For Better and Worse

by Margot Hunt

  I had a feeling I knew exactly what they’d found, but waited.

  “Kiddie porn. Nasty stuff, as bad as I’ve ever seen. That’s not being made public, by the way. But I got to thinking. What would I do if someone like that perverted sack of shit—pardon my language...” The sheriff raised a hand in apology. “If a man like that targeted my grandsons? Or had targeted my daughter when she was their age? I have a feeling I would not have taken that well.”

  “I imagine it would be devastating,” I said quietly.

  “Just so. Devastating is the right word. When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me, ‘Some people just need killing.’ I always thought that he was being overly harsh. After all, my dad also made me go to Sunday school, where they talked about turning the other cheek and forgiving your neighbor. But if you live the life I’ve lived, seen the things I’ve seen...” He shrugged, as if trying to push away a whole history of bad memories. “I can’t say that my father was wrong.”

  I stared at the sheriff, whose entire job—entire life—was devoted to enforcing the law, not quite sure that I was hearing him correctly. He looked right back to me, his gaze not wavering from mine.

  “I’m assuming this is not the beginning of a crime spree,” the sheriff stated. He didn’t wait for a reply, which was good, because I wasn’t about to say a word. “That this was a one-and-done sort of thing.”

  I exhaled, not quite believing what I was hearing.

  “The way I see it, a mom or dad, or most likely both parents did the world a favor.” He tapped his desk again.

  I just held his gaze and my breath.

  “I’m going to tell the detectives to close the case. Reddick won’t like it, but Monroe will get him to go along with it. Monroe’s old-school, like me. He knows that sometimes certain cases are special situations and need to be handled differently. And really, it’s entirely possible that Gibbons’s death was accidental. He drank too much, took too much oxycodone and passed out facedown onto a pillow.” The sheriff shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Except for the fact that his body had been found faceup and the pillow he was smothered with had vanished, I thought.

  The sheriff continued. “I had a talk with the State’s Attorney on Mr. Frey’s case.”

  “Felicia Dibble,” I supplied. “She’s gunning for him.”

  “Right.” The sheriff’s lips quirked up. “It didn’t take much to persuade her to fast-track his prosecution on the new drug charges.”

  “But...” I said, another tremor of fear passing over me.

  “There are steps that can be taken...” the sheriff remarked, “Ms. Dibble is going to make sure our friend Rio goes to jail for a very, very long time.”

  Sheriff Nolan rubbed the knuckles of one hand under his chin. “I know how to talk sense into the Rio Freys of the world.”

  Chapter 33

  I sat cross-legged on our low platform bed and recounted everything that had happened that morning to Will, while he paced around the bedroom. He had called his office to tell them he was home sick for the day and instead waited for me to return home. Or, I suppose, waited to see if he needed to turn himself in, should the meeting have gone in a radically different direction.

  “It’s really over?” Will asked. He shook his head and looked dazed. “Just like that?”

  “That’s what the sheriff said. ‘Some people need killing’ were his exact words. It was like something out of the Wild West.”

  “But that’s just it. We don’t live in the Wild West. The police aren’t supposed to wink and look the other way. They have evidence connecting us to Robert’s murder, and they’re just going to drop the whole investigation?”

  “I guess so.” I’d had longer to process what the sheriff had told me, but it still seemed unreal. “We’re going to have to be careful. I got the feeling that Detective Reddick will not be happy the sheriff is shutting down his investigation.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It means he may keep digging, in an unofficial capacity. I don’t think he’ll find anything, although Rio Frey’s recording is still out there somewhere. It’s a loose end. But evidence like that can disappear, as well, I guess. At least, we’ll hope it does.”

  “Jesus. So it’s over...but it’s never really going to be over.”

  “Right.” I looked at my husband’s anxious face and wondered if he’d be able to handle the situation. Being under suspicion, being watched. At least he’d stopped drowning himself in bourbon for the past few nights.

  “And the sheriff asked you for a check? Just flat-out said, ‘And this will go away’?”

  “He didn’t put it quite like that. Anyway, if that’s what it takes for this to go away, I’m more than happy to donate to his reelection campaign. And all future reelection campaigns.”

  I didn’t tell Will my greater fear, which was that a campaign donation wouldn’t be the only favor the sheriff called in. That at some point, I’d be representing a client in a case the sheriff found inconvenient and I might get another phone call from his office, requesting yet another private meeting. Only this time, he’d suggest it might be beneficial for me to lean on my client, to convince him to accept a plea deal offer he’d been reluctant to take. I didn’t think the sheriff was a dishonorable man, but he clearly had a pragmatic view of the world, where the ends usually justified the means.

  I wondered how I’d handle it if he did ask me. It would probably depend on the case, I thought, and on the client. But I suddenly knew with a cold certainty that I’d go along with it, if I could. I’d do anything to keep my family safe. My younger, more righteous self, the one who believed passionately in due process, would no doubt have been horrified by this. But the last traces of that idealistic girl had been forever lost the moment I decided to kill Robert.

  “Maybe we should move,” Will suggested. “Relocate to Tampa or maybe Jacksonville. Sell the house, make a fresh start. Get the hell away from here.”

  “The sheriff told me specifically not to move as long as he’s in office. It’s one of the terms he set forth.” It was also why I suspected that the sheriff might not be done with me just yet.

  “Jesus.” Will sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to sag under his weight. “He can’t do that, can he? He can’t make us stay here.”

  “Yes,” I said. I picked up a pillow, hugged it to my chest. “He can. He has enough evidence tying us to Robert’s death that he could arrest us right now, if he wanted to.”

  “Why would he make our staying here a condition of this deal? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants to keep tabs on us.”

  “Does he really think we’re going to kill someone else?” Will asked. “That’s crazy.”

  He seemed to have completely forgotten that he had suspected just this, when he worried that I might kill Venetia after learning that she knew what Robert was. Although I had to admit, at least to myself, it did rankle that after throwing a small—and from what I’d heard, poorly attended—memorial service for Robert, Venetia had escaped back to her pottery painting studio in Oregon without having to bear any cost for what she had kept hidden.

  It bothered me quite a lot.

  “No, I don’t think he believes we’re a danger,” I said, answering Will’s earlier question. “That’s the whole point. He thinks we did society a favor. It’s why he’s willing to let us get away with it.”

  “With conditions.”

  “Right. With conditions.”

  “You know this is insane, right?” Will waved his hands in the air. “All of it—that we did it, that they caught us and that we’re walking away with no consequences.” Will shook his head. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “Does it finally end here, then? Are we safe?”


  “I don’t know.” I hugged the pillow closer to me. “I hope so, but... I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  * * *

  Detective Gavin Reddick showed up in my office two days later. Stella was at lunch, so the detective appeared at my open door and rapped lightly on the frame. I wasn’t particularly surprised to see him.

  “Hello, Detective,” I said.

  “I thought it was time the two of us talked on our own.”

  “I always tell my clients they should never, ever talk to the police.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll talk.” Reddick walked into my office and sat in one of the visitor’s chairs without invitation. “I know what you did.”

  I gazed at him. He stared right back at me, his eyes dark and intense. I thought he was probably very good at conducting interrogations.

  “What I don’t know is how you got the sheriff to spike my investigation,” Reddick continued.

  “The sheriff doesn’t strike me as a man who can be made to do anything.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “True enough.” The almost-smile disappeared. “I know Robert Gibbons molested your son.”

  I wanted to clench my hands into fists, but I stopped myself. Instead I folded them together on top of my desk.

  “I get why you did what you did. I do. I don’t have kids myself, but—” the detective rolled his shoulders back “—if I did, I can’t say I wouldn’t want to do the same thing if I were in your position. But do you know what pisses me off?”

  I didn’t respond, of course. But then, Reddick knew I wouldn’t.

  “You see, vigilantes piss me off. They keep me from doing my job.” He pointed to himself. “If you’d come to us, filed a report, we could have nailed that son of a bitch. It’s how it’s supposed to go. We work the case, we take the bad guys down, they rot in jail for the rest of their lives. I believe in that system. I know that may sound fucking quaint and old-fashioned to you, but it means something to me. It’s why I get up every morning. So when someone like you comes along and takes the law into her own hands—and I know it was you who was behind this.” He shook his head. “No offense, but your husband doesn’t have the stones for it. But you do, don’t you?”

  I swiveled my chair away from him, to look out at the river, which was a deep blue today, the sun glinting on the surface. Gulls flew around, squawking at one another, like bickering siblings. A lone boat was cruising down the river. There was a large group on board, and even from a distance, I could see that they were partying, glasses in hand, one of the women swaying in a dance to music I couldn’t hear. Why was it that everyone’s life looked easier from a distance?

  “Whatever went down that night, you were behind it,” Reddick continued. “I may not be able to prove it, but I know. And I want you to know that I know. And I hope that someday, I get the chance to nail you for it.”

  I was still looking away, out at the water, so I didn’t see Detective Reddick stand and leave. But I sensed it. And when I finally glanced back, I was alone again.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Even though it was an overcast day in early March, and the forecast called for rain later in the day, the Clarke family went to the beach, as they always did on Sunday mornings. Will stretched out on a beach chair, hoping the sun would make an appearance. Natalie went for a long walk along the shoreline, her feet sinking in the wet sand with each step. Charlie threw the ball for Rocket, who chased after it, racing through the frothy waves lapping up on the shore.

  Will watched his son playing catch with their dog and was glad to see Charlie smiling. The past year had changed him. He was taller, and at twelve, was starting to look more like the teenager he nearly was. His face was losing its babyish curves, slowly replaced by more angular lines. Charlie seemed happier these days, less fragile than he’d been a year earlier, although he’d never quite gone back to the silly kid with the deep belly laugh he’d been before everything happened. Maybe the abuse had changed him in some fundamental way. Or maybe it was just a normal part of his growing up and growing older.

  Will then thought about the flirty text he’d received the day before from Jaime. She was divorced now. He’d heard at one point that she’d been dating someone, but maybe that hadn’t lasted. He and Jaime still worked together, of course, so he saw her all the time. For awhile after he’d ended their affair, Jaime had kept her distance and had been noticeably cool anytime they were forced together by firm business. But lately, she’d been friendlier, had even laughed at a joke he’d made last week during a partners’ meeting. And now the text. It was clearly an invitation to something more.

  He knew he’d done the right thing staying in his marriage. Charlie had needed the security of an intact family over the past year around him while he healed. But the truth was, Will missed Jaime. He missed the excitement she’d brought to his life, missed the incredible sex they’d had on her office couch behind a locked door.

  Meanwhile, he and Nat hadn’t totally reverted to the relationship they’d had before everything had happened. They talked more these days, made more of an effort to spend time together, to have date nights out, although only when Lindy was available to watch Charlie. He was too old for a babysitter, but Nat didn’t like leaving him alone at night. Things had been better between them. And, yet...occasionally he’d feel Nat’s eyes on him. When he turned to look back at her, he would be unnerved by how cold her expression was. It was as though she were examining him for signs of weakness.

  He still hadn’t decided whether or not he was going to respond to Jaime’s text.

  It’s probably a bad idea, he thought. And yet, he couldn’t quite put the thought out of his mind.

  * * *

  Natalie walked slowly down the beach, enjoying the sensation of the cool sand beneath her feet, glad that for once the sun was not blindingly bright. She thought about her week ahead. She was in court on Monday and Tuesday, and then Wednesday she was going to have to leave work early to take Charlie for his weekly appointment with Camilla. Camilla had been cautiously optimistic about the progress Charlie was making, although she was concerned about the flashes of temper he was still showing.

  “The healing will take time. Longer then you’ll want it to,” Camilla would say, and Nat had no choice but to believe her. The therapist had made progress with Charlie. That was the most important thing.

  Thursday, Nat was going out of town. Will thought she was planning to visit her brother and sister-in-law in California. He’d actually been annoyingly enthusiastic about it, clearly overjoyed at the idea of having some time away from her.

  “Of course I can handle everything here,” Will had said jovially. “Charlie and I will have some guy time. It will be good for you to have some time with your brother. You haven’t seen him in ages.”

  Will didn’t know that Nat wasn’t actually going to California. She was instead headed to Portland to visit her old friend, Venetia. The more she had thought about it over the past year, the more she became convinced that Venetia was nearly as culpable as Robert for all of the children he abused. All Venetia would have had to do was tell someone, and those innocent lives wouldn’t have been forever changed. Her refusal to act was truly unforgiveable. Venetia didn’t know Nat was coming, and certainly didn’t know the careful plans Nat had made for her.

  And this time, she wasn’t going to make any careless mistakes.

  Will also didn’t know that Nat had checked their online phone records last night, as she had every day since Will first told her about his affair. She saw he’d gotten a text from Jaime. He hadn’t responded. Yet. Nat hoped he thought carefully before he did.

  You can’t just keep making the same mistakes over and over without consequences, she thought.

  Nat finally turned and walked back down the beach toward her family. When she drew closer to them, she saw Charlie pl
aying with Rocket. She was glad he was laughing, looking like any other twelve-year-old boy without a care in the world.

  Nat sat down in her beach chair next to Will.

  “He looks happy,” she commented.

  “He does, doesn’t he,” Will agreed. He turned to her and smiled, picking up her hand and holding it lightly in his. “I’m glad we came today. I wasn’t sure the weather was going to cooperate.”

  “It worked out fine.”

  “I guess it usually does.” Will laughed, a little self-consciously.

  Nat glanced over at her husband. He’d lost more weight over the past few months. It especially showed in his face. His neck had thinned out, and his jawline was more defined. She thought back to the evening he told her about his affair, then about the text he’d received the day before from Jaime, and wondered again how many times he’d fucked his mistress, and where and how. But then she remembered how he’d shown up that night at Robert’s house, even though he hadn’t wanted to be there. And how he’d pressed a pillow over Robert’s face, pushing it down while Robert struggled and cried out, holding it there until his body went still. She thought that sometimes she loved Will, and sometimes she hated him.

  Sometimes she couldn’t tell the difference between the two.

  “My mom used to say, ‘Everything happens for a reason,’” she remarked. “I’ve always thought that was such complete bullshit.”

  “You don’t believe in fate, then?”

  “No.” Nat stretched out her legs, digging her toes into the cool sand. “Believing anything in life is fated is just a way to avoid taking responsibility.”

  “And when bad things happen?” Will asked quietly. Nat saw that he was watching Charlie carefully. They both did this. They watched and watched, looking for signs of happiness or sadness, healing or pain. Maybe all parents did. But parents of children who’d been hurt watched extra closely.

  “Then you do the best you can,” Nat said. “You fix it however you can.”