If I Die Tonight

by Alison Gaylin

  Pearl’s face was calm, unreadable. “Would you like me to leave the room, ma’am?”

  “You hate me.”

  Wacksman said, “Let’s walk back a little,” and Amy found herself doing that, walking back and living it again—the gig at Club Halifax and what had come after. It really happened, whether you think about it or not.

  “You played two shows that night?” Wacksman said. “An early show and then a private party.”

  She looked him in the eye. “The second show,” she said, “was for a much smaller audience.”

  Their house had been lovely. A Tudor with such a large dining room, that stunning chandelier . . .

  Wind said, “What songs did you play?”

  Amy felt her face flushing. “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you have anything to drink?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At the second show,” Wacksman chimed in. “Did you drink any alcohol while you were there?” That obscene smile again. “It was a concert at a private home. I’m sure cocktails were served.”

  “I might have had a little wine.”

  “Before or after?”

  Her face flushed deeper. “What?”

  “Did you drink wine before or after the show?”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  It was Wind’s turn now. “How soon did you hit the road,” she said, “after you might have had a little wine?”

  “Look,” Amy said, grateful to change the subject. “I wasn’t driving drunk, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  “Okay,” Wind said. “Where exactly was this house party?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “The incident occurred close to the corner of Orchard and Shale. We’d like to determine how long you were on the road before it happened.”

  Amy chewed on her lip. They’re never going to stop until you tell them the truth. “It was in Havenkill. I don’t remember the address, but I was probably driving for about five minutes when it happened.”

  Wind said, “That seems odd.”

  “What does?”

  “That you wouldn’t know the address of a scheduled gig. I mean . . . not even the street name? Musicians usually keep records of where they’re playing.” She turned to Wacksman. “Doesn’t that strike you as kind of odd?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does strike me as very odd.”

  Amy gripped the cold metal arms of the office chair she was sitting in. How she hated both of them, these smug, holier-than-thou cops, no different from the ones who used to hassle her outside Hollywood clubs when she was young, demanding her ID, picking through her purse in search of drugs. Only these detectives were picking through her life, weren’t they? The ugliest parts of it. “What you’re asking about has nothing to do with the creep who took my car.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Nathanson,” Wind said. “But it very well might.”

  Wacksman nodded. “We have to turn over every rock, you know.”

  Amy looked at Pearl. Her expression was softer now, almost apologetic. “If you just answer their questions, ma’am, they can move along.”

  Amy asked if she could have a glass of water—a stall tactic. And when Pearl went to get it for her, Amy wondered how she could explain it to them, what had happened after she’d finished her set at Club Halifax. The couple approaching her as she collected her sheet music, shaking out the few sad dollars from the tip glass on the piano.

  Well, actually, the man had been the one to approach her. The wife just hovered. “I’m a big fan,” he had told Amy. And the state she’d been in, after that set she’d just played . . . It had sounded so good to her. He’d looked good to her too—the neatly shaved head, the diamond earring, the cologne that smelled like money, success. And that word. Fan . . . The wife was a lot younger than he was—plump and nondescript except for her hair, which was dark and lush and shiny. The entire time they spent together, the wife had barely said a word.

  Pearl returned with a plastic cup filled with water and Amy downed the whole thing in three long gulps.

  “Ms. Nathanson,” Wind said, “how many people were at this house party?”

  Amy leveled her eyes at her. “Three,” she said, her cheeks burning. “A husband and wife. And myself.”

  Wind held her gaze. “How long did you perform?”

  “Four hours,” she said. “And then they paid me in cash.”

  A silence fell over the room. Amy glared at the tape recorder as it immortalized this moment, hating the detectives with every cell in her body for making her relive that night, the weakness inside her that had made her go home with that couple, to break Vic’s heart that way. He could never know.

  She’d followed the couple’s car in Baby. She hadn’t paid attention to street signs and addresses, focused as she’d been on making excuses, telling herself again and again that it was just another gig, that she was doing it for the money, that she needed to pay for Vic’s health care, and so this was a selfless act, really. Imagine that. Trying to soothe your own guilt by saying, “It’s only prostitution.”

  But it hadn’t been the money that had made her go with them, good as the money was. It had been the word—that one word the man had said to her, with the crowd chanting for the headlining act and her mouth tasting of the expensive whiskey he’d bought her, that Amy had yearned for more than cash. That word . . . fan.

  She could feel Pearl watching her, and when she turned, Amy saw a strange, soft expression on the girl’s face. Understanding or, more likely, pity. Wacksman was looking down at the desk, twisting his wedding ring. But Wind was still with her, her gaze cool and direct.

  “Can we please keep this between us?” Amy said.

  No one answered right away.

  CONNOR TOOK ORCHARD through town as fast as he could, weaving through traffic on his bike, legs pumping, cold air cutting into his lungs. It was easy to pick up speed in fall weather, which made you want to do everything faster anyway, just to keep warm. It didn’t take him long to spot Wade’s car pulling up to the light on Orchard and Flower, slowing at the yellow and stopping just as it switched to red. For all his weirdness and unpredictability, Wade had always been a surprisingly cautious driver. He’d promised Mom that if she taught him to drive early, he’d never get a ticket, and on that, he’d kept his word.

  Connor hung back, keeping several cars between them so as not to be noticed. The sun was setting now. Lights glowed the way they always did at the very start of twilight—streetlights, taillights, traffic lights, as though they’d been shot full of magic for that one hour. Connor balanced on his bike and kept his eyes on Wade’s car, the metallic-green paint job glowing too in the pinkish light, like the edge of an oil slick.

  When the light changed, Wade pulled into the left lane. He put his blinker on and slowed down, ready to turn onto the next street, Jackson Road. Jackson Road was the wealthiest street in town by far. When Connor was little, Noah’s mom, Cindy, used to take the two of them trick-or-treating on Jackson, and even then, as a five-year-old, it was easy to tell she just wanted an excuse to gawk at the houses.

  Connor waited for Wade to turn before he made the moves to do so himself, hanging back long enough so his brother wouldn’t catch him in his rearview.

  Once he was finally able to turn on Jackson Road, Connor didn’t spot Wade’s car right away. He was afraid he might have lost him, which was strange, considering the way Wade drove. Connor stopped pedaling and let himself coast down this quiet street, admiring the enormous houses—piles, his mother called them—some of them three or even four stories, with chandeliers sparkling in the windows, front porches and balconies big enough to hold a set of furniture, tennis courts and fenced-in pools peeking out from around the backs. And as showy as the houses were, what impressed Connor even more were the cars in the driveways—Escalades, BMWs. In front of one house, he even spotted a Mercedes SLR, the same kind of car Kanye drove, and he nearly fell off his bike. Mom always told Wade
and him not to be materialistic. “Don’t place importance on things you can lose,” she would say. But that was kind of silly, wasn’t it? There wasn’t a thing in the world you couldn’t lose.

  Connor coasted for another block before he caught sight of Wade’s car again, a few blocks ahead, crawling as though he was lost.

  What are you doing, Wade?

  He coasted some more, until he was just about twenty feet away and watched Wade’s Corolla as it pulled in next to the curb between a Jeep and a Fiat, two of many cars that were parked along that side of the street. Is he going to a party on Jackson Road? Who would he even know here?

  Connor got off his bike and wheeled it closer. The cars were parked in front of a big brick house with white columns out in front—an actual mansion. The lawn was soft and rippling like a carpet and as green as a lawn could get at this time of year. Potted, sculpted plants lined the path that led up to the front door, each one of them so perfect-looking that it seemed as though they’d just been bought today.

  Wade’s Corolla was parked now, but he’d yet to get out of it. Connor felt sad looking at the Corolla with its cheesy paint job and the dent in the back. It had never embarrassed him when his mom used to drive it, but it seemed to have deteriorated during Wade’s three months of ownership, the dent more noticeable, the color degrading, so out of place on this billion-dollar street. It made Connor wonder who lived here, why they’d invited Wade to this party, if they’d invited him at all.

  Connor thought about the picture he’d seen back in Wade’s room, the naked girl’s leg and breast so real on the paper. Maybe she was the one who had invited him. Maybe she was right there, in that house . . . Connor’s face flushed thinking about it. A girl he’d seen naked, at least partly.

  He got on his bike and rode across the street and several doors up, where he could get a better view without Wade noticing him. He leaned the bike against a big oak tree—one of many that lined the sidewalk—and slipped behind it, peering around the side. His brother was still in the car. From where he was standing, Connor could see through the Corolla’s windows. Wade was stock-still in the front seat, his head turned toward the house. Watching.

  What is going on?

  The house had a big front porch, and there was a fairly large group of people on it, strange for such a cold day. Everybody wore jeans and sweaters and puffy coats—dressed more for the weather than for a party. The front door was open. From where Connor was standing, he would have heard music if there was any, but all he could hear was the soft hum of voices. A crowded house, but a quiet one.

  A sad one.

  He couldn’t see everybody on the porch, but he could make out a few familiar faces—a hot senior named Stacy Davies and her mom, who was an old friend of Connor’s mother and worked at the same real estate place. Mrs. Davies was holding some kind of casserole dish and talking to her husband. Stacy was with another girl who, when Connor looked closer, he recognized as Jordan’s sister, Tamara. Liam’s girlfriend. Stacy had a hand on Tamara’s shoulder, and she seemed to collapse under the weight of it. Still another girl came up to them—a shorter one with red hair—and the three of them hugged so tightly and for so long, it was as though they were holding each other up, each one unable to stand on her own.

  Connor felt a tightness in his chest. He knew whose house it was, even before he saw Liam Miller’s old beater parked in the driveway.

  What are you doing here, Wade? Come on. Drive away. These aren’t your friends. Don’t embarrass yourself.

  Wade started up the car again. He revved the engine loudly, intrusively. Stacy Davies broke away from her friends. She put her hand on her hip and turned toward Wade’s car along with Tamara and the red-haired girl, Tamara weeping, the red-haired girl’s arm around her shoulders, the two of them leaning against each other like accident victims stumbling away from a crash.

  Wade revved the engine again. Stop it. Connor cringed. He was watching Stacy, that emotion on her face, the way it wrecked her pretty features.

  Stacy headed down the porch steps, then jogged the long slope of lawn, bypassing the path. Before she could reach the car, though, Wade had pulled away from the curb, heading up the street, much faster than usual.

  Connor watched Stacy, holding his breath—the way she stood so still at the edge of the lawn, staring after Wade’s car in a way that almost made him fear for his brother. What did you do, Wade? he kept thinking as he hopped on his bike and pedaled away. What could you have done to make anybody hate you that much?

  Ten

  From Tamara Hayes’s Instagram. Selected captions that appeared beside a photo of Liam Miller and Tamara, posted on the afternoon of October 21.

  Tamara_Hayes Liam’s parents asked me to thank everyone for your kind wishes and to let you know that they will soon be posting details about the funeral. In the meantime, some of you have asked are they seeing visitors. The answer is yes. Liam’s friends are welcome to stop by their house later this afternoon. They are taking care of some things now, but will be back by 4. #RIPLiam #love #payingrespects

  Ginneeee Love you Tam ☹
  PrincessBelle So, so sorry, cuz. He is in heaven now. Xxxooo

  StacyDee You guys were beautiful together. I’m so sad.

  Tamara_Hayes @StacyDee You coming?

  StacyDee @Tamara_Hayes Yes. With my mom and dad.

  Tamara_Hayes @StacyDee Good.

  Wade.Reed Can anybody come?

  StacyDee lol just like the hospital.

  Tamara_Hayes Friendly reminder that this is only for people who knew and loved Liam. His parents are very fragile right now, so we want to keep this small.

  RG1999 Stay strong, Tam.

  Wade.Reed She’s not strong. None of you has ever been strong. You spoiled brats. You wear grief like it’s the latest fashion. You don’t care deeply enough about anything or anyone to really feel the pain of loss. You’re liars. Can’t wait for the next of you to die.

  The last five comments were later deleted.

  Eleven

  Amy asked if she could take a break. The two state detectives quickly agreed to it, and Pearl left the conference room immediately, bursting out the door as though she’d been held underwater for the past twenty minutes and was finally allowed to come up for air.

  Pearl headed into the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee, just to feel the heat of it. She was still cold from the Kill, but also the line of questioning had chilled her, the bizarre turn it had taken. Four hours with some rich Havenkill couple. For pay. She leaned over the countertop, clutching the hot mug in her hands, breathing in the steam with her eyes closed and trying not to think about Amy, what had been going through her mind that night. Such desperation . . . Here I’d thought she’d just stopped at a bar, maybe had a few too many before getting on the road.

  “You okay?” It was one of the newer officers, a gym rat by the name of Mitch Romero whom Pearl didn’t know all that well but wouldn’t have minded smashing if he wasn’t married and didn’t work with her and there was no chance she’d ever see him again.

  Pearl jumped. “You scared me.”

  “I’m not that scary, am I?”

  She smiled. “Meh.”

  He gave her a wink—such a flirt. She didn’t mind. Pearl took a sip from her mug, winced. The coffee in this station was so bad, she’d started to believe it was some kind of endurance test. “Soylent Green brew,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Romero picked up his cup of coffee and moved closer to Pearl, keeping his voice low. “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were in there for the questioning?”

  She nodded.

  “You buy it? That purse-snatching story?”

  Pearl could smell the coffee on his breath—no more pleasant there than in her cup, nice as his lips were—and so she took a step back. “That’s hard to say.” It was the truth. “I want to believe her.” Which was the truth too. But.


  “I don’t know,” he said. “The longer I work this job, the harder it is to believe anybody.”

  Pearl poured a cup of coffee for Amy and stirred some nondairy creamer into it to cut the tarry taste. “I’m starting to think it might be us,” she said. “They see a uniform, all they want to do is lie.”

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM door was open, Amy sitting at the big table, alone.

  Pearl handed her the coffee. “Where did the detectives go?”

  “Smoke break,” Amy said, which was surprising. Pearl hadn’t figured either of them for smokers—especially Kendall Wind.

  Pearl sat down at the table, across from Amy, both of them sipping their horrible coffee, simply because it was easier to do that than to talk. “Do you still want me around?” Pearl said, finally. “I don’t have to be here. It’s really the state detectives who are handling the case.”

  “Can’t stand to be in the same room with me, huh?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Look,” Amy said. “I know I shouldn’t have lied about my . . . timeline for the evening. I was hoping I could just keep that secret from my manager and . . .”

  “No need to explain.”

  “I’m telling the truth about the boy.”

  Pearl watched her face. She wished she was one of those cops who had the utmost confidence in their ability to read people. But she couldn’t get herself to feel that way, having been read wrong so many times herself. There was no believing anyone, really. There was only wanting to believe them. “Hey,” Pearl said. “I’m just a local cop. I’m not involved in the investigation. I’m nobody, far as your case is concerned.”

  Amy nodded. “That sounds evasive.”

  “It might be,” Pearl said. “But it’s also fact.”

  Amy took a swallow of her coffee and grimaced. “Good coffee.”

  Pearl gave her a look.

  “See? I’m not good at lying.” Amy smiled. Honest Amy, who, on the night of the hit-and-run, had claimed to be ten years younger than she actually was. Sergeant Black had found her real age this morning when looking up her driving records, which, by the way, had also included a DUI she’d never mentioned either, even when he’d asked her point-blank. Suffice it to say, the sergeant was no longer quite so much of an Aimee En fan.