by Brandi Reeds
“Do you think he cared about whether he was being fair to us? I don’t want Holloway on my diploma. I just don’t. And lots of people are abandoning their last names when they get married now, anyway. Women and men. They create a new last name for themselves. Like a combination of their names, or a brand-new name altogether.”
“Really? People do that?”
“Yeah. It’s more feminist that way. Equal. I mean, why should we have to abandon our identities simply because we’re women? Think about it. It very naturally puts us in a position of inferiority. We succumb to that which the almighty male demands, even down to our names.”
“Okay. It’s up to you and your brother. You’re of legal age. You don’t need my permission, or your father’s, but you have my blessing.”
“Thank you.”
“So what’s your new name going to be? Quinn Thunderstorm? Quinn Awesomeness?”
“Actually, we’re thinking . . . Barrett.”
My maiden name. “Oh. I’d love that.”
“Patrick already has the paperwork prepped, but we thought we should talk to you about it first.”
“You have my blessing.”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re wondering if you want to do it, too.”
“I already have.” It feels strange to be Kirstie Barrett again. But good. “I did it just after the divorce. I didn’t want to influence you kids, so—”
“Mom, all you’ve ever done is influence us.”
“Well, I did my best with what I had to work with. For good or bad, you got it all.”
“He lied to you throughout your entire marriage.”
“I know.”
“Dad was pointing his finger even at Patrick to establish doubt. How could Dad agree to that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom? I love you.”
“Aww, Quinn. I love you, too.”
“Kiss, kiss,” she says. “Love, love.”
I walk Brady farther down the path. When we round a bend, I freeze.
Brady inexplicably doesn’t make a sound. I crouch to keep him quiet and close.
Not twenty feet in front of us, an enormous doe is standing like a statue on the path.
I look to her right hind leg and see a scarred patch of hair.
We stare at each other, eye to eye.
“She’s okay,” I say to my dog. “She survived the winter.”
The deer blinks.
“You know what? I did, too.”
Brady slurps his pink tongue against my cheek.
“I love you,” I say to my dog.
He howls in return, and I swear it sounds like he’s telling me he loves me, too.
The deer darts off and disappears into the woods.
Chapter 53
JESSICA
I approach a table for two in the rear corner of a restaurant Kirsten suggested. It’s in a neighborhood pushing the city limits, and I had to take two trains to get here, but because she’s always come to me before, I can brave the burbs just this once, even in the midst of a messy February thaw.
There’s a wintry mix of rain and sleet today, but Kirsten, who stands and waves the second I enter the place, looks no worse for the wear. Her hair is drawn into a high, sleek ponytail, and her knee-high, heeled leather boots don’t show a single sign of wear and tear. In jeans and a fitted sweater, she looks as comfortable as I’ve ever seen her, despite the fact that over the past few months, her life has been torn to pieces and picked through like a yard sale. And after more than twenty years, her marriage has come to an end.
I don’t know what gives, why she’d want to see me now, when we haven’t spoken since the verdict.
But her smile is warm and as inviting as her open arms. “Jess, you look great. How are you?” She offers me a friendly hug.
“I’m back to rushing the elderly to hospitals, getting cats out of trees,” I tell her. “You know. Usual calls.”
“And the cop?”
I feel my cheeks redden with the mention of Detective Third Grade Lieutenant KJ Decker, who helped me nab the perpetrator who stole my innocence at the age of thirteen. “We’ll wait and see. I’m actually applying to the force, so there’s a chance we could work together.”
“He’s good to you?”
“He challenges me.”
She sits, so I sit.
“I like a nice balance of power,” she tells me. “What you do, Jessica, it’s important. Prestigious.”
“Thank you.”
“I never had a career.”
“I know.”
“I have my kids, though.”
“That’s important, too, what you’ve done. It means something to raise good people.”
“I wish everyone thought so.” She tilts her head to one side and smiles, her gaze drifting off into the distance. “As crazy as it sounds, I’m not sorry my marriage ended this way.”
“How are Quinn and Patrick holding up?”
“It’s strange to say, but I think we’re all okay. We’re all pursuing phase two.” Her smile is brighter, and more relaxed, than I’ve ever seen it. “That’s what Quinn calls it.”
“Good.” I don’t know what else to say. I wonder why I’m here. As pleasant as I find Kirsten Holloway, we have very little in common. And given my issues with commitment, not to mention the common thread between us being a man we once shared, a bubble of panic bursts in my nerves. It’s awkward. Does she expect to do this often? Meet for lunch and exchange small talk?
I’m so not that girl.
She opens a menu. “Let’s have martinis. Are you on call tonight? Can you celebrate a little?”
“I can have a drink. What are we celebrating?”
“Freedom? The end of an era?” She shrugs. “Phase two.”
“So. What are you doing with phase two of your life?” I ask. “Dating anyone?”
“God, no.” She closes her menu. “Honey, I’ve been someone’s wife or girlfriend—Ian’s, as a matter of fact—since Pearl Jam was all the rage.” She turns to the approaching waiter. “Cosmo, please.”
“Two,” I confirm.
“I have absolutely no desire to jump back into all that mess again. It’s time to concentrate on me,” she says. “I’m helping Donna start a party-planning business, and I’m thinking of going to design school. I’m having so much fun renovating my home, and I was always artsy in high school.”
“Well, if I ever own a home, I’ll give you a call to help me decorate it.”
“That’ll be fun. Speaking of fun, I got a dog,” she says. “At Have a Heart Rescue downtown. A Siberian husky. He talks, can you believe it? He howls and it sounds like words. Says I love you.”
I raise a brow in amusement.
“I call him Brady. I take a lot of pictures of him.” She opens her shoulder bag.
I brace myself for the dozens of pictures of the pup I expect her to pull out of her purse. I’m going to have smile, nod, and say things like aww and so cute!
Instead, she produces a flash drive. “I want you to have this.”
Something like discomfort kicks up in my gut.
She drops the flash drive into my palm.
In a rush, pieces fall into place, and suddenly, the Tetris game we’ve been sifting through with Ian Holloway has far fewer gaps.
I study her.
“You knew,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“You knew I was having an affair with Ian.”
She returns my stare, a small not-really smile playing on her lips.
“That day at the station,” I continue, “you weren’t there coincidentally. You were looking for me.”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” she says.
“But you knew who I was.”
“I’d seen you once before, yes.”
I look at the drive in my hand. “Is this what I think it is?”
“It came in the mail right after she died. Patrick found it on the doorstep, and as a matter of fact, Ia
n never even knew about it. There was a note enclosed, requesting more cash. The pictures aren’t bad. Just you and my husband getting to know each other, but out of respect, I think you should have it. I didn’t give it to Decker for obvious reasons.”
The drinks couldn’t have arrived at a better time. I take a healthy sip while my companion thanks the waiter and assures him he’s doing a great job.
“There was only one night Jack—Ian—was at my place, and he never stayed the night.”
“Is that right?”
“Were you there that night? Did you take these pictures?”
The shake of her head is nearly imperceptible. “I never said I took the pictures. I said they came in the mail. That’s a very important distinction. And believe me, the first time I saw the pictures of Margaux and Ian, I almost died inside. It was definitely a shock.”
“Okay. So you didn’t take those pictures. Did you take these?”
She reaches for my hand across the table.
Reluctantly, I take hers.
“I knew all along what my husband was. But no, I didn’t follow you or photograph you. I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that. If you want to know who Mr. Akers hired, you might want to ask him.”
“You know, if you’d told me that day that my boyfriend was actually your husband, I wouldn’t have continued to see him. You should’ve told me.”
“I should have.”
“He could have killed me.”
“Oh, I doubt that. He’s awful, for sure. But what happened with Margaux wasn’t calculated. If it happened the way the DA says it did, it happened without ill intent, without forethought. It was an accident resulting from Ian’s recklessness.”
I consider this, and it’s logical, but one thing haunts me: “He had his hands around my neck that night. It could have accidentally happened to me.” The night he came over unannounced, he was on me in an instant, and the next I knew, I was decking him.
“Why did you stay with him?” I ask.
“When you spend your life with someone, it’s hard not to rationalize. It’s hard to admit when something is over. But however it happens, whenever it happens, doesn’t matter. It only matters that it happens.”
She clinks her glass into mine.
“To bygones.”
THEN
THE THIRD PARTY
Margaux approaches her building in knee-high, square-heeled brown boots and a vintage-looking minidress in a geometric pattern of oranges and blues. Her glasses are dark—no rose-colored lenses today—completely shielding her eyes from the sun, and I can guess why.
She was scheduled to terminate her pregnancy today.
When she sees me, waiting in the center of her steps, she nearly stops in her tracks. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see how you were doing.”
“How do you think I’m doing?” She holds up her left hand to prove she no longer wears the ring.
That’s good. “Do you need anything?”
She looks at me for a second, perhaps wondering if she should trust me. Nothing has gone as she’s planned since the day our paths first crossed.
“I want to hate you,” Margaux said. “I keep thinking about how much easier it would be if I could just hate you.”
“That’s your decision. I just wanted to know if you needed anything.”
“But why?” she asks. “Why would you assume, if I need anything, I’d turn to you? It’s all happened just as you wanted it to, so why would you want to help me?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Finally, she sighs and says, “Come in.”
I follow her into the building, then up the stairs to her loft. Once beyond her door, she gives in to the tears I’d guess she’s been keeping at bay since she left the clinic. They come in like a tidal wave and nearly knock her off balance.
I catch her under the elbow and walk her to the closest chair.
“I couldn’t do it,” she says.
I nod. Understandable.
“He told me to charge it,” she says. “He wanted to see the name of the clinic on his statement so that he’d know I did it.”
“That sounds like something he’d do.”
“But I couldn’t go through with the abortion.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not upset with me?”
“There’s no putting this behind us now—babies are permanent like that—but we’ll find a way. We, as a species, always do.”
“Easy for you to say. You have an answer for everything.” She rips a tissue from a nearby box. “How did you guess exactly what would happen?”
I take a seat on the cocktail table in front of her. “I’m not some kind of prophet. I didn’t guess at what would come to pass. This isn’t complicated; this isn’t unique; this isn’t special. It just happens, Margaux.”
She swallows over a sob.
I pat her shoulder. “I know what’s ahead of you because I was in your shoes half a lifetime ago. My whole life spread out like a blank canvas, and suddenly, it wasn’t mine to paint anymore. But listen to me.”
Margaux buries her face in her hands.
“Listen. I need you to do what he won’t. Make a priority out of you, however impossible a feat it may seem. It’s important. You’re worth it. Remember you’re worth it even when your days are the darkest.”
She peeks at me through her fingers. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“There was one day I thought I’d never see the sun again,” I say. “He left a bruise on my neck. You know how it happens when he’s particularly revved up, and he was wild, and I felt—I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I felt like he might actually snap my windpipe, and I was excited with the prospect of being his first. The first body he’d taken, the first life he’d snuff out. I felt needed in that moment. Wanted, special, powerful. But the moment it was over, and he was back out the door, I was empty again. I felt used, and I hated him for it. May God forgive me, but I considered tying a knot around my neck and hanging. I wondered if the police would see the marks he’d left on my neck and suspect him of murder . . . a murder staged to look like suicide. Can you imagine anything so satisfying as watching him go down for something as irrevocable as murder? And knowing he’d finally pay the ultimate price? Taking his freedom away the way he stole yours the moment you created life together . . . a blissful thought, isn’t it?”
She’s not crying anymore, but she’s staring in wide-eyed horror at me.
“I don’t know why the thought entered my head back then,” I say. “And I don’t know why I didn’t do it. I didn’t have anyone to turn to. No one to help me. But somehow, I carried on. And the truth of the matter is, Margaux, that even if you feel all alone, even when you’re thinking your family is gone, and the Akerses have wronged you and can’t be trusted . . . At those times, I want you to remember that you do have someone. You have me. And if ever you’re feeling the way I felt that night, I want you to call me. I’ll come. No matter what time, no matter the place. I’ll be there for you. He’s already on to the next girl. Let it be done.”
Margaux, more tears welling in her eyes, nods. “Why’d you consider taking your own life? Why not take his?”
“There were times I did consider it.”
“There had to be a way . . . somehow you’d get away with it.”
“No. They always suspect the significant other, you know,” I whisper.
“Yes, Kirstie,” she says. “They do.”
“He’ll come with wine and roses,” I say. “He thinks he can make this right and have you whenever he wants you. You can’t let him have his way.”
“Of all the ways he imagined it,” she says, “it won’t be the way he wants.”
Lightning flashes in the sky.
Margaux leans to me and kisses my cheek. “Try to get some sleep tonight.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“He’ll never get his way again,” Mar
gaux whispers. “I promise you.”
Epilogue
KIRSTEN
I order another round of cosmos. “So you knew about the blackmail?” Jessica asks.
“I did,” I admit. “I found a demand before we left Evanston. He’d been seeing Margaux a month or two by then, and I’d already suspected a few other affairs. I had a breakdown, and Ian suggested we move. A fresh start. And it was, in a sense. I started paying attention after that. I took it upon myself to meet Margaux. We started comparing notes.”
“And you knew your husband was sleeping with her all along?”
“I did. But the funny thing about Margaux: she was flawed, beautiful, and complex, but wonderful. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. She’d decided to keep her baby, and I assured her we’d find a way to make it work. She wasn’t supposed to give up. She wasn’t supposed to end it like that. We were going to find a way . . .”
“It was your idea,” Jessica says. “The money in the account for Margaux, the way the alderman was repaying what he lost.”
“We had to find a way,” I explain and catch a tear on my fingertip. “She was brilliant. So smart. So deserving, especially after all she’d been through. She deserved to go to law school, to realize her dreams. I’d be damned if Ian stole her future the way he stole mine. She wasn’t supposed to give up.”
“You were friends.”
“I don’t really know how to classify it,” I say, just as I said the first time Jessica and I talked about it.
“She’ll always be part of my life,” Jessica says. “A milestone. Even though she never knew who I was.”
“She would’ve liked you, I think.”
We finish our cosmos.
I pay the bill.
“Let’s do this again,” she suggests as we exit.
“I’d like that.”
She hugs me and takes a step toward the east, braving the wind whipping in off the lake.
She knows what I did.
She knows I couldn’t have done it without her.
She knows Ian Holloway deserved everything he got.
We share a secret.
We share a smile.
I walk on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the moment of inception, this novel has been something special. Never before has a novel so consumed me to the point of obsession. To my agent, Andrea Somberg of Harvey Klinger, and my husband: thanks for having the conversation, and brava to you for making this happen. To Jodi Warshaw, Caitlin Alexander, and the rest of the team at Lake Union: thank you for believing in my vision, skewed as it was in that first, hurried draft. Your patience and guidance are, as always, immensely appreciated. Third Party has truly been a collaborative effort, and this book wouldn’t have grown without you.