, really shady. In my first apartment, I never even had a lease. I took it over from a friend and paid the guy cash month to month. They don’t want a record of anything, you know, so they don’t have to pay taxes. Then I moved in with my boyfriend.” I shrugged, gripping Dusty’s leash tighter. “The lease was in his name. You didn’t ask for my whole residential history.”
He hesitated. “No, indeed I didn’t.” He stared at me, as if trying to decide whether to believe my story. He pressed his lips together, then delivered a smile, far too sweet. “Those DNA results should be in soon, Miss King.”
* * *
• • •
Back in my cottage, holding Dusty tight, I walked through every room, looking for a sign of Davis, but found nothing. I let Dusty down and locked every door twice, then tried to put the cottage back together.
I remade the bed, shut open drawers, returned books where they belonged. I tossed dirty underwear, personal things that had been picked over by the team of prying cops, into the hamper. When I was done, I once again pushed the bed aside, staring at my hammered-down floorboard.
I had a terrifying thought. What if they’d found everything I’d stashed there, then hammered it down so I wouldn’t know? What if McKnight was just waiting to show me what he’d discovered, another trump card up his sleeve? What if that’s why he’d suddenly been digging around in my address history?
The board was wedged down too tight to pry up with the claw of the hammer, so I headed to the kitchen, sliding open the knife drawer. I reached for the butcher knife, the only thing thin enough to wedge into the crack, then stopped, forgetting about all I had hidden away under the floorboard.
Eyes locked on the drawer, heart suddenly racing, I counted them: One, two, three, four, five. I counted again, touching the red Lucite handle of each one. One, two, three, four, five.
Something wasn’t right.
Goose bumps rising on my arms, I walked slowly to the bedroom. In the search, the police had taken my notebook, where I had jotted d
own all my inventories, but I’d taken backup photos on my phone when I first moved in.
Coldness crept over my skin, and I felt suddenly foolish. Why had I grown complacent, stopped checking things like this? Since I ran into Ellie, I’d been in reaction mode, too preoccupied with everything to tally up the items in my cottage. And then, after the scarf and the photos and the note went missing, it had seemed unnecessary. Davis was lurking. That much was clear. Only, what if I’d missed something, something more than those tiny things?
What if I’d missed something big?
Fingers quivering, I swiped through the photos on my phone until I found the one of the list I’d made when I moved in.
There it was, in my familiar scribble:
knife drawer (six knives, red Lucite handles)
I counted again. Five. Only five.
No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
I searched the sink. Surely I’d cut up an apple or something and tossed it in. Nothing.
Stab wounds. John had stab wounds. And the only people, supposedly, who knew this, aside from the cops, were me, Vera, and John’s killer.
I whipped open the fridge, checking Pyrex containers, a weeks-old pizza box, to see if it had been tossed in haphazardly among the leftovers. Again, nothing.
One of my knives was gone. A bright red, easily distinguishable knife was gone. John had been stabbed, I was their main suspect, and one of my knives was gone.
Had the police taken it as evidence? Wouldn’t they have told me? A thought struck me, slim but hopeful, a silver lining on a storm cloud: John and I had often cooked together. Him helping me chop, me stirring a sauce he’d picked out of one of his dusty cookbooks. Had I lent it to him? I racked my brain, trying to think, and among the haze of conversation and pinot noir, one moment stood out—a week or so before John was murdered they’d brought over Vera’s lasagna, and she’d used one of my knives to cut it. It could have been left in the container with the lasagna, trapped under aluminum foil. It could be at her house, still.
I texted her quickly: