Lies She Told

by Cate Holahan

  I call for my husband again as I walk to our bedroom. The sheets are in a tangle. David is the type to make the bed. Did he have to rush out? He knew I was coming home this evening. I tell myself that an unmade bed is not cause for panic. He’ll be home shortly. He probably headed out for food.

  I return to my purse atop my suitcase and retrieve the laptop. My anxiety inexplicably builds as I carry the computer back into my bedroom and place it on my desk. Beth must toss the gun into the river. Why didn’t I write it that way?

  Repetitiveness, I decide. My reluctance to have her act rationally must be because I don’t want a series of paragraphs ending with a splash. Details can fix this, though. Beth can contemplate her act while staring at the gun, tying her observations about its small size to the weight of her guilt. She will be so preoccupied with the image of the weapon that she won’t even notice it sink into the water.

  I open the laptop and call up the manuscript. The cursor blinks at the end of my last sentence. I see only it. Not the gun.

  I need my Ruger.

  I slide back my closet door and stand on my tiptoes to look at the shelf above. The black lockbox lies in its usual spot. As I reach for it, my brain starts throbbing. I rub my temple with one hand as I swat at the box with the other. When I push the case far enough to the lip of the shelf, I take it down with both hands and place it on the bed. There’s a combination lock on the front, three wheels that must be turned to the right numbers. One thousand combinations for a thief to try. One right answer: my wedding anniversary, June 28. 628.

  The numbers are already in the right place. The lid pops open with a simple press of a button revealing an empty, gun-shaped space surrounded by black padding.

  The throbbing becomes a pounding. It doesn’t make sense that my weapon wouldn’t be here. I haven’t used it since the writers’ police academy workshop. Did David take it? Why would he need a gun?

  I grab my cell from my shoulder bag. The glare from the windows intensifies the pulsing between my ears. I close my eyes and let my fingers navigate to the speed dial from memory.

  David answers on the second ring. “Liza. Are you home?”

  “Hey, yeah. Where are you?”

  “Liza?” Static clouds the connection.

  “I’m home. Question for you—did you take my gun?”

  “Liza. Are you home?” The white noise increases. He hasn’t heard me.

  “Yes. Where are you? I need to talk to you. Did you take—”

  “Wait. Wait. Listen.” David is nearly shouting. He never yells. “I’m at the police station. You need to come here. They have questions. They—”

  A sucking sound chokes his words, air slurping through a straw. “I need you to come.” His voice breaks. “They found Nick’s body.”

  Chapter 11

  I can’t go home like this. Gravediggers are cleaner. Blood and dirt cover my dress, my arms. Soil and sharp bits of construction debris are embedded in my heels. I can only imagine what my face looks like.

  Colleen’s keys are inside her bag. The grit on my feet makes putting my heels back on impossible. I hobble out of the construction site, still barefoot, and cross the street. There are two keys on Colleen’s ring: one is bronze and one is silver. The lock on the outside door is bronze. I open it with the corresponding key, keeping my head down so passersby on the street can’t get a good look at me. I’m sure my cheeks are freckled with blood. There was so much of it.

  I hurry up the stairs to the first floor and exit onto the landing. A dark reddish-brown splotch stains the concrete floor near Colleen’s neighbor’s door, which, given the keypad lock on the outside, is likely a shared artist space, only at use during the day. For a moment, I consider cleaning up the blood but then decide that it’ll only delay the inevitable. Someone will figure out she’s missing soon enough. Maybe even my husband.

  I enter her apartment with the key and shut the door behind me. Her lights are off. I don’t dare turn them on. From her narrow foyer I can see straight to the window through which I had watched her so easily. She could have neighborhood friends who will realize that someone strange is in her apartment.

  I open one of the doors to my right and am greeted with empty hangers and an NYPD windbreaker. Hanging beside it is a man’s suit jacket and pants in dry cleaner plastic. Jake has left a change of clothes in her apartment. The sight saps the last of my adrenaline. I fall to my knees, feeling fully connected to my feelings for the first time since I swung that lead pipe. Tears stream down my face. How could he do this to me? To Vicky? To this woman, even?

  I imagine how it must have gone down. Like most things, it probably started innocently enough. She was working with him, found him attractive. Smart. Funny, maybe. He would have figured out that she was a bit enamored and turned on his charm, enjoying the ego boost, not thinking that it would go much beyond some flirty conversations and friendly e-mails. Then one night, their chatter became more than that. Maybe she confessed her feelings and he was curious. More likely, she said something sexual and he pounced on it. I won’t only blame her. Yes, she shouldn’t have fallen for a married man. But he was worse for taking her up on whatever offer she put out there. He made promises to me. She didn’t owe me anything.

  Yet she paid the price.

  I struggle to catch my breath. It’s too late to feel sorry.

  I walk through the second door. Her queen bed is an unmade mess. Silvery sheets hang off the mattress. A blue coverlet is balled on the floor. Feathers from a busted-open pillow are scattered across her rug. Did she and Jake have sex or a pillow fight? Did she tear apart the pillow after he walked out on her?

  I don’t touch anything and walk through to her bathroom. It’s small, separated from the bedroom by one of those pressurized walls that the city’s young professionals are forever installing to add illegal Craigslist renters. There’s a sink with a flat mirror above it, which I avoid facing. The toilet is pressed against a small shower, separated only by a chevron curtain. I fling back the plastic and begin peeling off my dress. The fabric that had covered my chest is damp with Colleen’s blood. It slaps and sticks against my face as I pull it over my head. Once it’s off, I drop it in the bathroom sink. Then I slip from my underwear and step onto the four gray tiles that serve as the shower floor.

  I turn the water to its hottest setting. It blasts out of the square showerhead above with all the force of a fire hose. Freezing cold. I tilt my face back into the stream. It flows red into the drain beneath my feet. Thinned by the water, the blood looks like dye. Part of me is able to pretend that I’ve colored my hair some intense shade of auburn. This is no different than what the water would look like after a trip to the beauty salon.

  I stand stock still beneath the stream until it starts to warm. Then I reach forward to a shower caddy on the ground bearing Colleen’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I pour the soap into my hands and begin rubbing it on my face. The smell is instantly recognizable. This is the citrusy scent I’ve caught on Jake’s clothes. I’d thought he’d been using a new aftershave.

  I scrub my face, my hands, my feet. I press the suds beneath my nails and shampoo twice before using the conditioner. Lather, rinse, repeat. When the water is finally scalding, I step from behind the curtain and let it run, blasting away all my errant hair and skin particles. Finally, I walk to the mirror and turn on the light.

  The top of the glass is fogged from the hot water. I dip lower to view my full face and am surprised that the woman staring back at me is the same person who got out of the shower this morning. The word “monster” is not written on her forehead. There aren’t any defensive wounds on her arms or strange stigmata on her hands. This woman is me. She’s a murderer. But she’s still me.

  I towel off with a dry washcloth by the sink, which I then add to my bloody clothes pile in the basin. This is the stuff I need to throw away somewhere no one will find it. I detangle my hair with a paddle brush on the lip of the sink and then add it to the stack. Afterwa
rd, I shut off the shower, certain that it has done its job by now, and walk into her bedroom.

  Since it’s an interior room, it lacks a window. I turn on the light and head to a freestanding wardrobe where Colleen must keep her clothing. The stuff inside isn’t my style. It’s all cutting edge and colorful, intended to call attention to the wearer, to assets I don’t possess. I reach for the only items that we could possibly share: skinny black jeans and a black tank top.

  I slip the outfit from the hangers, careful to only touch the garments that I intend to wear. The tank slips over my head easily and falls more or less where I’d expect. The pants hit my hips weird, but I can still wear them.

  Using the hem of the shirt, I rub down the wardrobe handles. As I am about to close the door, I notice that shoes are stuffed beneath the hanging clothes. Her feet were surely smaller than mine. Next to a pair of seven-inch wedges are a flat pair of floral flip-flops, the kind of gaudy plastic thong sandals that nail salons dole out to pedicure clients. I slip them out and drop them on the ground beside my battered feet. They fit perfectly.

  Dressed, I walk into her makeshift kitchen. Using the light from her open bedroom, I navigate to the cupboards. It takes opening three before I find everything I’m looking for: bleach, a plastic grocery bag, and paper towels. I unravel a wad from the roll and pour bleach on it. Then I go around the apartment, rubbing down every surface my fingers have grazed: cabinet handles, doorknobs, the shower controls, the light switches. The handle of the bleach bottle itself. It takes at least fifteen minutes for me to feel sure that my prints are not on any surfaces. When I’m done, I put the wet paper towel in the bag with the rest of the garbage: the bloody clothes, my shoes, the hairbrush, and Colleen’s purse. This trash is destined for a series of dumpsters between here and Manhattan. The more separated, the better. Before I leave, I take one last paper towel and, wrapping my hand in it, open her apartment door.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble as I shut it behind me. “It was either you or me.”

  LIZA

  The precinct is a windowless building on the East Side, a fortified strip club, only more sinister thanks to the assault rifle–carrying bouncers. As I approach, I feel small and timid, as though my name’s not on the list. Though, apparently, it is. That’s why I’m here.

  I walk through a reinforced steel door, past the black-clad guard with the he-man torso, courtesy of his bulletproof vest. The officer’s mouth remains in a straight line as he sizes me up like an usher at a wedding. Is she on the victim’s side or the criminal’s? My voice dries up in my throat, which is probably the point of all this. So much about the police is designed to intimidate. Take the military-cut uniform, all glinting badges and shields. Even if a cop doesn’t have a visible handgun or bully stick or Taser (though he probably has all three), he has the blessing of the US government emblazoned on his clothes. How can anyone stand up to that?

  A metal detector stands to the right of the guard. He shakes a plastic container at me and demands my keys and phone, both of which I immediately turn over. It is not until I walk through without incident and approach a small podium in front of another set of fire doors that an officer attempts politeness.

  “May I help you?” The officer wears a belt weighed down with ways to immobilize people, though his voice is friendly enough. I explain that my husband asked that I help answer some questions about a missing friend.

  “You want missing persons, then.”

  “No, I think he’s been found.” I repeat what David told me to say on the phone. “I want criminal investigations.”

  The officer directs me through the doors behind him to an elevator bank. I take it to the fifth floor, where I am met by a bulletproof glass window at chest level. A man with a boyish face looks at me like I might ruin his day.

  “I’m here to see David Jacobson. My husband.”

  The officer continues interrogating me with his eyes.

  “It’s with regard to the Nick Landau case. My husband, he’s a lawyer, asked that I come. He needs me to help him answer some questions. Mr. Landau was his law partner and friend. I understand that Mr. Landau’s body was found.”

  He holds up a finger and disappears. I curse myself as he steps out of view. I’m talking too much, volunteering way more information than necessary, reverting to some deep-seated childhood desire to please. Pretty soon, I’ll be explaining how Nick was dismissive of me and my friends and confessing that I never liked him.

  I press my lips together and try not to sweat as I scan for someplace comfortable to wait. There’s a line of plastic chairs against a wall that look about as hard as the poured-cement floor. When I look down, I can see up my nose in the shiny gray surface beneath the fluorescent overhead lights. At the end of the room is a metal door. There are black scuff marks near its base, probably from an officer’s brand new boot.

  Minutes of nervous fidgeting pass before the door opens with the bang of a weapon discharging. The hand holding it open is beefy, an appropriate stopper to the muscular arm attached. Tracing that extremity brings me to a young face with taut tan skin and dark hair worthy of a Just for Men ad.

  The officer waves me toward the door. “Thanks for coming in.” He extends his hand. “I’m Detective Bill Campos.”

  I shake and stop myself from saying something overly eager. Anything I can do to help. Whatever you need. Nick is dead. He was the best man at my wedding. I should seem appropriately bereaved.

  “It’s so awful.” I touch the corner of my eye, as though I feel a tear there. “Is my husband okay?”

  The officer gives me a weak smile. I’ve seen this look on my gynecologist’s face, on my shrink’s face, on the face of everyone whom I’ve ever told that I’m trying to have a baby and “exploring different options.” It says things aren’t looking good.

  “He’s in with someone at the moment. If you could follow me, we would appreciate asking you a few questions.”

  Though his tone is casual, it triggers my alarms. I’ve written enough romantic thrillers to know that the police wanting to question anyone alone is never no biggie. They’re already talking to David. I’d assumed he was crying over the confirmed death of his friend. Maybe not.

  “I’d like to see my husband first.”

  The officer holds the door open a bit wider. “I understand. He’s helping out some of my colleagues at the moment. If you would follow me, we’re trying to piece together what might have happened to your friend.”

  My back tenses. “You found his body, right?”

  Officer Campos does his best impression of horrified sadness. Wide eyes. Shaking head. It’s all a bit overacted. Surely this guy must see murder victims all the time. “We found him in the river.”

  “What happened?”

  “Why don’t you come with me? I can better answer these questions sitting.”

  We walk down a carpeted hallway. Seals of different police branches dot gray-painted walls. Another steel door is propped open at the end of the corridor. I pass through it into a bright room full of wooden desks and fluorescent lights. A few officers are hunched over computers. Most of the desks are empty at this hour, though. An American flag stands in one corner, several feet away from the New York State version. I flash back to grade school and the Pledge of Allegiance.

  Officer Campos sits at what I presume is his desk and gestures to the visitor’s chair opposite. He withdraws a notepad and pen from a drawer.

  “I really don’t wish to talk to anyone without seeing my husband. I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to be helpful, but he was very upset.”

  Again, the detective gestures for me to sit. Some part of me that wants, desperately, to be agreeable, as any innocent person would be, pulls back the chair and perches on the edge of it. Fine, I’ll sit. But I don’t have to get comfortable.

  “Mr. Jacobson, your husband, knew Nick well?”

  “They were law partners.”

  “So it was mostly a work relationship?”
/>   He looks at the paper, as though he’s posing routine questions, checking boxes off a list. Nonchalance in a detective is not a good sign. This question is more pointed than he wants it to appear.

  “No. He and David have been close since law school.”

  “What did you think of their friendship?” This time, he makes direct eye contact.

  I fucking hated it. The words reverberate in my head in Beth’s voice. I don’t verbalize them. There’s no reason for me to have felt that strongly about their friendship. Most wives don’t love their husband’s “bros.” Most single guys don’t relish the presence of the woman who tied down their wingman. “They worked well together.”

  “Did you see them together much?”

  I shrug. “They saw each other at work.”

  “But you felt they worked well together?”

  Why is he pressing this point? “They built a successful firm. Isn’t that evidence?”

  “Did they see each other socially?”

  My left eye starts to twitch. Not another headache. Not now. “David, I’m sure, can tell you all about how often he saw his friend. I’d like to see him now.”

  “Did they—”

  The overhead bulbs seem to glow brighter. Harsh yellow beams pour from each pot light. I shut my eyes and press my thumb and forefinger against the lids, trying to block out the spotlights. “No more questions. If you want to formally interview me, I’d be happy to come back with David present as my attorney.”

  Officer Campos leans forward in his chair. “I thought you wanted to help.”

  “I want to see my husband.”

  “He’s answering—”

  My stomach seems to drop into my bowels. I need to get out of here. “I’ll wait outside then.”

  The detective rolls his chair back from his desk. He stands with a sorry expression on his face, as though he feels terribly for me for some inexplicable reason. “Word of advice? You might want a different attorney.”