Caroline nodded. “So she tells Jackson.”
The green eyes locked on Caroline now. “It was over, Caroline.”
“Was it? Perhaps you’d care to tell me about that.”
Slowly, Brett nodded. When she spoke again, her voice was thick.
“James was so attractive—with him, it was a weakness. This girl, Megan, began looking for him around campus—the library, the student union, after class. Almost like she’d figured out his schedule.” Brett’s face took on an unsettled look. “There was something creepy about it—”
“And how did James feel?”
Brett began to answer and then looked at Caroline as if one thought had interrupted another. Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry, Caroline. I wish you weren’t so angry with me.”
Caroline tilted her head. “Am I?”
“Yes. In that way you seem to have.”
In Caroline’s silence, Brett’s green eyes seemed to fill with challenge and vulnerability. Tersely, Caroline answered, “My emotions, whatever they are, don’t matter. Yours do. And his.”
Brett folded her arms. After a time, she said, “I think James was attracted to her at first. Something about being stalked was flattering.”
“Is that how you saw it—she was ‘stalking’ him?”
Brett nodded. “I could forgive that much. I mean, he wasn’t the aggressor….”
Her voice fell off. Caroline felt the damp in her hair, the wetness on her face. The mist of her breath hung in the air. “What was it,” she asked softly, “that was harder to forgive?”
Brett swallowed, looked down, then quickly up at Caroline. “I went to his room one night, to pick up some notes I’d left there. I thought he was going to be out. Instead I found Megan.”
“Found?”
“Yes.” Brett’s voice was toneless. “In bed with him.”
“What happened?”
“I just stared at both of them. James looked ashamed and caught, somehow. But she was almost smiling at me, with the strangest glint—like she’d won some contest. I’ve never hated a woman so much.”
All at once, Caroline registered that Brett’s reaction to Megan reflected that of Daniel Suarez. Sharply, she asked, “So what did you do?”
Brett exhaled, then said, “I knew I couldn’t stay there—I’d scream or cry, make a fool of myself in front of him and this woman. So I pulled the key off my chain, threw it on the bed, and told him in the calmest voice I could, ‘If you want to tell me about this, you can call.’” Pausing, her voice was soft with hurt. “Then I left.”
“Did you say anything else? To him, or to her?”
“Lots to him. But I never said a word to her. Then, or ever.”
“No?”
“No. Why give her the satisfaction?”
“And James?”
“Came to my room that night.” Brett shook her head, and then her voice fell. “He promised me it would never happen again, told me she’d just kept after him. And then he seemed to realize that sounded so pathetic that he began to cry….”
“What did you do?”
“Just sat there, I think, shaking my head. I said maybe he had a problem, one I couldn’t live with. That I didn’t even want to try…” Her voice filled with wonder. “He wanted to make love with me.”
Despite herself, Caroline gave a short laugh, harsh to her own ears.
Brett looked at her. In a tone of remembered scorn and anger, she said, “I told him not without a rubber.”
Caroline placed her hands on her hips. “Which is why,” she said, “you brought a rubber that night. And why you weren’t going to California.”
“Part of it. Yes.” She paused. “Maybe other women could live with that kind of doubt. But I don’t think I could have.”
Caroline looked at her closely. “Why were you even with him?”
Brett seemed to collect herself. “Because he promised me, and because I cared for him enough to try.” She looked away. “As far as I know, he kept his word.”
Caroline watched her. “How long ago was this?”
“April.” Her voice was soft again. “I remember because it was two days before my birthday.”
Caroline was quiet for a time. “Did you ever threaten him? Or her?”
“Threaten?” Brett looked at her sharply, and alarm filled her voice. “No. Never. Who says I did?”
“Megan, I think. Though Jackson won’t tell me who—”
“That’s bullshit.”
Caroline simply gazed at her. “You want to know,” Brett said quietly, “why I didn’t tell you. And why you should believe me now.”
It was time, Caroline thought, to tell her. “It hardly matters…” she began.
“No,” Brett interjected. “I want to explain.”
Caroline felt tired. “I already know,” she said tonelessly. “Because you thought that you’d look guilty.”
“That’s part of it.” Brett’s eyes filled with apprehension. “But there’s something else I didn’t tell you…”
“What?”
“We fought that night.” Brett stopped, and then said, “It was over her….”
Facing James in the darkness, Brett shook her head, as if to clear it. “There are too many surprises, too close together. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
There was pain on his face, and somehow this made her angry. “What do I mean? Besides this latest thing?”
James studied Brett with new intensity. “Her? It’s over.”
She stood straighter. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt me? Do you think me finding you fucking that bitch was something sad that happened to you?” Her voice filled with wonder. “Do I even exist for you outside of what you need from me?”
He stretched out his hands. “Brett, please. Will you stop punishing me?”
Her voice went cold. “I didn’t punish you enough. That’s why you’re able to feel so picked on. And why I still feel so much pain and anger that I wake up at night and see you in bed with her.”
Her voice carried on the water. James looked around them, as if they might be overheard. More quietly, he said, “I know I hurt you. I saw it on your face. When I started crying that night, ashamed of what I’d done, did you think it was just for me?”
It did not seem to help. Tonelessly, she said, “Who knows.”
James came toward her. “I know.”
“Well, I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.” She shook her head. “I need time, all right, to know if I can trust you again. And now you tell me I’m out of time. Because of something else I have no say in. Just a little problem involving drugs that has you jumping at every noise in the woods. Or so you tell me…”
Turning from him, Brett walked to the water’s edge.
After a time, she heard his footsteps behind her, then saw his faint reflection in the water next to hers, a slender profile with hands jammed in his pockets. He made no move to touch her.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She hunched her shoulders, helpless. “I don’t know….”
Even in the rain, Brett’s face was tear-streaked. “I was afraid to tell you,” she murmured. “About being so angry at him.”
“Because you thought it would look bad?”
Brett shook her head. “Because it was like I’d done something bad.” Her voice seemed to fill with superstition. “Like I’d been so angry that it somehow killed him….”
Caroline was suddenly shaken. Carefully, she asked, “Is that what you think happened?”
“No.” Brett’s voice was fierce now. “But when you said they might think that drugs made me lose my temper, it scared me. Like I could never admit we fought.”
Caroline faced her. “Well,” she said softly, “you don’t have to admit that. Even to your lawyer.”
Brett stared at her. Before she could ask, Caroline said, “They’ve decided to arrest you, Brett. For first-degree murder.”
Brett seemed to take a backward step, face filling with shock. “Why?”
“Because of Megan. She claims that you stalked James out of jealousy and threatened both their lives. From where Jackson sits, he may not have much choice.”
There were no tears now, no protest. In a dispirited voice, Brett said, “She must truly hate me….”
Caroline gazed at her, trying to decipher the meaning of that. Then she made herself say, “Jackson wants you to come in voluntarily, by tomorrow afternoon. He’ll keep you in Connaughton Falls. I think you’ll have to stay there.”
Brett closed her eyes. “Brett,” Caroline said gently, “your parents already know. Before you decide anything, all of you will have to talk this over. I’ll try to help find you a lawyer.”
Slowly, Brett nodded. There was something in the gesture that Caroline found wrenching; it was as if Brett had lied and thus earned Caroline’s abandonment.
Swallowing, she opened her eyes. “Tomorrow,” she asked simply, “will you be there?”
Caroline hesitated and then saw the look on Brett’s face. “Yes,” she said softly. “Of course.”
Silent, they turned, hands in their pockets, and walked together to the house.
The next afternoon, when she came for Brett, seemed to Caroline incongruously bright.
Brett was waiting on the porch with a duffel bag. In an awkward clump beside her were her parents and her grandfather.
Channing looked shaken, haunted, and much older; it was as if, Caroline reflected, his own mortality had seeped to the surface of his skin. Betty and Larry were grim, uncertain of what to do or say. Betty had the wounded eyes of someone who has received a shock too heavy and sudden to absorb; she looked at Brett with such inarticulate fear and love that Caroline could not watch it.
Facing Brett, she spoke to her quietly. “We should go.”
Brett nodded. As she turned to her family, Caroline edged away. She watched Betty hug her stiffly, kiss her dry-eyed on the cheek, then fold her arms and look at the porch. Saw Larry’s wan smile as he clasped Brett’s shoulders. And then Channing, the one with tears in his eyes.
His voice was rough, strong. “Don’t worry,” Caroline heard him say. “I’ll have you out soon. Believe that, Brett.”
An old man’s useless promise, Caroline thought, in a time that has outlasted his power. As if knowing this, Brett pulled her grandfather close.
Awkwardly, the girl turned from them, walked to Caroline, and nodded. As they turned to leave, Betty gazed at Caroline as if she had stolen her child.
In the car, Brett said, “I told them not to come. It would only make things worse.”
Caroline nodded. “Did you bring books?”
“Yes.” As Caroline started the car, Brett turned to her. “What will this place be like?”
“Somewhat bleak.” Caroline tried sounding matter-of-fact. “The good thing is that it’s a converted county hospital, so it wasn’t designed as a prison. An economy move in the great New Hampshire tradition.”
For that moment, the misery in Brett’s eyes eased. Calm, Caroline guessed, was what Brett needed. So for the twenty-minute drive, Caroline was calm. It was the longest twenty minutes in her recent memory.
The arraignment itself, quick and quiet, was a blur to Caroline; her clearest impression was of Brett’s stoicism. And then, as promised, Jackson let her come with Brett to the county prison.
The converted hospital in Connaughton Falls—a three-story red-brick building from the late 1800s—also served as the police station. Caroline and Brett crossed its shaded grounds, flanked by two police officers, Brett gazing at the windows in the upper floors.
“I’ll be up there?” she asked.
“Yes. They’ll have a separate cell for you.”
Brett’s steps slowed. She turned, looking at the sunlit grounds. Caroline waited, hand on the double door, until Brett went inside.
The booking desk waited in a stark green rectangle. Next to the young patrolman at the desk waited Jackson Watts, with a short-haired female trooper. All that he said to Caroline was, “They’re ready for her.”
The young cop booked her, printed her, input the bare facts of her life on an old computer. Jackson stood in a corner, Caroline close to Brett. The stoic look Brett fought to maintain pierced Caroline’s heart.
Was it possible, Caroline wondered, that she had not killed him? Or had Caroline simply crossed the line between lawyer and someone else.
The policeman, she realized, was looking at her. “We’re done,” he said.
Startled from thought, Caroline turned to Brett. Softly, she said, “It’s time now.”
It changed something in Brett’s face. As if to brace her, Caroline clasped her shoulders. “You’ll be all right.”
Brett’s pleading eyes were her sole answer; by now, Caroline knew that Brett would not ask her to stay. Silent, Brett turned her head.
“It’s all right,” Caroline murmured again, and pulled her close.
“I didn’t kill him….”
She felt so slight, Caroline thought. Over Brett’s shoulder, she mouthed to Jackson, “Wait.”
He nodded, eyes intent on Caroline.
She held Brett as the girl wept without sound. For this, at least, Caroline had nothing but time.
A few moments passed; Brett seemed to have wept herself out. But it was Caroline, now, who did not know how to leave.
Slowly, Brett looked up at her. Her eyes showed both fear and resolve. “It’s okay….”
Caroline felt Jackson watching her, the last monitor of reason. And then, against her will, she took Brett’s face in her hands. “I’ll stay,” she said gently. “Until you don’t need a lawyer.”
Beyond Brett’s expression of surprise and gratitude, Caroline saw Jackson’s look of astonishment. When the deputy took Brett away, her eyes were still on Caroline. Jackson watched them both.
Caroline turned and left through the wooden doors.
It was done.
Alone in her room, Caroline did not call Masters Hill. She did not speak to anyone.
On the bed beside her was the number of the Cahill Knife Company.
In what felt like a final loss of will, Caroline reached for the phone.
“Cahill,” the operator said.
Caroline read the name she had written, asked for the clerk. When she answered, Caroline sounded quite calm. “This is Caroline Masters. You may remember I called the other day. About a serial number on a Cahill knife.”
A moment’s silence. Coolly, the clerk told her, “Like I thought, we can’t tell you where we shipped it. Not who bought it, or even who sold it to them.”
“I understand.” Caroline paused. “You thought you might know the year it was made.”
“Yes.” The voice was more patient now. “I can tell you that much.” A brief shuffling of papers, muffled by the phone. “Here it is. From what I’ve written down, it was made in 1964. Early in the year.”
Caroline kept her voice steady. “Nineteen sixty-four.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said politely, and put the phone down.
With an odd detachment, she held her hands in front of her and saw that they were shaking.
Part III
Summer 1964
One
When Nicole Masters proposed to take her to Martha’s Vineyard three weeks earlier than planned, Caroline had been surprised.
“It will be the two of us,” her mother said with a smile. “A little time, perhaps, before we exile you to boarding school.”
Caroline adored her father and would miss him. But she loved the house at Eel Pond, the days spent sailing in the Crosby catboat her father had bought the summer before. And her mother’s excitement pleased her. Nicole was often distant, her moods so mutable that Caroline was never quite sure how her mother felt about her, or about Channing himself: as she moved toward young womanhood, Caroline had become preternaturally sensitive to the growing
silences between her parents, divining some intricate scheme of cause and effect—in her father’s affection for her, Caroline felt her mother’s withdrawal.
To Caroline, the signs of this withdrawal were, as so often with her mother, unspoken. Her occasional trips with Channing to New York City—which had seemed Nicole’s greatest pleasure—no longer occurred, though Caroline did not know why. Nicole’s response was to take less interest in their home and village. She spent long days in her room; with the other women of their class—the wives of lawyers or doctors or bankers—Nicole maintained a polite acquaintance, the by-product of their husbands’ prominence, which now lacked all pretense of intimacy. This spring, Caroline had noticed that her mother, who loved small things of beauty, no longer planted the bright flowers she once maintained in the rear garden. With instinctive caution, Caroline did not ask her why.
The trip to Martha’s Vineyard happened suddenly. The three of them were at the dinner table; Caroline’s father was describing, as if to Caroline alone, how his grandfather had come to have their summer home pulled by oxen to Eel Pond. Across from her husband, Nicole listened with a politeness so unvarying that Caroline could feel the minutes passing in her mother’s mind.
As if to compensate, Caroline said to her father, “I can’t wait to go back. When will we?”
Her father smiled. “July. Only a month now.”
“Perhaps you can go sooner.” Her mother had not spoken for some time; as Nicole turned to her, Caroline felt surprise. “I may be able to discard my many obligations, Caroline, and leave early. With your father’s consent, of course.”
This cool touch of irony made Caroline glance at Channing. But his fathomless gaze was fixed on Nicole. Her look at him was steady; perhaps only Caroline would have felt this as a challenge. In her own discomfort, Caroline said to Channing, “Do you think we could, Father? I could sail the new boat.”
For another moment, Channing considered his wife. Then he turned to Caroline with a small, reflective smile. “Of course, Caroline. It was rather a long winter. For both of you.”
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