The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  “Wow, this is a new Lila!” Carrie beams. “Wanting to see how the other side lives!”

  “How does empathy look on me?” I grin sheepishly and feel a flash of hope that I might be able to redeem myself one deed at a time. If I do the right thing with Greenwood’s case, will it make it easier when it’s time to do the same with Carrie?

  Carrie’s smile disappears, and she folds her hands in her lap. “Seriously, Lila, I’m proud of you.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m closing in on forty. Not six.”

  “I don’t mean to be patronizing, but I’m happy to hear you talk like this. Sometimes I think Sam doesn’t consider his clients or the people he’s defending them against, only the win.”

  I flash back to a moment with Sam two weeks ago. He’d just gotten an investment banker client acquitted on embezzlement charges for which he was most certainly guilty. “Another W!” Sam said, pumping his fist. “We’ll celebrate properly later,” he whispered into my ear before exiting my office.

  “It’s true, we do get caught up in winning. We’re all fiercely competitive. And there’s pressure to succeed, of course, but sometimes—”

  “That comes at a cost.” Carrie finishes my sentence.

  I nod slowly, filled with shame at the accuracy of her words. “It does. I guess I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth the price of admission.” I look away after I say this, unable to meet her eyes, the truth hanging on a thread in the air between us.

  You could tell her right now, my good girl voice says. It’s better if it comes from you.

  I shake my head slightly. No, not now. She’s so happy.

  The server walks up a moment later and asks if we’d like another round. I nod toward my empty glass, and we both order. The fried cod sandwich for me. The young kale and pear salad for her. Even when it comes to eating, she makes better choices.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask her.

  Carrie looks down at her abdomen. “Great! No morning sickness. Plenty of energy.”

  “You look gorgeous.”

  “Oh, please.” She swats at the air.

  “How did Sam react when you told him?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. But it’s been on my mind since the second I sat down. Since the moment she told me she’s pregnant, if I’m being completely honest. I don’t want to be back together with Sam, but this baby is a symbol of so many things. Of us. Of them. Of the future.

  Carrie takes a sip of her club soda, and I think I see a flicker of sadness cross her face. “I’m waiting until my next ultrasound appointment. I want to be sure everything is okay.”

  “Why? Is there a reason it might not be?” My heart lurches at the thought. Carrie has been loyal, kind. She should get her healthy baby.

  She shakes her head. “No, but I’m thirty-eight. And I’ve done too much googling.”

  I start to tell her that’s a mistake, but she keeps talking. “I know, I shouldn’t be. But I couldn’t help myself. So I’m being cautiously optimistic until my next appointment, and then I plan to tell him.” She smiles, and I wonder if she has any idea what Sam is capable of. Of how brutal he can be when he feels someone has betrayed him. Will becoming a father spark a change in him or make him worse?

  “I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic,” I say, my chest tightening. I don’t want children, let alone children with Sam. But there’s something about the finality of it. Sam and I are done. Ethan and I might be done. Things will never be the same again, for any of us.

  “So, I don’t know how to say this . . .” Carrie looks down at her napkin, then back up at me.

  My pulse quickens. Does she know about the affair? If she confronts me, what will I say?

  “I ran into Ethan this morning . . .”

  My stomach falls hard to the floor. I stare at her, unable to speak, waiting. Is this the moment I lose her? I’ve already lost Sam and Ethan and now Carrie? I understand I deserve it. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Lila?” Her eyes fill with tears, making them shimmer more.

  Oh God. What do I say? I try to find the words. But all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.” I start to cry. All of the lies, the deceit, the betrayal seeping out. I’m surprised when a huge wave of relief washes over me. Maybe I need her to know so we can all begin to heal.

  And then I feel her hand over mine. I look up, shocked. She’s consoling me?

  “There was a time when I would have been your first call.”

  She’s not talking about the affair. Ethan must have told her he left. But not why he left.

  I search her face for signs that she’s upset about more than me not telling her. That Ethan also told her about Sam and me. But clearly he didn’t. Because he’s honorable. I feel a pit in my stomach. He protected me, even when I betrayed him in the most primal way.

  “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night. I’m guess I’m feeling pretty humiliated,” I say. And it’s true; I am. “I was going to tell you today. After a few of these,” I add, pointing at my almost empty wineglass. Her shoulders relax slightly.

  “For the record, he looks awful,” she says. “I asked him what happened, why he left . . .” She hesitates as if she doesn’t want to tell me the rest.

  “And? What did he say?” I picture him tossing the dark-blue envelope in my direction, the disgusted look on his face that no amount of wine will wipe away from my memory.

  “He told me I should talk to you. That it was your story to tell.”

  “Me?” I say, pondering whether he was trying to protect me by not divulging what happened or point her in my direction so I’ll confess—take the opportunity to wipe the slate clean. Whether his intention was protective or aggressive, one thing is certain—the truth is going to come out eventually. I’ve hurt Carrie in so many countless ways the past several months, but I can’t look her in the eye, in her perky yellow dress and messy bun, with her pregnancy belly that isn’t quite a bump yet, and destroy her life.

  Not yet. Not today.

  “I figured he thought you’d want to tell me what happened. Or maybe he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I didn’t know you two were having problems. It seems all so . . . I don’t know. Shocking? Sudden?” Carrie tips her head to the side.

  “It is,” I say weakly, thinking that finding out his wife was cheating on him must have been very shocking for Ethan.

  “Okay. So now I’m asking. What happened?” Carrie wrinkles her brow.

  I take a long drink of my second glass of wine, its sweetness surprising me. This time it tastes more like a riesling than a chardonnay. Or maybe it’s gone bad. I’d normally send it back, but not today. Today I drink it, despite its sickly sweetness, because I need it. I debate what to do—if I tell her, it will be only to relieve my guilt. Because how could it help her to know? But she’s pregnant. Maybe she deserves the information because it will influence whether she’ll stay married to a man who would have a six-month affair with her best friend. Who would systematically attempt to destroy someone who betrayed him. But if I tell her, there’s no coming back from this.

  I decide I can’t hurt her—not more than I already have, even if she doesn’t know it. Yes, not telling her also selfishly helps me. There seem to be no good choices left on the table—hurt Carrie now, but she knows the truth about her best friend (who is trying for once to do the right thing) and her husband (who may not be who she thinks he is), or spare her, knowing I will break her heart at some point.

  “We had a fight about work. It had been coming for a while now. And I didn’t say anything because I was hoping we’d figure it out,” I say.

  Carrie presses her lips into a fine line. I wonder if he did tell her. And if she’s testing me. “Really?” she questions. “But he’s always been so supportive.”

  “He’s had it with my hours. I was a little late for Mongolian beef and The Good Wife the other night. I was tardy picking him up for my mom
’s. It’s been one time too many, and I don’t think he feels like a priority. And you know what? He hasn’t been. He’s right. He deserves better. So he left. And I let him.” The lies don’t slide off my tongue the way they did a week before. Now I can feel the price I’m paying as I speak them.

  Carrie stares at me incredulously. “Lila, these are solvable issues! Come home from work earlier. Eat the damn Mongolian beef and binge-watch bad TV shows, for goodness’ sake!”

  I laugh—a bitter sound that I don’t recognize.

  Carrie narrows her eyes. “Why does it sound like you’ve already given up? That you’ve already decided he’s not coming back?”

  “I haven’t. But it’s not up to me—he’s the one who left.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “But you could change.”

  “Maybe I can’t,” I say softly and feel tears tickle the back of my eyes. I think that’s one of my biggest fears. That if I could convince Ethan to return, I’m not sure I can ever be the person he deserves. It’s possible I’m not built like that.

  “You sound like you don’t want to try,” Carrie challenges.

  “It’s more complicated than Chinese food and Hulu,” I say, sounding much more resolved than I intend. I take another drink of my wine. It’s starting to taste better, or maybe I’ve lowered my standard of what I deserve. “I think I’m not in the right place to talk about it right now. Will you give me a few days to work through it?”

  Carrie starts to say something, then stops herself and takes a drink. “Of course.” She leans in. “I’m sorry I pushed—”

  “You were being a good friend,” I interrupt. I can’t have her apologizing to me.

  “I would crumble if Sam left me. Especially now,” she says, placing her hand on her stomach.

  Her words override my guilty heart and make me somewhat thankful I spared her my confession. She needs Sam. And if Ethan didn’t blurt our affair to her today in the heat of leaving, then maybe he never will. I think about the navy envelope with the white trim again. The pictures. Realizing Ethan never told me how he came into possession of the photos. Did he suspect my affair all along and hire a private investigator to follow me? Or was he blindsided by my indiscretion when someone sent them to him? That dark thought pops up again—could it have been the same person who tried to attack me? The photos ending up in Ethan’s hands isn’t random. It was targeted.

  “Can I ask one more thing?” Carrie says, and I nod. “Do you really think he doesn’t want to hear from you? Doesn’t want an explanation? That he’s for sure not coming back?”

  Chase and I had volleyed these same questions last night. Other couples have come back from infidelity, some becoming much stronger than before, the shock of cheating making each partner reevaluate the relationship. I had already felt the pull back to Ethan before he uncovered the truth. The timing is bittersweet, I suppose. I finally chose him, let myself settle into something in my life that was right, chose the man who loves the good girl inside me, only to lose it all anyway. “I don’t know,” I finally say, happy to be saying something completely truthful.

  “I think if you’re willing to change, he’ll come around,” Carrie offers, her tone slightly sharp. She thinks I’m the problem (totally true, but not for the reason she thinks) and that it’s a quick fix (clearly not, but she doesn’t know that either). I haven’t missed Carrie’s and Ethan’s shared glances when the four of us have gone out to dinner and Sam and I end up in a discussion about our work. I think both of us have always felt more at home at the office than at our actual houses—and not because of our affair. We’re wired the same way. Or at least we used to be. Maybe I let the race to win change me. Maybe there is still hope for me that I can be better. That I can become a person worthy of the people closest to me.

  Our food arrives, and we dive in. My cell phone buzzes, and I see Detective Sully’s name on the screen, and I’m thankful for the distraction. “Sorry, I have to take this,” I say and move outside to the front patio.

  “Sully!” I exclaim. “I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to hear from you!”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” He pauses, and I can hear sirens in the background. “The wife took me on a fishing vacation up north and made me turn the phone off. She said I’m addicted to it!”

  I smile as I imagine her confiscating his phone as if it were evidence. I’ve met her several times over the years and quickly noted she was the one person who Sully let tell him what to do.

  “So I got the information you wanted.”

  “And?” I say, squeezing my fingernails into my palm.

  “You did not hear this from me,” he says sharply. “You understand?”

  “Yes. Of course. I will keep you out of this.”

  “I did some digging. Tracked down one of the officers on the scene at the Greenwood home the night of the dispute. The officer will not go on the record, but I helped him out of a jam when he was rookie, and I was able to convince him to hand over his notes. Notes that were never made into an official report, and it always bothered him. So you were right—your man Greenwood did something to ensure a police report was never filed. It turns out he was the drunk and belligerent one, not her.”

  My heart leaps. This is it. The smoking gun we’ve been looking for. “I’m going to need a copy of those notes.”

  “I’ve already messengered them over to your office. But it’s not traceable back to me. Or the officers on the scene. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Good—I don’t want you or anyone else involved.”

  “Well, it’s a little late for that.” He lets out a short laugh.

  “For what it’s worth, thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Wait, one more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who did Greenwood get to bury it?”

  He sighs. “Does it matter?”

  “Just between us.”

  “It looks like it came from the top.”

  “As in . . .”

  “Don’t say his name, but yes, him.”

  I hang up and mull the information over. The chief of police made sure the officers’ notes never made it to an official police report? But why? The knot in my stomach continues to grow to the point that it’s now aching. I feel more trapped inside this case than before. Because if the chief has a tie to it and I don’t win—or worse, if I find a way to abandon it—what will that mean for me?

  I know one thing for sure: it will be far worse than simply a ruined career.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THURSDAY

  CAPTURED

  I wake up to the frozen image of the bright lights shining down on the empty beige chair where Ethan was sitting, his abandoned mic pack left behind. I curled into a ball earlier, trying to forget what I had seen, and my exhaustion must have overtaken me.

  Where had Ethan headed when he stormed off the television set? And to whom? Was it the person he had glanced at off camera during his interview? I try to tell myself that he ripped off his mic when asked if he’d been involved in my disappearance because it was a ludicrous question. Right?

  But what if Ethan had known about Sam? What if he had planned my abduction with the same patience and accuracy that he plotted his books? Made sure every needle was threaded, every detail accounted for. It makes sense. He knows me better than anyone. He knows about Janelle. My dad. And he could have discovered my affair with Sam. I’ve seen people do worse with far less motive. My hands begin to shake as I come to the sickening conclusion that it’s possible I haven’t been the only one with secrets to hide. Not the only one with the capacity for betrayal.

  I try to suck in some air, but it feels impossible to breathe. Looking around my concrete cell, my gaze lands on Q, who is studying me.

  “Morning, Princess,” he says.

  I look away and beg my muddled mind to think. Could it be possible Ethan is behind all of this? That he found out about my affair with Sam and hired Q to take
me? But Ethan is my husband. He wouldn’t hurt me.

  Would he?

  I scroll back to his behavior before I disappeared. Was there anything off? Not that I can remember, but then again I was busy with Jeremiah’s case and still caught up in my relationship with Sam, not understanding that my life had become a house of cards, that one wrong move—in this case, our last kiss in the garage captured on camera—could bring it all crashing down. But Ethan could have already known. He could have been the one to hire Q to take the pictures and then to capture me. Did he laugh when he received my text saying I was celebrating with colleagues? Thinking, That will be your last lie, Lila? Shake his head as I sealed my own fate?

  I always carefully guarded my notebook, the one where I made the tally marks every time I saw Sam. There are no other identifying factors. No names. Just slashes to mark the passing of time of our affair—six months of them. But it’s possible he knew. That he could have bided his time, planning how to get back at me. The thought would have made me laugh out loud a week ago. Ethan? The guy could barely watch a violent TV show. He made me turn off Game of Thrones a few months ago after one of the characters got decapitated, declaring he didn’t have the stomach for it. But being in this concrete prison, having my former life systematically torn apart, has made me realize there’s someone in my life who is very, very angry with me. Who feels incredibly wronged by me.

  And it could be my husband.

  In my career I’ve discovered those are always the worst cases—the ones stemming from rage. When people murder for practical purposes, it’s usually fairly clean—a bullet to the heart, one quick hammer hit to the back of the head. They want to get the job done so they get what they want—money, usually, in one form or another. But when the assailant has personal motives, it’s a whole different ball game. That’s when we see fifty stab wounds to the chest, people set on fire, acid thrown on faces. They don’t only want them dead; they want to inflict incredible pain, hoping it will alleviate their own.

  Jeremiah’s case, at first glance, had seemed the opposite. His wife, Vivian, had been bludgeoned with something—according to the autopsy report, it had been a blow to the head, one direct hit. It hadn’t seemed personal. Things were stolen. In the crime scene photos, the house appeared to be burglarized. There was forced entry. Statistically speaking, an easy win and another feather to tuck into my cap. But still, after I signed on, something had always gnawed at me. It was an instinct. Something that tickled the back of my conscience. But you learn very quickly as a lawyer that instincts don’t have a place in the courtroom. Without evidence, there is no way to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that someone is guilty. The prosecution simply didn’t have the evidence it needed. And now Jeremiah is free.