by Brandi Reeds
“Of course I submitted the DNA sample,” Patrick says.
My heart sinks. I had a conversation with the detective yesterday. I gave up the red thong. I handed over the flash drive. I blabbed about the letter I found with it. The letter addressed to Mr. Holloway, which could just as soon reference my son as my husband. “You didn’t.”
For all the vacillating as to whether I could throw Ian to the wolves in the face of justice for this poor, dead girl, I would’ve agonized ten-thousand-fold over what to do had I known Patrick would be the one facing charges.
“They think I killed this girl,” he says. “They’ll run the sample, see it doesn’t match, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Patrick.” Doug paces with arms crossed and a thumb under his chin. “You never do that without a warrant. You should know better.”
“I do know that, Doug. But I don’t have anything to hide. I know I didn’t kill this girl, and I know I never slept with her, so what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Our best shot is to get the sample suppressed.”
“We won’t need the shot,” Patrick insists. “Because I. Didn’t. Do. It.”
I reach for my son’s hand across the table. “You don’t know what’s about to happen. The police have a pair of underwear—”
“What?” Doug interjects. “How—”
I hold up a hand. “A pair of underwear your father has been insisting belongs to whichever girl you sneaked away with at Doug and Donna’s wedding reception. That underwear will likely test positive for Margaux’s DNA.”
Patrick shrugs. “Well, I was with Becca at the wedding, and I didn’t sneak off with anyone, so . . .”
“The police also have a flash drive full of pictures of a man with Margaux.”
Doug: “Kirstie! You didn’t.”
“I didn’t have a choice, Doug. I went to a friend with the pictures after I found them in Ian’s desk drawer. She shared them with the police. I could have been obstructing justice if I hadn’t met with the detective yesterday.”
“He’s your husband,” Doug says. “They can’t make you testify against your husband.”
“Is there a law against testifying against your husband’s cousin? Because Ian’s insisting it’s you in the pictures. And you confirmed as much when you called me. All three of you have the same tattoo, the tattoo that was featured prominently in the pictures.”
Dumbfounded, Doug stares at me. “Kirstie.”
“What was I supposed to do? All three of you were telling me I was reading too much into things, that we had nothing to do with this girl, nothing to hide. What was I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” Patrick says. “We don’t have anything to hide.”
I turn to Patrick. “Here’s the trouble: you didn’t kill this girl. You didn’t sleep with her. But if your father did, your DNA just might be a close enough match to his to take you to trial.”
“Do you think my father is capable of murder?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But he probably slept with her.”
“This again.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “Mom, seriously. Dad wouldn’t—”
“Is that right? I guess we’ll see when your DNA comes back as a close match to traces of semen on the underwear. That’ll be enough to get the ball rolling. They always suspect the significant other. Always.”
“Well, I’m not the significant other, so . . . they’ll have to find someone else. Becca and I have been together for . . . jeez, six years now. No jury’s going to believe a guy like me could do this.”
“And you don’t think your father could’ve, either. Yet your sister’s heard you’ve been out with other women. There’s a chance other people can testify the same. These girls you’re out with . . . how do you think they’ll feel when they see your face on the evening news? When they hear your defense is that you’re in a long-term relationship with Becca, so you just couldn’t possibly have done this? I’ll tell you what they’re going to do: they’ll crucify you.”
Patrick shrugs. “Circumstantial.”
“So confident an attitude for a man about to take the heat for his lying, cheating father.” I squeeze his hand. “I don’t know if your DNA is going to differ enough from the samples. And women, whether or not you believe it, can be pretty damn powerful. Especially when they’ve been wronged.”
“It’ll be okay, Mom. Because Dad’s DNA won’t match, either. I promise.”
“Do you even think he’s going to submit a sample to clear you?” I ask.
“He won’t have to. Because my sample won’t match at all.”
I feel sick. There’s no talking to him. He’s blinded by the light of his father’s ego. And he just might have done something that can’t be undone.
“Why’d you run?” Doug asks. “When the cop approached you, why’d you run if you’re confident your dad didn’t have anything to do with this dead girl?”
Patrick glances at me, then sighs.
“Why did you want to talk to Jessica Blythe?” Doug asks.
“I can’t say in front of Mom.”
“Now you want me to leave so you can share secrets?” Tears I’ve been keeping at bay threaten and crest in my eyes. “Patrick, look around you. Look. Is your father here? Is he here, owning up to everything he’s done to get you out of here and home where you belong? No. But I’m here. I’m the one who’s always been here, through thick and thin. Whatever you have to say, I can take it. Let me hear it.”
My son shakes his head and looks back to Doug. “Not in front of Mom.”
Chapter 30
JESSICA
Kirsten bursts out of the interrogation room where her son and her husband’s cousin, the lawyer, still sit.
She looks like she’s just seen a ghost, or at least as if she just narrowly escaped a dangerous situation and got out with her life.
Across the room, we meet in a deadlock stare.
My first instinct is to run to her, but then, there’s something in her expression—hurt, dismay, with a touch of anger—that cements me where I stand.
An instant later, she softens and begins toward me.
“You want to get a drink?” I ask.
“Yeah. I really do.”
A few minutes later, in the hole-in-the-wall nearest the station, I tell Kirsten what’s frustrating me: “Decker can’t find a Jack Wyatt in the system. He says it’s an alias. The apartment Jack lives at is owned by some LLC—Barrett Enterprises.”
“Barrett?”
“Yeah, you know it?”
She starts to deny it with a shake of her head.
But I’m on a roll: “It was incorporated in Nevada, which is a state that doesn’t opt in to information sharing, and I can’t get to who owns the damn company. So it’s sort of like I’ve been dating an apparition. Decker found one Jack Wyatt in the right demographic but not in Chicago—from northwestern Indiana, actually. And it wasn’t my Jack. And the things my Jack had up on his laptop: all about Margaux. Including the Instagram page of the one guy Margaux’s family said we should be talking to—Arlon Judson.”
“Arlon Judson?”
“Yeah. That’s supposedly who Margaux was seeing when she died. Only when Decker found a guy with that name, it didn’t add up. Plus, I think the guy was at Disney World with his family when she died. The pictures on his Instagram support the alibi.”
“Maybe there’s more than one Arlon.”
“It’s not a common name.”
“No, I guess it’s not.”
“But Decker thinks it’s a name your son might be using.”
“Oh God.” She drops her head into her hands for a moment, and I think I hear a muffled whimper before she takes a breath, looks up, and is composed again.
I feel like she knows something but isn’t telling me. “So I guess I have to find Jack and get him talking.”
“I think Ian knows more than he’s telling, too,” she says. “The other night, I overheard him talking to his cousin. The name Arlo
n Judson came up. They didn’t say much about it, just that the cops were looking for him.”
“But they know him?”
“I can’t place the name, but I feel like I’ve heard it before. Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of relying on men to get the job done. Jack Wyatt’s not who he says he is; Arlon Judson isn’t Arlon Judson. Christ, even my own son won’t trust me with information. Why was he at your place?”
“I have no idea. I swear to God, Kirsten. I’d never seen him before that moment.”
“And my husband! We all know who’s in those pictures. We all know it isn’t Patrick. So, where’s Ian? Where is he when his son is about to take the fall? No, I’m done waiting for men to figure things out. With my son’s future hanging in the balance, I’d rather rely on a woman, wouldn’t you?”
She makes a good point.
“In order to get Patrick out of this mess,” she continues, “we have to find the one person who may have seen Margaux and Arlon—the Arlon she was involved with—together. We have to find Gail Force. She has to tell us what really happened.”
“I’m already on it. But to be honest, the culture underground is tight-knit. If Gail doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be found. And she’s sure as hell not going to comment on a murder investigation.”
“You know . . .” Kirsten reaches for a cocktail napkin and begins to jot notes on it. “My husband’s cousin recently married someone who used to bartend upstairs at the Aquasphere. Her name’s Donna, and I’m pretty sure she knew Margaux. I’ve tried to get her talking, but she won’t budge. Maybe she’ll talk to you. Or Decker, if she feels she doesn’t have a choice.” She shoves the napkin toward me.
On it is the bartender’s full name and a phone number.
I raise my glass. “I’m on it.”
She touches hers to mine. “Slainte.”
Chapter 31
KIRSTEN
It’s late by the time Ian walks in the door. I’m sitting in the dark, staring into a fire in the fireplace.
“Patrick’s been arrested,” I tell him, as if I hadn’t sent the news via text a hundred times since Jessie Blythe and I shared a pitcher of sangria at the Corner Bar.
“I bailed him out,” Ian says. “He’s home now.”
“Great, but for how long?”
“For always. He has no ties to that girl and, soon, the police will realize it.”
“You can expedite the process,” I tell him. “Submit a sample to clear him.”
Ian leans against the mantel, his sport coat flung over his shoulder. He’s backlit, so I can’t read his expression, but he says, “They’ve got nothing on him. You need to relax.”
“He submitted a DNA sample.”
“He wouldn’t.” Ian very nearly laughs at the prospect, as if I’m bluffing and he sees through me. “He knows better.”
“Regardless, he was certain it would turn up negative, so he gave them what they wanted.”
“He wouldn’t.” There’s a strain in his voice this time. He clears his throat.
“He was certain,” I say. “But talking with you now, I can see you’re not so sure.”
“Kirstie.”
“Do you have something to tell me?”
“I can’t believe he’d do that—”
“So you do have something to tell me.”
“—but not because there’s any chance of the DNA matching.”
“Promise me. If this goes any deeper, you’ll come clean. For the sake of our son’s future.”
“Patrick got himself into this mess,” Ian says. “He’ll have to dig his way out.”
“Did he get himself into it? Why was he at Jessica Blythe’s house?”
“Whose house?”
“Jessica Blythe. She’s a Chicago firefighter.”
“And how do you know a firefighter?” Ian chuckles and takes a step closer, and another, and another, until he’s leaning over me. He smells of musky cologne and some antiseptic liquor. Scotch, maybe. Or whiskey. “You need to let this go. Everything will be fine if you let it go.” He presses a hard, wet kiss to my lips.
“Do the right thing,” I say. “So many lives are already affected.”
“Everything will be fine,” he says. “Take a pill tonight. Get some sleep.”
“I already did,” I hedge.
“Good.” He pats my head. “I’m heading back to the office. With all the extra drama, getting your call about Patrick, I didn’t get much work done today.”
“Staying downtown?”
“Probably. Unless . . . will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
It’s probably better that he goes. I can’t stand to even look at him right now.
Chapter 32
JESSICA
I peruse Donna Fordham’s Facebook page. She’s one of those chronic posters with virtually zero privacy settings turned on. Her latest update: Hanging till last call. She’s posing with a few girlfriends at a bar I frequent.
I text Decker: Stopping in at the River Shannon before my shift. Care to join?
I don’t wait for his reply—it could take hours for him to even open my text—before running a quick gloss over my lips and heading out.
In the cab along the way, I keep tabs on Donna’s page, lest she and her friends opt to leave before last call, but as luck would have it, they’re still there by the time I arrive.
I pay my cover, enter past a lazy Labrador curled at someone’s feet, and slide inconspicuously into a booth.
Donna and her friends are playing the enormous Jenga near the rear of the place, and I observe for a while, determining the best way to infiltrate.
I turn around only once, to order a club soda, straight, because I have to be at the station soon, but when I turn back, I have to stifle my gasp.
Jack Wyatt is suddenly here, pulling Donna by the elbow, away from her friends and closer to me. I tuck myself deeper into the booth and listen.
“Are we good?” he asks.
“We’re good,” she says.
“Wouldn’t want your husband to know our little secret, would we?”
“I don’t think that would be good for either of us.”
“Okay, then. As long as we understand each other.”
“It’s crystal clear.”
He turns. He’s coming right for me.
I put my head down. Hopefully he’ll pass me by, but if he doesn’t, maybe it will look like I’m merely busy on my phone.
“Wait.” The click of Donna’s heels tells me she’s rushing to catch up with him. They stop a few inches past my booth. I have a clear shot.
He places a hand on the small of her back and pulls her in close.
I aim my phone at them and snap a picture.
“Did you . . . you didn’t have anything to do with you know, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “As far as we’re both concerned, we never met her.”
We. I wonder if they met her at the same time. In which case, I wonder . . .
Gail Force worked at Aquasphere Underground, as did, allegedly, Margaux. Donna tended bar upstairs. If Jack frequented the place . . . and they’re keeping something from Donna’s husband . . . I wonder if they know Gail Force or where to find her.
“Never met her,” Donna repeats.
“Keep it that way.”
I sink lower in the booth as he passes and exits the premises.
Donna lowers herself to the nearest chair, rests her head in her hands, and lets out a long sigh.
I inch my way out of the booth. “Excuse me.”
She looks up.
“How do you know Jack?”
“Who?”
“Jack Wyatt.”
She looks over her shoulder at the place he not long ago occupied.
“It’s just that he told me he was out of town,” I say, “and well . . . here he is, talking to you, so . . .”
“Ah. You’re the new victim.”
Victim?
>
“We’re involved, yes,” I say.
“Honey.” Donna stands and makes a move to return to her friends. “Run.”
“Do you know Gail Force?”
She stops and slowly turns toward me. “Why?”
“You do.” But I know she’s not going to admit it. I need a reason to keep her here, talking. “It would be a shame if your husband, Doug Fordham, learned you’re secretly meeting with other men. I’d hate to interfere, but . . .” I call up the picture I took of the two of them and afford her a quick view. “This doesn’t exactly look innocent, now does it?”
Her eyes are wide. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, but—”
“Neither do I. I’m interested in securing justice for Margaux Claire Stritch, and as a woman, in a city where crimes against us abound, I’d think you’d want the same.”
“I do, but I can’t get involved. I’m sorry.”
I check the time. “Actually, I have to get going. I have to work. But I know how to find you. Where you live, where your husband works”—at least I hope Kirsten knows these things—“so in the interest of keeping all this under wraps, lunch tomorrow? We could meet here, at the River Shannon.”
“I don’t think so. But good luck.” She turns away.
“I’m the one who cut her down, you know. That changes someone.”
She stops and looks at me over her shoulder.
“I’m just trying to understand,” I say. “And I think you can help with that.”
“No cops, okay?”
“No cops.” Three minutes later, I’m on my way to the firehouse.
I text Kirsten: River Shannon tomorrow at noon.
Chapter 33
KIRSTEN
I’m far too old to be in this bar, but I walk into a warm, welcoming atmosphere. A quick scan of the place tells me Jessica hasn’t yet arrived. That figures. I’m nearly ten minutes early. I didn’t want to risk being late, and I didn’t know if I’d readily find parking downtown, so here I am.
There’s an open seat at the bar, sandwiched between a young couple engaged in an extremely close conversation and a group of frat-boy types busy milling around the stools they used to occupy and high-fiving one another over any number of sporting events displayed on the many widescreen televisions in this place. I squeeze my way into the tiny space and consider, too late, that I may have stolen a seat from one of the frat boys, who turns to me the moment I sit, as if he somehow senses my presence.