What You Want to See

by Kristen Lepionka

  “What did you say?”

  He sighed. “Looking back, I guess I seemed a little nuts. I tried to explain about Agnes and Marin and all that, and they got real caught up on the fact that we got divorced years ago but I still had her key.”

  I could see that. “Okay, so what happened then?”

  “Well, that didn’t go anywhere, needless to say. He told me to find somewhere else to sit, I said I could sit wherever I want because this is America, he said I could literally sit on any other bench in America, just not that one. I didn’t want it to turn into a thing, you know. And it got me thinking, maybe I was wrong. Like maybe it wasn’t her after all. Sometimes my memory, you know. I’m seventy-three years old. Sometimes my memory just isn’t the best.”

  Sam backed off for a few weeks, but then Agnes said something that gave him pause.

  “The hospital freaked her out. It wasn’t good for her, and she was really struggling. But after she was healed up enough not to need the hospital, they moved her to the care home. That was better for her. She calmed down some. And she said the thing about the house, Herodias and Salome stealing the house. See, you ask Agnes what her name is, she’ll tell you. Agnes Harlow. She knows who she is. But she also knows that in a past life, which is also unfolding simultaneously, she’s John the Baptist. Herodias was what she’d always called Marin.”

  “So you knew.”

  “Just like you knew.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I’ve heard about this kind of thing before. Sick people, getting taken advantage of. It happened in California to my daughter’s neighbor. He went into a hospice facility and these random young punks sold his house, right out from under him. I went over to the library and I asked them, is there a way in the computer that you can show me if a certain house has been sold. This cute little librarian gal pulled a database right up for me.”

  I was shaking my head. If he’d only told me this on Sunday. “And you saw what I saw. That Nate Harlow’s name was all over the house.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about him. I was thinking about Marin. But yeah, there it was. I started sitting on the bench again, in front of the house. Nothing happening, mostly. Then this one night, there she is. I saw her park the car and walk into the alley. That was where. I didn’t know why I was there, not really. I wasn’t even going to speak to her, but she saw me, and she just pulled a gun out of her bag and—and she pointed it. At me.” He took off his glasses and polished them, slowly. “And it just happened so fast, she pulled out this gun, and we were yelling and I was trying to—I didn’t want her to point it at me and we struggled over it, so quick, it was over so quick, Roxane, the gun just went off and there was this bloodstain blooming on the front of her dress, like when you put a drop of food coloring into vinegar, like for dyeing eggs at Easter, you know? It just billowed out and she was on the ground, looking up at me and I was standing there holding a gun. I just turned and ran. I didn’t know what else to do.” He put the glasses back on but they fogged up immediately as he began to weep. “I was so angry, and so scared. I came home, right home, and I hid that gun where no one would ever look for it.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  He nodded, sighing. Then he struggled to his feet and lifted the lid of the piano. He reached in and pulled out a bundle of newspaper with a trail of duct tape hanging from one side. I took it from him and gently unfolded it, careful not to touch.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, tears streaming down his craggy face. “When you showed up, I thought—at first I thought you knew. But then I realized you didn’t, and I thought maybe there was a chance. That no one would need to know. But that isn’t right. Whatever she did, it’s not my place. To play executioner.”

  The gun was a silver thirty-eight semiauto, just like Arthur’s.

  No, not like his—his.

  Marin had his gun all along, maybe because Sam Kinnaman was borderline stalking her.

  She had been shot with Arthur’s gun. His fingerprints were on the casings because he’d probably loaded this gun years ago.

  But he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger last week.

  THIRTY-ONE

  By Saturday I’d been ignoring texts for the last two days—most of them from Andrew, who wanted to know what the hell was going on with me, and Pam, who wanted to touch base about a few last-minute party things. That was her expression: touch base. I had no intention of touching anything. I had added exactly zero songs to the party playlist I was supposed to be making, and I suspected I wouldn’t be very good company anyway. So maybe I wouldn’t go. I lay on my couch, listening to Shelby and Joshua moving a dresser across the floor in the apartment above me. I thought I might just lie there all day like that. But when Tom himself texted me to ask if I had time to grab a drink at the Tavern today, I stared at the words on the screen of my phone until my vision blurred. What would it mean if I said no? Would I ever have time again, or would he?

  An hour later, I found him sitting at the end of the bar with a bottle of Newcastle Brown in front of him. He looked tired and sad, which was probably how I looked too. It was certainly how I felt. I perched on the barstool next to him and said, “Happy birthday.”

  He gave me half a smile. “Thanks.”

  “May you live to be one hundred, with one more to repent.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An Irish something or other. I don’t actually know.”

  “Well, thanks,” he said again. “Is that what you’re supposed to say, when someone recites an Irish something or other at you?”

  “I have no idea. I usually just punch them in the face.”

  Tom laughed. “That would not surprise me, actually.”

  Neither Tom nor I said anything for a while. The bartender brought me a Crown on the rocks without me having to order it—such are the benefits of having a local bar.

  Finally, I asked, “So what’s the story—what you really wanted for your birthday was a tense conversation with me?”

  “No.” He sipped his beer and met my eye in the mirror over the liquor bottles behind the bar. “I just want to talk. No tension. Just friends, talking.”

  “So talk.” I sipped my drink. “Or was I supposed to do the talking?”

  He sighed. “First off, I had a visitor yesterday.”

  That didn’t sound very friendly. I waited.

  “Samuel J. Kinnaman.” Tom spun his beer bottle slowly on the bar top. “He told me that you suggested he come talk to me.”

  I let out a breath. “Yeah.”

  “Next time, maybe a heads-up about that would be appropriate.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sat in silence again, until Tom said, “If he hadn’t come forward, would you have ever told me?”

  “I knew he would,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  That was more true. I’d left Sam’s house with a promise to check in with him on Monday, to see where things stood. I didn’t know what I’d intended to do on Monday—not then, and not now. “I was just trying to figure out a way to, I don’t know, get Arthur off the hook without throwing Sam to the wolves.” I looked up at the pressed-tin ceiling. “It’s not like I never would have told you.”

  “Right.”

  “I would have.”

  “When? Take Arthur out of it.”

  “I can’t do that. He’s the reason why any of this … you know.” I drank some of my whiskey. “Maybe I wouldn’t have. I don’t know. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “You’d be okay with nobody answering for Marin’s murder.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said, and he nodded.

  “I know it isn’t.”

  We sat in silence for another while. The bartender passed by and served us another round.

  “For what it’s worth,” Tom said finally, “I think the prosecutor’s office is open to a plea. Manslaughter, maybe involuntary, maybe a suspended sentence. He’s seventy-three years old, an
d he’s not the one who added a gun to the encounter. He doesn’t belong in prison.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” I studied the ice in my glass and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I was sorting through it. I thought it didn’t matter much either way, because Marin is dead regardless.”

  He nodded again. “And I probably wasn’t all that approachable, after the other day.”

  “No.”

  “I was harsh with you.”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  He swiveled on his barstool to face me. “Look at me. I want to tell you something.”

  I remained facing forward.

  He continued anyway. “I think we underestimated,” he said, “how hard it would be. To, you know. Just be friends.”

  “What, without sex to defuse the inevitable tension?”

  “Well, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t you?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t the one who wanted to stop—” I said, then shook my head. “Sorry. Okay. Yeah, I do.”

  “And I hate it that things are awkward between us, because you’re the only person who gets it sometimes.”

  I finally looked at him.

  “And listen, I’m aware that you were right, here. About Marin. And Arthur. If not for what you put together, I’m not sure we ever would’ve figured it out. And that kind of weakens my argument that you should have stayed out of it. But maybe we could’ve worked together differently or something. Had a conversation, instead of just going to the nuclear option.”

  He was right. He often was. “Last week, the day after Arthur was shot. I was rattled. But it really pissed me off that you tried to say that’s all it was,” I said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “But I didn’t want to admit it.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Looking back, I should’ve. It would have been easier than the way all of this went down.”

  “I hope you don’t think that’s what I’m saying. That this is your fault.”

  I shrugged. “Some of it is. My mother, sobbing her eyes out. Catherine, in the hospital with a fractured skull.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Shit.”

  I nodded. “She’ll probably get to go home tomorrow or Monday, but yeah. It’s brutal, looking at her. The bruises. She had some hearing loss right after but it’s getting better.”

  “So you and her,” he said, “a thing again?”

  I felt myself smile. “I don’t know. I’ve been keeping her company and sneaking her in dirty chai. Does that constitute a thing?”

  “Aw, who the hell knows,” Tom said.

  We sat together in another long silence. After a bit he said, “I don’t want it to be weird between us.”

  “No.”

  “Can we work at it?”

  My instinct was to ask what that meant. But it occurred to me that my instincts weren’t serving me that well lately where relationships were concerned. So I just nodded.

  “Instead of shutting down and walking away, let’s just talk through it. The truth is just easier. I know how you feel about talking. But I also know how you feel about the truth. And, you know, sometimes, you’re all I have.”

  He didn’t say of him. But I heard the two words anyway, whether he meant them or not. I didn’t especially mind, not as much as I used to. I blinked a few times. “You talk enough for the both of us, to be honest,” I said.

  He laughed and raised his beer bottle. “To the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

  I clinked my glass against his bottle. “To the truth.”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket—another text from Pam.

  Would you mind picking up my order at Pistacia Vera? I’m so behind on everything!!

  I smiled.

  So much for the ice-cream cake and my efforts to make the surprise party less terrible.

  “I should probably get going soon,” Tom said, as if he could read my mind. “Pam and I are going to Milestone for dinner and it’s this awkwardly early reservation, like five thirty. Makes me wonder if she’s planning something else, later.”

  Talk about an uncomfortable truth. I said, casually, “Like what?”

  He looked at me, eyes narrowing. “You know something.”

  “No.”

  “What about the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable?”

  “If I knew something, you wouldn’t really want me to tell you.”

  He laughed. “Hell yes I would. What do you know?”

  I debated for a second. “In the interests of our renewed friendship and the newfound openness between us,” I said, “and not because I am incapable of keeping a secret, because I most definitely am, I must tell you that fifty of Pam’s closest friends will be waiting in her house when you get back from dinner, with party hats and fussy little snack foods.”

  He looked up at the ceiling. “Well, shit.”

  “Surprise!”

  “Party hats?”

  “I tried to tell her that you would hate it. I really did. She actually wanted to lure you over to her place under the guise of distress, like an intruder in the house.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I told her that was a terrible idea. I don’t think I had much sway on the rest of her terrible ideas. She sent out invitation cards with sparkly crap on the front.”

  For no clear reason, we both started laughing then, that kind of sudden, loud, breathless laughter that strikes without warning and leaves you feeling shaky but acutely alive. I put a hand over my sternum, trying to get control of myself. My rib cage hurt. “She invited my brothers, too. I mean, Tom, has she met you?”

  He wiped his eyes, his face ruddy from laughing. “I told her I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t even want to do dinner, after the way this week has gone.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “I did. But she insisted.”

  “She doesn’t understand you at all!” I said, lightly.

  “I know. She’s great,” he said, “I know she is, but sometimes it doesn’t make any sense. Her and I together. Right?”

  “Aw, I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “Opposites attract, and all that. You clearly care about each other. Plus my mom definitely wants you to propose to her.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to maintain composure too. “Sparkly crap. Why was that so funny?” He sighed. “Thanks for telling me. I can just see myself saying thank God you didn’t try to throw me a party, because I hate that shit over the dessert course or something.”

  I finished my drink and crunched an ice cube between molars. “Maybe it’ll be fun.”

  “Maybe.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror behind the bar again. Tom said, grinning, “Remember my birthday last year?”

  A little of bit heat rose to my face. “Yeah.”

  “That was a good night,” he said.

  It meant something to me, that he thought so too. “Yeah.”

  We sat there for a little while longer as he finished his beer, and then he reached for his wallet but I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Nobody buys the drinks on their birthday.”

  “Wow, sparkly crap and free beer?”

  “It’s your lucky day, truly. Now go home, be chill, do not tell her I ruined the surprise.”

  “Our little secret.” He winked at me in the mirror. “Promise. Hey, Roxane?”

  “Yeah?”

  For a second it looked like he was going to say something profound. But he changed his mind and just shrugged. “See you later?”

  I nodded. “You bet.”

  He slid off his seat and I watched him walk out of the bar and into the warm afternoon, his tall form turning to shadow in the flare of light from the open door and the city street beyond.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s quite a thrill, to be writing the acknowledgments for my second book. I first want to thank everyone who read The Last Place You Look and sent me nice emails or social-media messages, wrote rev
iews, requested it from the library, talked about it, recommended it—you helped get the word out, and that means everything to me.

  The Last Place You Look was ushered into the world last year with the help of many fantastic individuals, without whom I’d be so, so lost.

  First, thanks to my agent, Jill Marsal, for her continued support. I’m thrilled to have her in my corner, and I value her expertise beyond words.

  Huge thanks to my editor, Daniela Rapp, for believing in Roxane (and for introducing me to picklebacks). The whole team at Minotaur has done so much for me—shout-outs to Lauren Jablonski, Sarah Schoof, Allison Ziegler, Joe Brosnan, and everyone else who touched the book behind the scenes.

  I also want to thank Faber & Faber for introducing me to U.K. readers and showing me the best time ever at Harrogate, especially my editor, Angus Cargill, and Lauren Nicoll.

  Big thanks to Dana Kaye and Julia Borcherts of Kaye Publicity for their excellent work on my behalf.

  Thanks to Karen Brissette for rallying the Goodreads troops and generally being awesome.

  Thanks to indie bookstores like The Book Loft, Gramercy Books, Mystery Lovers, Centuries & Sleuths, and Trident for welcoming me in and taking good care of me.

  I’m tremendously grateful to some fellow crime writers who’ve been generous and patient in helping a newbie out, from blurbs to blogs to shared train rides, and so on, including: Lori Rader-Day, Christopher Coake, Rob Hart, Chris Holm, James Renner, Michael Kardos, Sophie Hannah, Val McDermid, Martina Cole, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Alafair Burke, Erica Wright, and Andrew Welsh-Huggins.

  Thanks to my Pitch Wars family, especially Kellye Garrett and the class of ’15. Also to my 17 Scribes family, for almost always having answers. And to my actual family, especially my parents, for being the best salespeople anyone could hope for.