“Nobody?”
“I’ve got a password.” The tech guy from the university made me give him one when he set me up to log on to the campus network from home.
“Do you keep your password written down anywhere? A sticky note, maybe? In a file somewhere?”
The fact is, I have two handfuls’ worth of passwords. The university, various online accounts—bank, bills, assorted merchants, journals, LexisNexis—all with different requirements for how to make up a proper password. How can anybody be expected to remember them all?
I sigh. “Sticky note.” Inside the middle drawer of my desk.
Bennett nods and repeats the original question. “Besides you and Sara, who has access to your computer?”
The only person I can think of who has regular access to my computer, other than the cleaning service that comes in twice a month, is Brit Seward.
Bennett already knows the answer. He decides not to press it for now. “Anything else on there?”
“Anything else like what?”
“Ever look at any porn? Featuring adults?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No,” I say.
“How about the house? Have you given a key to any of the other neighbors? Take care of the mail when you’re out of town, that kind of thing?”
“Michael,” I say. “But he’s the only person with the new alarm code.”
“You’ve changed your alarm code recently?” Bennett scribbles on his notepad. “When did you change it?”
“After the thing with Roger.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“After I found all the stuff on us in Roger’s house. After I called the police and looked like a fool.”
“Okay.”
In the background, the front doors of Bennett & Partners rattle. I hear what sounds like muffled cursing. After a pause, I hear footsteps approaching Bennett’s office. A moment later, Bennett’s intern enters, carrying a paper bag in one hand, a cardboard coffee carrier in the other.
“There’s a reporter outside,” she informs us. “She tried to block me coming in. If my hands weren’t full I’d have punched her in the nose.”
With one notable exception, the news media seems content for now with yesterday’s lopsided exhibition match between Pete and me at Sycamore Court. “That would be Maya Lamb,” I tell her.
“I know who it is.”
She really doesn’t seem to like me very much. I wonder if I should take it as consolation that she doesn’t seem to like Maya Lamb very much either. She brings in breakfast and leaves it on Bennett’s desk.
Bennett says, “Thank you, Debbie.”
“You’re welcome.” She works one of the tall paper cups free of the carrier and awaits further instructions.
“Paul, your alarm system,” Bennett says. “Mallory told you that he knew the owner, got you a deal on the installation. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And what’s the name of the company?”
“Sentinel One Incorporated,” I tell him.
“Debbie, will you log on to the business guide and pull up…”
“Whatever I can find on Sentinel One Incorporated.” She turns and walks out the way she walked in.
“Thank you, Debbie.”
I hear a mumbled reply, fading down the hall.
“I apologize.” Bennett looks at me and shrugs. “Seems nobody likes to work on Sundays anymore.”
The truth is, I don’t even remember the last thing we were talking about. I stand up. “I need to see Sara. Can I meet you back here later?”
“Actually, Paul—”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t been able to get her to answer the phone.” All at once, I don’t have room in my head to think about additional charges and who might have tampered with my computer or who has the alarm code to our house. I have things to tell Sara, things I need to make right, and at the moment all I’m able to think about is how to get the hell out of here without little Maya Lamb following me home. “This is ridiculous. I need to see her.”
“Paul, I’ve spoken with Sara.”
“You talked to her? When?”
“Five minutes after I spoke with the county attorney. She called.”
“She called here?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She left a telephone number where she could be reached,” he tells me. “In case I needed to contact her in the next few days.”
“What number?”
Bennett sits there a moment.
“What’s the number, Bennett?”
He says, “I feel you should know that she asked me not to tell you, Paul.”
I can’t believe this. I square my shoulders and open my mouth, ready to lay into him, but before I can say anything, he recites a telephone number with a 215 area code. Her mother’s house in Philly.
“She said that she’d booked a flight out of Omaha for later this morning.”
I sit back down in my chair.
Bennett looks sympathetic. “I’m sure she just needs a little time. To absorb everything.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
“And we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover here.”
I look at him.
“So.” Bennett glances at his notepad. “When you decide it’s time to change your alarm code, what exactly does that process involve?”
It’s fully dark outside by the time I finally leave Bennett’s office. The temperature has dropped below zero; except for a few wisps of steam rising from the storm sewers, and a few tiny snowflakes swirling like gnats in the air, the streets are void of activity. Even Maya Lamb is gone, having given up her vigil in the parking lot of Bennett & Partners, presumably for warmer climes. Everything is quiet.
Douglas Bennett is back on retainer. We’ve gone over everything from five different angles. I have a regular pit bull for a lawyer, and he’s getting that game plan together. First thing tomorrow, he assures me, gears will turn. Wheels will be put into motion. We’re going to fix this.
I find myself struggling to maintain optimism. Darius Calvin’s conscience may have taken him as far as a truck stop forty miles out of town, but will we really be able to change his mind about standing up and telling the truth in court? Will Bennett’s experts be able to debunk any of this so- called evidence people keep finding on my computer? Will my wife ever be able to look at me again?
It’s been a long day, and maybe I’m just tired, but I don’t even notice the headlights in my rearview mirror until I’m halfway downtown. It wouldn’t occur to me that I’m being followed if we weren’t the only two cars on the street, now the only two cars turning in to the parking lot of my new home at the Residence Inn. It still wouldn’t occur to me that I’m being followed if I didn’t look over and recognize Pete’s silver Lexus SUV pulling into the space immediately beside me.
I cut my headlights. Pete cuts his.
Perfect.
Too worn out to be scared, I get out of the car and try to look at the upside: if Pete pounds me to death right here in the parking lot, even considering funeral expenses, this whole mess will probably end up being a lot cheaper.
Nothing happens for a minute. The Lexus just sits there, silent except for the tick of the engine under the hood.
It’s too cold to stand around waiting. I’m about to walk over and knock on his window when the driver’s-side door opens. Melody gets out. She’s bundled up in a short ski coat and earmuffs, a thick fuzzy scarf around her neck. She looks like she’s been crying for days.
“Paul.” Her breath is white in the air.
I could stand right here until we both freeze to death, listening to the bing bing bing of the seat belt alarm drifting from inside the SUV, and I still wouldn’t know what to do.
She closes her door. The interior light goes dark, and the sound stops. “I need to talk to you.”
23.
; ONE OF THE FEW THINGS my suite lacks is a full- sized coffee -maker. The little hotel- sized machine in the kitchenette makes only four cups, and the mugs that go with it are slightly smaller than normal size. I feel like I’ve invited Melody Seward for a dollhouse tea party.
She’s sitting at the small breakfast table, fiddling with her wedding ring. I set a full mug in front of her and stand at the counter. She hasn’t spoken since we took off our coats, and neither have I. I haven’t spoken to Melody alone, in person, since the night we decided to crash our lives into each other.
After a long silence, she finally says, “I’ve seen the pictures.”
“They can’t be real,” I tell her. It’s the first thing that comes to me. “I hope you know that. Computers, hell, anybody can—”
“They’re real. Some of them…” She wraps her hands around the mug and watches the steam curl up. “I have to keep reminding myself that she’s thirteen years old.”
I don’t honestly believe her. It’s not that I think she’s lying, I just think that she must be wrong. Brit’s a smart kid. Too smart for this. Anyone can see that. All I can think to say is, “I’ve never seen them.”
“Be thankful.”
“I didn’t make them, either.”
“I know.” Melody sighs. “I walked in on her in the bathroom while she was undressing for the shower one night. It was an accident. I knocked, but she had her iPod on.”
I stand there with my coffee, wishing I could listen faster.
“I would have thought it was one of those stick- ons if she hadn’t covered up so fast. Right here.” She leans one hip forward and reaches around her back, pointing to her tailbone, a couple inches below the waist of her jeans. “A butterfly.”
“Are you talking about a tattoo?”
“Somehow she and Rachel managed to get their hands on a pair of phony IDs. They went together, came out with matching ones. Butterflies. I swear, those two …”
I know the name Rachel, Brit’s best friend and cohort. “What does—”
“Paul, this was in June.” She looks at me. “A month before you and Sara moved in.”
My fingers are tingling.
“I never told Pete. My God, his head would have exploded.”
“This tattoo…”
“We had a long talk. Brit and I. We kept it between us girls. World’s greatest stepmom, that’s me.” She smiles bitterly and shakes her head, as though recalling a foolish thought. “You can’t see her tattoo in the pictures.”
I feel myself starting to breathe faster. What is she telling me?
“It’s just not there. In one of them, she’s looking back at the camera, over her shoulder, and you can see …” She puts a hand over her eyes. “Christ, she’s thirteen.”
I never told Pete.
Is it possible that this is something Roger also doesn’t know? Is it still theoretically possible that something might be permitted to occur within our cozy, well- monitored fiefdom without Roger Mallory’s knowledge?
I honestly don’t know whether to feel elated or heartbroken by this news. Melody is handing me a piece of information that can disprove any charges that I created the photographs I’m said to possess. She’s also telling me that she believes the photographs are authentic, which means that somebody made them.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she says. “I’m just so goddamned worried about her.”
My legs feel rubbery. I pull the other chair and sit down at the other side of the table. I’m not sure how to talk about this, how to phrase things. “Did Brit tell you anything? About… who it might be?”
“I sat down with her this afternoon. Pete and Sofie were asleep on the couch, and I went into her room and rubbed her back and told her that we loved her.” She wipes her eyes. “I told her that if there was anything she needed to tell somebody, that I was there for her. She gave me a hug and broke down sobbing and didn’t say a word.”
What did she say when you told her about the tattoo? Did you tell her that you knew it couldn’t be me? I can’t seem to find a way to ask these things.
“We’ve had our ups and downs, Paul. She hasn’t hugged me in…I don’t even know when.” Melody takes a ragged breath. “It’s been harder as she’s gotten older. Her mother doesn’t even call on her birthday anymore. But I’ve never seen her like this.”
I don’t know what to say. I think about everything Douglas Bennett said about stepdaughters and stepmothers, but I’m out of my element.
“I want to shake her by the neck, but I’m afraid she’ll crack in a million pieces.” Melody rubs her eyes with a knuckle.
“God, what is she hiding?” She looks at the wall, the ceiling. “Why on earth would she go to Roger?”
I reach over and grab a box of tissues from the nearby lamp table. She thanks me. I wait until she’s finished blowing her nose and dabbing her eyes. When the tears are dry, I ask, “What did Pete say?”
“I haven’t told him yet. I haven’t told anyone yet. I thought… I thought you should know first.”
I reach out and touch her fingers.
“It’s going to kill him when he finds out.” She pulls her hand away and takes another tissue. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. Pete’s always liked you. I hope you know that.”
“Let me talk to her.”
She rolls her eyes. Sure.
“I’m serious, Melody. Let me talk to her. Just the two of us. If she knows that I’m not mad at her… if she knows that I’m still her friend, that I’m on her side… I just don’t believe that she could look me in the face and—”
“No, Paul. It’s bad enough as it is. And if anybody finds out, you’ll go to jail.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“No.” She stands up. “I have to go. I’ll call your lawyer in the morning, and I’ll tell him what I just told you. I wanted you to know first.”
She leaves her coffee untouched. I stare into mine, trying to decide how much of my side of this story I should be telling her. She deserves to know something. Then again, she’s got her own set of problems. Does she really need more to think about right at this moment?
She’s halfway into her coat by the time I cross the room. “Melody.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
We stand there a minute. I move my arms, intending a shrug, and Melody walks straight into me. It’s like holding a Melody- sized pillow, all bundled up in her winter coat. We stand there for two or three seconds, and then she steps away. “I’ll call your lawyer in the morning.”
“Melody, I…” What do I say? “Sara knows what happened. With us, I mean. She’s flown to her mother’s.”
She wipes her eyes, looks away.
“Pete?”
She shakes her head. No. Pete doesn’t know yet.
There’s a whole world of things that Pete doesn’t know yet, isn’t there? Pete, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, I didn’t sleep with your daughter.
“I’ll call your lawyer in the morning,” Melody says, grabbing her scarf on the way out the door.
24.
I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF DIALING Douglas Bennett at his home when I hear a knock. I hang up the phone, grab the earmuffs and wool mittens Melody forgot on the breakfast table, and hand her things forward as I open the door. “Here they are.”
Roger Mallory looks at my hand, then looks up at me. He says, “I don’t think they’re my size.”
The surprise of seeing him sets me back. I hold the door and take a deep breath. I gather myself.
Roger says, “I can deliver them if you want.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I thought we could talk.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You should be careful,” I tell him. Why don’t I close the door? Why am I standing here, literally giving him an opening? “You could run into perception problems.”
Roger smirks at that.
“What do you want, Roger?”
Without any apparent trace of irony, he looks me in the eye and says, “A truce.”
Roger stands inside the door, holding his gloves in one hand, as if waiting for an invitation to sit.
I don’t extend one. I go get my coffee from where I left it on the counter and sit down on the couch by myself. The coffee is lukewarm by now, but it tastes fine. I don’t look at Roger. “A truce, huh?”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s a little late for peace talks, wouldn’t you say?”
“If I thought so, I wouldn’t be here.”
I grab the remote control from the side table by my shoulder and make Roger wait while I flip through channels. I see there’s another show playing on the nature channel. Sharks tonight. The topic seems so sublimely appropriate that I leave it there for the sake of metaphor.
Though I’m doing my best to be insulting, Roger doesn’t seem perturbed. He walks in and sits on the arm of the chair a few feet away, where I can see him. He hasn’t taken off his coat.
“Suppose I was able to encourage Brittany to tell the truth about how these photographs really got started.”
“You mean she hasn’t been truthful?”
“We’ll save time if we can talk like adults.”
On the television, a salty old fisherman with only one arm talks to the documentary crew. While he’s telling his story, the screen cuts to a grainy photograph of some type of shark or other—a toothy 12- footer, gutted and bloody around the gills, hanging upside down on a hook. Men stand around the carcass.
“If Brit were encourged to tell the truth,” I ask him, “what would she say?”
Roger sighs a little. Kids these days. “She’d come clean and admit that she and her best girlfriend cooked all this up.”
Best girlfriend? I try to remember the names I’ve heard Brit use. “You mean Rachel?”
Roger doesn’t exactly brighten with recognition, but he nods and waves his hand anyway. He says, “She’d tell the folks who matter that she and little miss Rachel got bored one summer day, used Pete’s employee number at the cable company to order some free adult channels, just for giggles. And then they ended up taking a bunch of racy pictures of each other, just for more giggles.”
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