Best Friends Forever

by Margot Hunt

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you remember I once told you that when I was young, my mother constantly warned me about whom I was friends with? That she told me over and over again anyone who wanted to get close to me was only doing so because of who our family was?”

  I nodded. How could I forget something so creepy?

  “I lied to you when I told you that,” Kat said.

  “You did? So your mom was okay with your having friends?”

  “No, that part was true. I lied when I said I already had a group of friends I could trust. I never did. I wanted to, but whenever I started feeling like I could be close with someone, I’d hear my mother’s voice in my ear,” Kat said. She imitated Eleanor Wyeth’s voice with chilling precision. “‘You can’t trust anyone, Katherine. You think they’re your friends, but they’re all users, looking for what they can get from you.’ I was ten. After she told me that, I had a hard time trusting anyone.”

  “Jesus,” I said. Revulsion churned in my stomach, partly because of how ugly the word users was, but also because if I was here, at this beautiful hotel, on this dream of a weekend, all on Kat’s dime, what did that make me? Was I just another of the users Mrs. Wyeth had warned Kat about?

  “Well, Eleanor will never win any awards for Mother of the Year, that’s for sure.” Kat picked up the sunscreen, squirted a blob of it onto her hand and began rubbing SPF 55 over her arms.

  “Pass the sunscreen,” I said. Once Kat handed it over, I began slathering it over my limbs, which were already looking suspiciously pink. Like most redheads, I didn’t tan or even freckle. I burned. Whenever I was at the beach, I had to hide under large floppy hats and sun umbrellas, and constantly reapply my sunscreen. “What did your mother do?”

  Kat laughed, but it was a cynical laugh without much humor. “What didn’t she do? She tried to control every single aspect of my life. What I ate, what I wore, whom I associated with. She picked my hairstyle, my extracurricular activities, even the boys I eventually dated.”

  It was not hard to picture the Eleanor Wyeth I’d met as an iron-fisted control freak.

  “When I was fifteen, my mother decided I needed to lose ten pounds,” Kat continued. “I wasn’t even overweight. I just wasn’t rail thin. So she put me on a diet, then harassed me and bullied me and berated me until I lost the weight. She used to force me to go out on runs in the middle of the day in the summer because she believed that I’d sweat out more fat. I passed out once and woke up on a neighbor’s lawn with the yard man standing over me with a rake in one hand.”

  “Like in a creepy way?”

  “No, I think he was actually trying to be helpful. He pulled me up and got me a glass of water. When I recounted it to Eleanor later, she told me to stop being so dramatic. I just needed to be more disciplined. Then, to draw a line under this point, she gave me a salad for dinner with one slice of tomato and no dressing.”

  “That’s abusive.”

  “It definitely was,” Kat said. “The worst, though, were the put-downs. I have never been pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough to please her. Not by the standards my mother set. And she let me know it every single day of my life.”

  “Have you ever talked to anyone about this?”

  “Like who?”

  “A therapist or your father—anyone?”

  “My father.” Kat shook her head. “I asked him once why he didn’t take my side in the endless battles with my mother. He told me, ‘You’ll leave in a few years, and then it will be just your mother and me left here at home. That’s why I have to take her side.’” Kat laughed her mirthless laugh again. “Typical of my father. Brave when facing anyone and everyone except my mother. Then he turns into a spineless shit.”

  I turned to look at my friend, who suddenly appeared small and hunched up on her lounge chair.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, extending an arm in her direction.

  “You know me. I’m always okay,” Kat said. She arched her back to roll her shoulders and then reached out to raise the flag behind her chair. “But I do need a drink.”

  The beach attendant raced over. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have a vodka and soda with a splash of grapefruit juice,” Kat said. She looked over at me, her eyebrows raised.

  My plans to teetotal that day evaporated. “I’ll have the same,” I said, trying not to think about what a beachside drink here would cost.

  “I love this flag,” Kat said. “Do you think I can get one for my house?”

  “Of course. But to recreate this, you’ll also have to hire someone who runs over to take your order when you raise the flag.”

  Kat snapped her fingers. “Foiled at every turn.” She shifted on the chaise. “Will you toss me back the sunscreen? I’m going to look like a tomato if I get any more color. You were smart to bring a hat. I should go in and buy one in the gift shop.”

  I handed her the bottle. She squirted the lotion into her hand, and the chemical scent of fake coconuts filled the air.

  “Why do you think your mom did that to you?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe she was threatened by the fact that she was getting older, and suddenly had a young, pretty daughter to compete with,” Kat said, carelessly dropping the sunscreen down onto the hot sand. “Or maybe she’s just always been bug-fucking nuts. That gets my vote.”

  I thought about my relationship with my daughter. Any fears I had about Bridget growing older, entering puberty, becoming a sexual being were focused on her being victimized by the predators of the world. Everyone loved a pretty girl, especially the freaks and deviants. I had certainly never been threatened by her youth, or viewed her as my competition.

  “How did you cope?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. How do kids ever cope? Aren’t we all, in the end, a product of our parents’ bad parenting?” Kat asked flatly. “I’m the person my mother created. It’s all her fault.”

  I considered this. I knew my own family dynamics—my parents’ divorce, my father’s remarriage, my mother’s haphazard parenting—had formed me, molding me into the remote, analytical adult I now was. It wasn’t hard to see that as a result of the chaos, I had craved order, had even made it my career.

  Our drinks arrived then, this time hand-delivered by the dimpled Hudson. At his appearance, a light switched on inside Kat. I could almost see her mentally cast aside her sad reminisces and revert back to her usual effervescent self. Even after Hudson left, returning to the tiki bar, I didn’t have the heart to bring up her childhood again, or to ask Kat what she meant when she said it was her mother’s fault she had turned into the person she was today.

  Maybe I should have.

  * * *

  My doorbell rang, and I started. I’d lost track of the fact that I was sitting at my desk, staring into space. I closed my laptop, stood and arched my back to alleviate the tightness caused by hunching over my computer for so long. I headed to the front door, expecting to find a Girl Scout hawking Thin Mints or a neighbor asking me to sign a petition against the pollution of our local waterways.

  But as it turned out, it was neither.

  Instead, for the second time in a little over a week, Detective Demer and Sergeant Oliver were standing on my front step. Oliver looked smug, which should have tipped me off that something unpleasant was about to occur. But I was distracted by the sky, which had turned gray and ominously dark. I’d been so immersed in reading the texts between Kat and Marcia, I hadn’t noticed a storm was rolling in.

  “Mrs. Campbell,” Detective Demer said in his calm, deep voice, “can you please step outside?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Howard Grant.”

  23

  The next twenty-four hours were a nightmare.

  Detective Demer and Sergeant Oliver transport
ed me nearly forty-five minutes north to the Martin County Sheriff’s Office. When I asked why I was being taken out of Palm Beach County, Demer explained that the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department didn’t have a jail and the Grants’ house—and the scene of the alleged crime—was located in Martin County. All pretrial detainees were booked into the Martin County Jail.

  He’d allowed me to call Todd before we left my house. Oliver had protested this.

  “Why should she get special treatment?” the sergeant had snapped.

  But Demer had looked down at me, and for a moment I had the oddest feeling that he didn’t want to arrest me. That in some way he was sympathetic to what I was going through.

  “Please,” I’d said. “I have to let my husband know he needs to pick our children up from school.”

  Demer had nodded. “Go ahead.”

  I’d called Todd, but maddeningly he didn’t pick up. The call went to voice mail.

  “I’m being arrested,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded. “I need you to pick up Liam and Bridget from school, and then hire a criminal defense attorney. Not John Donnelly. Someone else. One of the school dads, Alan Feldman, is a tax attorney. Call him. He might be able to recommend someone.” I’d hesitated, then added, “I love you.”

  After I hung up, Sergeant Oliver read me my rights, simultaneously taking out her handcuffs.

  “I don’t think cuffs are necessary,” Demer said.

  “It’s protocol,” Oliver snapped.

  Demer did instruct her to cuff my wrists in front of me instead of behind my back like she wanted to. My comfort was not at the top of her concerns, but she acquiesced.

  Oliver drove, heading north on US 1. Demer sat in the passenger seat, while I rode in the back, my handcuffed wrists resting on my lap. For a while, we passed by the strip malls, restaurants, car dealerships and marine supply stores that made up the main commercial area of Jupiter. I wondered if I’d be spotted in the back of a police car by anyone I knew.

  “We have some time on our hands,” Demer said, breaking the silence. “Is there anything you feel like talking about?”

  I ignored him and continued to stare out the window. The Intracoastal Waterway came into view. Across it, I could just glimpse Jupiter Island.

  “For example, we could talk about why you lied about where you were on the night of Howard Grant’s death,” the detective said in a conversational tone.

  “What?” I couldn’t help but say. “I didn’t lie.”

  “You said you were walking on the beach. But one of the traffic cameras took a photo of you on South Beach Road heading toward Jupiter Island,” Demer said.

  “Which has beaches. That’s where I went to walk.”

  “There’s a beach less than a half mile from your house. You would have had to pass right by it on your way to Jupiter Island. Why wouldn’t you walk there?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t put a lot of thought into it. I was angry, so I left my house. I drove around for a while. Then I decided I felt like taking a walk. Why does it matter where I accessed the beach?”

  “It matters, because it puts you within a few miles of the Grants’ house on the night Howard Grant was murdered,” Demer explained.

  “That’s why you arrested me? Because I walked on a beach that was a few miles away from Kat’s house?” I was incredulous.

  Sergeant Oliver had been quiet until then, but she obviously couldn’t help herself. “You can cut the innocent act. We know Katherine Grant gave you twenty thousand dollars.”

  For a moment I felt like I couldn’t quite breathe. They knew Kat had loaned us that money. A loan we hadn’t paid back. But, wait...how did they know? And why was it even relevant? She had given me that check over a year ago. Unless it finally gave the police a missing piece in their theory. Kat wanted Howard dead. And Kat gave me twenty thousand dollars.

  I was beginning to understand why they had arrested me.

  Breathe, I thought. Think.

  “Have you heard from Katherine Grant?” Demer asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The day we interviewed you, you said you hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Grant since she returned home from her trip to London. I was wondering if you’d gotten back in touch with her.” Demer’s tone was conversational, as though we were casual acquaintances discussing whether it was likely to rain later in the day.

  “I’m not going to say anything without my lawyer present.”

  “Okay,” Demer said. “Let me know if you change your mind. We do have some time to kill.”

  I pressed my lips together and looked back out the window.

  * * *

  When we got to the Martin County Jail, the following things happened:

  Sergeant Oliver removed my handcuffs. Then she and Demer handed me over to a female uniformed Martin County Sheriff’s deputy who didn’t bother to introduce herself. She was short, with a muscular build, large brown eyes and unusually shiny dark hair. Under different circumstances, I would have asked her what hair products she used. As it was, I was too focused on trying not to throw up.

  This new officer brought me into another room, this one small and windowless and furnished with only a utilitarian bench. She closed the door to protect my privacy, which was pretty much the high point of what happened over the next ten minutes.

  I was instructed to take off all my clothes, including my underwear. I did so, folding them neatly and placing them on the bench as though I were just at my gynecologist’s office and the nurse had asked me to disrobe. Any delusions I might have had that this search would be anything nearly similar to a gynecological exam were quickly dispelled.

  The deputy picked up my clothes. She first shook them out, then ran her hands over all the seams, apparently checking for drugs or needles or God knows what, while I stood there, naked, trying to cover myself with my hands.

  The deputy then told me to lean forward and run my fingers through my hair. Then she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and issued a set of terse instructions, which I did my best to follow.

  “Pull your ears forward.”

  “Open your mouth and move your tongue from side to side.”

  “Tip your head back.”

  She checked all of these spaces, as well as my armpits and under my breasts. Then came the most humiliating part of the examination. I was instructed to spread my legs, bend over, and, finally, to squat and cough. It was awful and humiliating, and by the time it was over, my eyes were stinging with tears.

  How has this become my life? I wondered, swallowing back the sob building in my chest.

  At least the deputy hadn’t made it worse than it had to be. She wasn’t rough with me or unnecessarily cruel. If anything, she seemed almost bored by the exam. But then, unlike me, she probably did this every day.

  Once she’d ascertained that I wasn’t carrying any contraband inside my body, I was given back the underwear and sports bra I’d been wearing earlier, along with a set of dark green scrubs and plastic shower slides.

  “Put these on,” the officer said. She stood and waited while I dressed in the scrubs, then escorted me out to the main booking room.

  The rest of the booking process reminded me of waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, only with the horrifying addition that at the end of it, I was going to be imprisoned. They were processing quite a few people that day, so at each station—intake, fingerprints, photos—there was a line. While we waited our turn, we sat in a holding room behind a heavy sliding door. There was an officer present, watching over us. Not everyone was handcuffed, although I was, probably based on the severity of the charges against me. I did my best not to make eye contact with him or any of my fellow arrestees.

  One of the men also waiting to get processed was watching me. He was heavily tattooed and had a goatee and shaved head. The weight of his st
are felt dirty.

  Finally he said, “Hey, there, Ginger. Does the rug match the curtains?”

  This earned him a chuckle from a few of the others. Encouraged, he stuck out his tongue and waggled it in my direction.

  “Knock it off,” the attending officer said in a bored voice.

  I folded into myself and wished I could become invisible.

  One by one, we were called out for the various phases of booking, then sent back to the holding area to wait some more. I was given a wristband with a number and my photo on it. It reminded me of the ones I had worn at the hospital when I was giving birth.

  I noticed that the deputies in charge of shepherding us through the booking procedures were not in any obvious hurry to process the prisoners in the most efficient way possible. Instead they stood around cracking jokes and talking about the latest episode of The Voice. I was fairly sure that one of the deputies, an overweight man with a cherubic face, had a crush on the woman who had strip-searched me. He kept attempting to engage her, while she smiled with polite disinterest.

  I tried to do as I was told, determined not to ask too many questions. But finally I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I asked the deputy taking my fingerprints what would happen next.

  She paused as though considering whether she wanted to tell me. But maybe the desperation in my voice moved her, or maybe it was just the fact that they hadn’t found any drugs inside my anus.

  “You’ll be brought before the judge tomorrow. He’ll make a decision on bail then,” she said.

  That one word—tomorrow—was so horrifying that for a moment I couldn’t even breathe.

  “Tomorrow?” I repeated. “What about tonight?”

  But the talking part of our interview was over. She pursed her lips and pressed my fingertips against the blotter.

  * * *

  I was brought back to a pod. That was what they called the prisoners’ living area—a pod. It consisted of a brightly lit central room built out of cinder blocks and painted a dirty cream with a jaunty dark green stripe around the middle. It reminded me of the common room in my freshman dorm at college, although here, the only furniture in sight was a group of tables and benches, all of which were bolted to the floor. There was also a television suspended from the ceiling, tuned to a game show, and a shelf that held a battered-looking assortment of board games. The room smelled terrible, a combination of locker room funk and bleach. The pod was filled with women, most of whom were younger than me. They barely looked up as the deputy and I passed, which I took as a good sign. I didn’t want to attract any attention.