by Brandi Reeds
He unfolds the note first and reads:
Mr. Holloway,
Due to the passing of MCS, consider your initial debt paid in full. As promised, see enclosed.
Thank you for your contributions to a noble cause.
The note is, like the previous one, typewritten and unsigned.
“Hmm.” Doug frowns. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He pulls a laptop from his briefcase, boots it up, and plugs in the flash drive.
I should warn him about what he’s going to see. I really should.
He crosses his arms over his chest as the files load. He clicks on one and gasps when the image materializes on the screen.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“That’s Donna.”
So much for a strong basis of trust.
“Yes. Your wife. With my husband.”
“What is she wearing?”
She’s clad in black leather with cutouts in all the right spots.
“This is the firm’s condo.” He looks at me over his shoulder.
I nod.
“How long have you known about this?”
“I just got the package today. The first flash drive I found contained pictures of Margaux and Ian. It was obviously a blackmail threat to keep the affair with Margaux from me. But this one, the pictures of Ian and Donna and the note about MCS being dead . . . I think Ian was paying whoever sent it to keep the affair with Donna a secret from Margaux.”
For what seems like an eternity, he stares at me, as if challenging me to back down, or maybe willing me not to know what we both now know.
“So who sent the note?” Doug asks. “Who sent these pictures?”
“Who’s in a load of debt?” I ask. “Who’s being investigated for misuse of public funds? Who would know enough about all of this to ensure funds could be repaid while protecting Margaux from the fact that her boyfriend is a serial cheater?”
“The alderman.”
“That’s right. That’s what I’m thinking, too. I know the account number where the money is wired. It’ll be up to the cops to determine whose account it is for sure, but I’m pretty convinced it’s the alderman’s. And if he’s blackmailing Ian, couldn’t that be motive for Ian to kill Margaux?”
“He wanted to start fresh,” Doug says. “He told me he was done with all this, that he wanted to recommit to you.”
“How can you believe that, considering these pictures of my husband with your wife?”
“Ian . . . Ian introduced Donna and me.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought you all met at the same time.”
“It was at a bar after a company dinner. He knew her. Which means this could have happened between them before me.”
“Could have. I suppose it’s a valid theory, but is it probable?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it’s possible. That’s what I say to juries every day. If I can get a jury believing in a possibility, the verdict of not guilty is nearly in before the judge retires to chambers.”
“Even if the guy you’re defending is guiltier than sin? Doug, this is your wife. Your wife slept with my husband.”
“I have to think it was before. It’s the only way to keep them both. I have to suspend disbelief.”
“Okay. I understand that. I understand it and support it if that’s what you want.”
“Christ.” For what feels like an eternity, he stares at me.
But I won’t back down. I won’t blink.
“What do you want me to do, Kirstie? Not defend him? Let him thrash around until he drowns himself? With my help, he’s going to get off. This case is riddled with holes. The prosecution’s got their work cut out for them, that’s for sure. Ian’s done some things he isn’t proud of, but that doesn’t mean he’s capable of murder.”
“Whether or not he’s capable, it looks bad. He was paying someone twenty grand a month . . . it’s a wonder we’re able to pay our bills. Don’t you think there might be motive there? He has a lot to hide. The police are going to agree.”
I stare at him, long and unrelenting, until he finally nods.
“If Ian did this, he should answer for it,” I repeat. “He should take the heat off Patrick, and he should answer for it.”
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux, in a stunning red dress, exited out into the gardens at the Refectory. She was one of only two wedding guests on this side of the park, as everyone else was likely on the dance floor.
“You were right.” Margaux lowered her body to a long, golden-toned bench. “About everything. His intentions, his image, his dark side. You were right about everything. He only wants what serves his ego.”
“I wish I were wrong about him.” The concerned third party took a seat next to Margaux.
The lights from the lampposts filtered down through the canopy of vines and raced through the golden strands of Margaux’s hair. She rubbed her right cheek, which was starting to ripen with color.
“Did he hit you?”
Margaux wrung her hands in her lap, twisting a scrap of red satin and lace. Panties.
She met her companion in a knowing glance.
Much worse than a fist to the face occurred between her and Arlon tonight.
“Tell me what happened tonight, Margaux.”
“You know what happened. It’s everything you said would happen.”
“You should report this.”
Margaux shook her head. “You know who I am, what I do for a living. Do you honestly think they’ll care?”
“The world is changing. Everyone deserves a right to say no.”
“Or I can just get on with it.” She opened her grasp and revealed a credit card, with End-all-be-all’s given name on it, resting alongside the panties. “He gave me enough to kill our baby. No more, no less. And if I report it, the press will know about the abortion, too. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“You don’t have to. You do what you want to do, what you think is best.”
“I can’t believe I’m in this mess.” Although she kept a tight grip on the Visa, she abandoned the underwear in her lap when she wiped away a tear.
“You should be on your way home,” the third party said. “His family is here. He might deserve the exposure, but his family doesn’t. Not here, not tonight.”
The panties slipped to the garden path when she stood.
Her shoulders trembled with her sob, and before she knew it, she was resting her head on the stranger’s shoulder, crying. Maybe stranger was no longer appropriate. Maybe they were friends.
“Hit him the right way,” the third party suggested. “You have his credit card, his real name. Whatever you decide to do about the baby is your business. But report what he did to you—to your body—tonight.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t let him do before, nothing I haven’t willingly participated in. Who’ll believe me? Who’ll believe that he nearly squeezes the life out of me every time? And that it usually turns me on?”
“Your cheek is bruising. Other parts of you will bruise, too. There’s evidence. Don’t let him get away with this.”
She pulled back and stared at her friend, eye to eye. “Why do you care?”
“I told you. Everyone deserves kindness and caring. Do you have cab fare?”
She nodded and smeared a tear and streak of mascara like the tail of a comet across her cheek.
“Go then. Go directly to the police station. Tell them what he did to you tonight. Practice. Say the words. Use his real name.”
“Ian Holloway assaulted me tonight.”
“Say it again. The more often you say it, the easier it’s going to be when you file an official report.”
Margaux repeated it a few more times before turning away.
The clicking of her heels against the flagstone path echoed like a clock counting down to doom.
The third party crouched to the ground and retrieved the panties and returned to the reception hall.
Ian�
�s jacket hung on the back of his chair, and if Ian was on the dance floor, doing the hokey pokey, he was far too drunk to dig through his pockets for keys. He’d take an Uber back to the hotel like everyone else. And it was a warm night; he likely wouldn’t be putting the jacket on again for the duration of the party.
No one was looking. No one would notice someone shoving a pair of panties into the inside pocket of the jacket.
Sooner or later, the panties would be found.
He would be exposed.
This time, he wouldn’t get away with it.
Chapter 42
KIRSTEN
The last time we were in the same room was for Doug and Donna’s wedding. Now we’re in the great room at the house in Mettawa, where we share not a single memory. Yet here we are, discussing my upcoming meeting with the Chicago detective. This moment is going to be forever cemented into all our minds.
Instead of remember that one Christmas when . . . , we’ll be referencing the time Dad was arrested for murder.
“They’re looking to see if Ian has an alibi,” Doug says, “if his story holds water. Anything you can do to help establish that alibi will help. But remember, they’re counting on your being bitter and vengeful. They want you to play the role of the disgruntled wife. Stay strong. Poised. They’re going to try to trip you up, so if you’re not sure about something, say you don’t recall.”
“Tell the truth.” Ian winks at me from across the living room. “Establish my alibi, baby.”
For a moment too long, I harden my gaze on him. It doesn’t occur to him that asking his wife to cover for him for the night his girlfriend died mysteriously just might be too much to ask of anyone. And I’m sort of astounded that he thinks, even while he’s sleeping in the corporate apartment downtown, that I’d stop at nothing to protect him, if only to put on a happy face in front of our children.
“But you can’t lie, Mom.” Quinn wrings her hands. “Even to save Dad’s life. If they catch you lying, it’ll be worse. And, I might add, maybe Dad shouldn’t have done what he did with this woman.” She glares at her father. “I can’t believe you’d do this to Mom.”
“I don’t even know why we’re worried about it,” Patrick says. “We both know Dad didn’t kill this girl, Quinny.”
“Whether or not he killed anyone, he’s still in the wrong,” Quinn insists.
“Wait a minute, Quinn,” Ian says. “You’re passing judgment on something you know very little about.”
She points her finger at her father. “You. Are. Wrong. Dad, knowing you’ve been involved with this young, trusting woman . . . the position you put her in, the lies you told her to get what you wanted from her until you were bored with her . . . it’s insulting. Unforgivable.”
“Quinn,” Ian says. “You don’t understand what’s really happened here—”
“Dad, I’m a woman. If you see fit to treat one of us this way, you’re saying it’s acceptable to treat all of us that way. How would you feel if someone treated me that way? Or Grandma? So why would you do this to Mom?”
“This is about Dad’s not being a murderer. It isn’t a feminist issue,” Patrick says with a roll of his eyes.
Quinn rolls hers in response. “Of course it isn’t, coming from the white, privileged man.”
“But he didn’t kill her,” Patrick says. “That’s the point I’m making.”
“We don’t know that,” I say.
“Jeez, Mom!” Patrick says.
“You know what?” Quinn stands. “A woman is dead, for God’s sake, and all you care about is saving Dad’s skin. As I understand it, you might want to think about saving your own.”
“Quinn.” Ian makes a move toward her.
“Stop right there,” our daughter says. “Let’s get something straight. I’m here for my mother, got it? I’m not here to support you.”
Ian looks to me. “Are you going to let her talk to me that way?”
“Yes.” I nod, in case he didn’t hear my words. “I think I am.”
Patrick, feigning casual aloofness, pops his knuckles, which he hasn’t done since middle school. He’s chewing his lip the same way he did the first day of high school, as if he’s afraid but doesn’t want me to know it. And for a moment, I can’t help seeing him the way I saw him as a child. My baby boy. The reason his father and I are here today. We both loved him enough to give forever a shot.
“Everything’s circumstantial,” Doug redirects. “I’m not worried about it, but at the end of the day, sealing up an alibi can only help us sleep more soundly.”
If the case against Ian is as flimsy as Doug says, this could all come crashing down on Patrick.
“If I hadn’t given that sample, we wouldn’t be here,” Patrick says.
“They have the tattoo, and they have the semen. The tattoo is inconsequential. I can argue our way out of that, considering the Aquasphere brand. It doesn’t prove anything. But Patrick, your DNA matching the embryo’s actually helps your father. It puts doubt into the jury’s mind. Someone closer to Margaux’s age . . . it’s plausible.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You will not throw my son under the bus—”
“Kirstie, it’s okay,” Doug interjects. “The case won’t hold water even if the prosecution attempts to try it, because there’s nothing to back it up.”
“It certainly is not okay. It’s not an option,” I say to Patrick, “and we’re not here because of you. We’re here because your father screwed the wrong girl!”
“They’ll believe it was you,” Ian says to our son.
“They’ll believe I was having an affair with her,” Patrick says. “We’re the same age. It makes sense.”
“Patrick, no,” I say. “Maybe that gets your dad out of hot water, but it puts you back into it.”
“I haven’t seen the pictures,” he continues, as if I never said a word. “But from what I understand, they’re obscure. Can they pass for me? Like, fake-ID pass?”
“For a minute, I thought it was you in the pictures,” Ian jokes.
I shoot him a glare.
“Mom, this is about saving Dad from a bogus murder charge. We’ll deal with the girl later. Right now, we have to stick with what’s important. We have to get him out of this mess. The tattoo matches,” Patrick says. “The build matches, right?”
“Yes, it does. I’ve been keeping myself in shape,” Ian says. “It’s important.”
“Dad and I wear the same size suit,” Patrick says. “Which is why I probably borrowed his jacket that night.”
“You didn’t borrow his jacket that night!” I scream. “You didn’t, not once, take his coat from the back of that chair!”
I get to my feet amid the silence ringing in my ears.
I look around the room at my family, all staring at me, agape, and my husband’s cousin–slash–best friend–slash–law partner–slash–lawyer. “It’s not happening,” I tell Doug. “Find another way. You leave Patrick out of this.”
No one says a word in response.
Finally, Quinn pipes in: “Are you going to tell them, Patrick? Or should I?”
“What?” I spin toward my daughter.
“I went out with her,” Patrick says. “I met her at the club. I took her out. Twice.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“But I didn’t sleep with her. It was just coffee. Then one night she called me when this asshole left her destitute in a bad neighborhood, and we had dinner.”
“You had dinner with this girl?” Ian asks.
“Nothing happened,” Patrick says with a shrug. “I thought she could use a friend.”
“Then I guess we play the Arlon Judson card,” Doug says.
“Yeah. That’s the guy she was dating,” Patrick interjects. “She told me all about him.”
“The police are looking for Arlon Judson,” Doug continues. “We admit to Ian’s affair, we tell the jury all about it before the prosecution has a chance, but center on the theory that Judson was irate when he lea
rned of it. Boom. Motive.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Glad you’ve got it all figured out.” I walk to the kitchen, retrieve my Louis and my keys.
“Wait!” Doug says. “I should accompany you. I’ll be there to coach you through the questions.”
“I’ll be fine on my own.” I shoot another dagger of a stare in my husband’s direction. “I’m just going to stick to the truth.”
Ian keeps a stupid smile plastered to his face, but I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.
I hold his gaze. That’s right, I say without making a sound. How confident are you in my loyalty?
I head to the station.
THEN
MARGAUX
“I’m looking for Babydoll.”
“You found her.” Margaux turned toward the man waiting outside the dressing room at the Aquasphere Underground. “Patrick.” He wore a navy-blue suit, tasseled loafers, and a striped tie.
“Maybe you want to take a break?” he asked.
“You want to know what I want? I want a decent guy for once. I want to be treated with dignity and respect.”
“How about another dinner sometime?”
“This . . .” She indicated from top to toe. “This is all an act. This isn’t who I am. Underneath, I’m just a jeans-and-cute-top kind of girl. I binge-watch Friends. I deal with the life that landed in my lap.”
“I know. I’m not asking for romantic reasons, anyway. We’re accepted at the same law school. I thought, you know . . . if you decided to go to Loyola . . .”
“Well, lots of girls were accepted there, so . . . why me?”
“To be honest—”
“Yes, please be honest.”
“You’re too good for this place. And this guy you’re dating . . . his name’s Arlon, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re too good for him, too. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.”
“Well, I’ll be around, so . . . if you need anything . . .”