by Brandi Reeds
“Could be a coincidence. We’ll know soon enough.” He grins. “I’m close, Jessie. I feel it.”
Chapter 39
KIRSTEN
“I don’t understand how this could happen.” Patrick’s head is in his hands. He’s seated at my kitchen table. “I’ve never been with her. I swear to God. So how does my DNA hit as a possible match? To a friggin’ embryo?”
My heart has been in panic mode since the lieutenant called with the news less than an hour ago: Margaux was pregnant when she died, and the embryo’s DNA is similar to my son’s. I take a deep breath. I have to be strong. I have to remain calm for my son. “It’s time to face the truth, Patrick.” I slide a mug of coffee across the table toward him. “It’s what I’ve been telling you since this whole thing began: your father has secrets.”
“But . . . it doesn’t make sense. Quinn said something fishy was going on. I looked into it. I didn’t find anything, Mom. I mean, nothing about this girl pointed to Dad, and I’m a good researcher.”
“Maybe your father’s just a better liar. Maybe he covered his tracks too well.”
“Does he know this girl was pregnant when she died?”
“I don’t know. We’re not speaking much these days. You might want to ask him.”
“I have.”
“Let me guess. He denied it.”
“Not exactly. But he didn’t admit it, I’ll tell you that much.”
“How did he react?”
“I don’t know how to describe it . . . at least not to you. Smug, maybe. Not how I thought he’d be.”
A feeling like a pebble dropping from throat to gut itches at me. It’s the same feeling I got when I overheard Patrick, at age eight, explain to Quinn that Santa Claus was really Mommy and Daddy . . . the feeling that the jig is up, but I want him to keep on believing. Just a little while longer.
“You have to understand. I never would have submitted that sample if I thought in a million years it would hit. Never.”
“I know.”
“And now . . . now I know the truth about what he did. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t want to think about that right now. First, we have to clear your name.”
“God, Mom. I can’t go down for this.” Finally, my son raises his head and takes a sip of coffee. “I just can’t. And if I report my alibi, Becca’s gonna be pissed. Do you know where I was that night? What I was doing?”
I sip from my mug. “Hmm?”
“I went to that club. To the underground place that just burned down.”
“Patrick.” I sigh and take another sip. “It’s better to have a pissed-off girlfriend than a felony murder conviction. Come clean with Becca and make some changes if you want to pursue a life with her.” I reach for his hand.
He grips mine—tightly.
“And if you don’t want to pursue a life with her, be kind. Communicate and walk away. She deserves that much.” I think for a minute. “Patrick. Quinn said you’d been out with other girls.”
He draws in a long inhale. “Quinn should mind her own business.”
“This girl who died . . . was she one of them?”
He stares at me, silent.
“Patrick?”
“I don’t cheat on Becca.”
“If you were seeing this girl, no one is going to believe you weren’t sleeping with her. Given you’ve told the police you were at the Aquasphere the night she died, given they suspect she worked there, and your DNA matches . . . Do you have something to tell me?”
He shakes his head.
“Patrick.”
“Unless they find a more likely suspect, I’m fucked.”
“I’ve done what I can,” I say. “You know I’ll do everything in my power to help you. You’ll see.”
“How? Mom, seriously, you can’t write a note explaining that I’m incapable like you did when my ninth-grade biology teacher accused me of copying my lab work. This is a big deal.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you think, if Dad submitted a sample, his would be a better match?”
“Patrick, it would be suicide, but—”
“Even if it means saving me? My future?”
“I hope he will. And I hope it does.”
For a little over two weeks now, I’ve come home to an empty house. No one to cook for or clean up after. Just me, my FaceTime with Quinn, my firstborn’s worry about his government-issue anklet and house arrest, and a fire in the fireplace. Tonight, I’m sipping a glass of chardonnay.
Patrick’s pretrial hearing is coming up.
I’ve already done all I can do to redirect the investigation. I went to the station and offered what information I could to clear my son’s name. I declined pressing charges for the mark my husband left on my neck that night despite Detective Decker’s urging otherwise; it was consensual that night. I practically dared him to do it. But my point was made: Ian is capable of wrapping his hands around a woman’s neck. I have to be patient and trust in the system. But I know more than one case has been botched because of lazy prosecutors. Or the public gets antsy and demands resolution. And the next thing you know, an innocent man is in prison.
The writing is on the wall: this is exactly what’s going to happen with Margaux’s case. She’s become a media darling posthumously. The Akerses are stirring up buzz that the CPD is inept and can’t solve the case, and the public, especially after the fire broke out at the club, wants the case closed so they can feel safer in the city at night. None of them realize that a quick wrap of this case could mean snuffing out my son’s liberty.
I stare out over the grounds of the Giardino Segreto, seeking the serenity Ian promised me when we moved out here. There’s movement in the shadows at the tree line, just before the marshland. Probably a coyote, or maybe even a deer. I still look for the one I hit weeks ago. I consider her fawns, whether they’re still alive out there, or if they’ve fallen prey to some force of nature.
Because that’s what’s going to happen to my son if things don’t fall in line.
A sense of loneliness filters in as I acknowledge the possibility. A deep, dark cavern full of unrealized dreams. If Patrick goes down for this, what does that say about me, his mother?
“Kirstie.”
I jump when I hear Ian’s voice behind me.
I take a step back when I see the cold, angry look in his eyes. I cover my heart, which is suddenly beating at Mach ten. “You’re early.”
It’s true I invited him tonight, but I wasn’t expecting him for half an hour or so.
He tosses his keys to the cocktail table and sinks to the sofa. “I’ve given you space, Kirstie. I’ve been gone long enough. I’m moving back in.”
“I’m not sure that’s for you to decide.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is. I live here. I make your life possible. So let’s have it out. I’d like to be in bed by midnight.”
“I know what you’ve done, you know.” I lean against the windowsill. A frigid breeze breaks through the old panes.
He stares at me.
“Do you know there’s a real possibility Patrick will be brought to trial for this girl’s murder? You know it will be hard to refute his DNA match. But one thing’s for sure. If you own up to what really happened, Patrick still has a future.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“He’s our son. Will you hold so fast to your lies and deceit that you won’t even tell the truth to save our son?”
“Kirstie, I—”
“Let me see if I can spot this one. You throw your money around a little bit. You get to be someone else for the course of a night, maybe even the course of a relationship, with some young girl who probably isn’t interested in going the distance, someone who, so very unlike me, wants to make a priority of her future, of her career. Someone who grew up in the age of the internet, desensitized by the vast array of options out there, someone who’ll do scandalous things with you in the dead of night. Someone who isn’t th
e old bag who tied you down in your prime. You let the relationship run its course, eventually stop paying attention when you’re bored, or when some other girl catches your eye. And should she ever want to reach out and find you again, you’re a ghost. Because you never existed in the first place. They can’t find you because they don’t know the real places to look, and eventually, they forget they’re looking for you at all. You’re a figment of someone’s imagination. And that’s the way you like it.”
“Okay, enough.”
I raise a brow. “Excuse me? You’re telling me you’ve had enough? You’re not even supposed to be here until six. You now live in Lincoln Park.”
“We’re dealing with something a little more serious than your anxious episodes, so let’s dial it back. You don’t understand, Kirstie. You can’t possibly fathom the amount of pressure I’m under all the time to provide. The sacrifice . . .” He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “The repeated sacrifice.”
“You think I don’t understand sacrifice, Ian? Which one of us went to college and earned a degree? You did. Because I was delivering our firstborn child during what would have been a final exam for my first college course. Which one of us has a career?”
“I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am.”
“You were gifted the opportunity to follow your dreams, to become what you were meant to become. Since you were a boy, you and your cousin dreamed about heading your own firm, following in your uncle’s footsteps, and damn it if you didn’t do it!”
“I’ve worked damn hard to get my name on that door, so don’t you condescend to tell me it was a gift—”
“It was a gift, Ian. A gift from me. I afforded you the time, the energy, and the space to work hard. Do you think you would’ve made partner if you’d been up all hours of the night breastfeeding babies until your nipples bled? Rocking colicky kids until you may as well have been a zombie? Canceling your days’ agendas when one of them got sick on the bus ride to school? Do you think you would’ve gotten as far as you have without my ironing your goddamned shirts? Without my wearing cheap drugstore slides so we could afford to outfit you in your lawyerly best before the money started to come? And don’t get me started on your three-hundred-dollar lunches while I was eating peanut butter and jelly. You want to talk about sacrifice?”
“Don’t I get any credit for what I’ve provided? You have a four-thousand-square-foot house, standing manicure appointments at the salon, a credit card at your disposal. I work so you don’t have to.”
“I work harder than you’ve ever realized.”
“We can afford anything you want—”
“I don’t want anything, Ian. I wanted you. I wanted our family. I didn’t want nice things that you could bank as credit to pay me off once I caught you with your pants down.”
Even now, after I’ve reminded him of my contributions to our family, he shakes his head in disgust, as if he can’t believe that I dared to suggest I’m just as important as he. But then he mutters, probably because he knows he needs an ally right about now, “I know what you do is important.”
It doesn’t sound sincere, or even believable.
“Ian.”
Now with his back to me, he stands in front of the fire and slides his hands into his pockets.
“This girl is dead,” I remind him.
His head bobs.
“You’re the last person to see her alive.”
I watch him closely to register his reaction, but he plays his cards close to the vest. He runs a finger along the edge of the mantel, then whisks away the dust gathered on his fingertip.
“Ian? Is there something you need to tell me? Do you know what happened to her?”
Silence.
“Is your semen going to match the semen found in the threads of that red thong? Is your grip going to match the marks on her neck? Is your DNA going to match that of her embryo?”
He spins toward me. “Embryo?”
I raise a brow.
He tries again: “You said embryo.”
“She was pregnant when she died, Ian.”
He looks shocked.
“Patrick’s sample matches,” I say. “Which means yours probably will, too. Am I right?”
He stands stoic, refusing to crumple. “I don’t know. And no one ever will. In order to compel a sample from me, they’ll need a warrant. And in order to get that, they need something concrete to show that Margaux and I might have interacted.”
“What they have is concrete enough to center on Patrick, isn’t it? Don’t you get it? He could go to trial! Juries have convicted on less.”
“Justice will prevail. If he didn’t do anything wrong, he has nothing to worry about.”
“If it all came down to it, Ian, would you sacrifice your image, your practice, your life for one of our children?”
“If it . . . Kirstie. Honestly, the questions you ask.”
“That’s the difference between you and me. You think you’re too important, don’t you? That’s what happens when you’ve grown up thinking you’re God’s gift. You don’t love anyone, Ian, but yourself.”
“I don’t, huh? I suppose that’s why I bought you this enormous house when you couldn’t keep it together in Evanston.”
“We both know the real reason we bought this house.”
He pauses to gauge my comment, and I say, “Whatever you do, you do because it serves you well.”
He grits his teeth. “I could strangle you.”
“You loved to leave your marks on me,” I continue. “Our little secret, right? So when I felt the ache of my bruised inner thighs, I’d remember what it felt like to be with you the night before.”
“You liked it,” he says.
“You hurt me, Ian. And I know that now. You’ve been in control of me since the night you stole my virginity on Oak Street Beach.”
“Stole?”
“That’s the way I remember it. I was enamored with you. It was happening before I knew we’d decided to do it. And it hurt. But I thought I loved you, so I let it happen.”
He’s staring into the fire.
“It was a different era, Ian. Before women knew we could speak out against the most popular boys in school. Before we were educated. Before anyone would do anything about it if things went too far, further than a girl was ready to go. If we knew our perpetrators—if we loved them—we assumed we got what we deserved. Furthermore, we assumed that we’d subliminally asked for it, even if we’d never wanted it to begin with. And then I was too ashamed not to continue seeing you. I had to make it worth it, you see. I had to go the distance with you. I couldn’t lose you, because if I did, my worst fears would have been realized—I would have been exactly what you thought I was back then. Easy. Disposable. Unimportant.”
“I love you, Kirstie. Always have. I wouldn’t have thought . . . I wouldn’t have done what you’re saying I did. You’re angry with me. You’re revising history to justify that anger now.”
“It’s not like it happened only once. Our first night out after Quinn was born . . . with the rope, and the hook . . .”
“That was hot. You wanted it.”
“Someone who wants it isn’t bawling her eyes out. You delve into these fantasies, and you can’t stop. You feel powerful. You’re addicted to the rush, and you don’t even care that you’re hurting people. You throw us away when you’re finished. Roll over, leave the room . . . And you know what? For a while, I felt special. That you had to go to such great lengths to have me, that you wanted me so fiercely that you’d take me, if even against my will. There’s prestige in that, Ian . . . until I realized it wasn’t exclusive to me. Until I realized you feel that way around every attractive woman you meet.”
“It’s not true.”
“If you love me, you’ll tell me about the money that’s missing. If you love me, you’ll explain it all. If you love your family, your son, you’ll come clean.”
“I have nothing to come clean about!”
> The doorbell sounds.
“Expecting company?” Ian asks.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Since when do you have a full social calendar?”
“Just tonight.”
He follows me to the front door, where I greet Detectives Decker and Oliver.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “Good evening.”
“Mrs. Holloway,” Decker says. “I have a warrant here.”
“Come in.”
“Warrant?” Ian asks.
“Ian Holloway, you’re under arrest for the murder of Margaux Claire Stritch. You have the right to remain silent—”
“What’s your probable cause?”
“We’ll get to that at the station, Counselor.”
“Whatever it is, it won’t stick.”
“Probably not. DNA evidence is hardly reliable.”
“DNA? How?”
Realization dawns.
The last time we had sex, I’d practically taunted him.
He wrapped his hands around my neck and did to me what we all suspect he did to Margaux.
And he left me—like Margaux—with plenty of DNA to pass off to the police force for analysis.
“That’s where you went the night after?” he asks. “The cop shop?”
I raise a brow. “They would have been here sooner, but it takes a while to process the samples.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Ian says through gritted teeth and a dagger of a stare. “All you’ve done is prove that you weren’t woman enough to keep me.”
“Time will tell,” I say. “And what was it you said? Justice will prevail.”
“By the way.” Oliver hands over a five-by-seven padded manila envelope, not unlike the one in which I found the flash drive of pictures. “This was on your doorstep.”
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux entered the conservatory and observed the wedding from a distance. As she ventured closer, she caught the glance of the concerned third party, who raised a brow, as if to say what did I tell you?
The third party was right.
Arlon Judson was not going to leave his family. Not even for the embryonic cells rapidly dividing and developing inside her.