“Whatever you have on them is what I think John may have stumbled onto, and it got him killed. It got Katie killed too. Let’s get ahead of them, before they get to anyone else. So what is it?”
Jerry teared up and reached down to his side. With an instinctive reaction, Steve also reached to his side—for a gun that wasn’t there. Jerry stopped and then slowly raised his hands. He held a photograph in one of them.
“You can’t be serious? I just want to look at my family before I say anything else,” he said. His words sounded thin and sheepish. “It’s the count. What I’ve got on them, what I tried to muscle them with. The count. What’s coming in isn’t what’s going out.”
“Count?” Steve said, repeating the words. “What does that mean?”
“There’s too much raw stock—corn, sugar, you know, for the distillery—for the amount of whiskey they are selling. The White Bear tavern is a front to serve the college locals, a small operation that even has a boutique whiskey label. But the Bear is really a hub, a manufacturing hub, serving whiskey from Florida to Maine. Might even go as far west as the Mississippi.”
“But I thought they had a license?” Steve interrupted. Jerry glanced up, surprised. “I mean, you helped get the license issued. They’re legal, right?”
“That’s just for our state. Distillery licenses are like gold. Issuing them is like printing money, but only for the state they’re issued in,” Jerry countered. “The Bear has bikers picking up to distribute, to sell, and to bring the cash back from as far away as their tanks will carry them. The Bear is a moonshining machine and the bikers are the bootleggers.”
“That’s all you have?” Steve asked. I heard the disappointment in his voice. “You’re talking about a few bottles of whiskey hidden in bikers’ saddlebags that may or may not have crossed the state line?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, no, no!” he exclaimed, raising his voice. “Not just a couple of bottles. What would you think if I said a million dollars? And that’s tax-free too.”
“A million a year . . .” Steve repeated, sitting up and browsing his notes.
Jerry shook his head again, a bemused smile on his face.
“A week. That’s a million a week. Who do you think would be interested in protecting an operation like that?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I STAYED IN bed nearly all of the next day, suffering in a way that made me feel like I’d never feel right again. I held onto Katie’s friendship ring, twisting it with a wistful touch. Sadness. For the first time in my life, I felt a pain that numbed my mind to all reason. It left behind a hurtful sense of abandon and desolation that could only come from having lost someone. And for all of my stupid Killing Katie designs, the only thing I wanted now was to hear her voice, to hold her, to tell her how much I needed her.
I found comfort in hiding beneath layers of flannel sheets and a down blanket, my face warm and drowning in plush throw pillows. Katie and I used to do the same when we were kids. Sleepovers were our thing—weekends and days off from school. We’d bring our favorite stuffed animals, mine a purple striped zebra with yellow ears and hers a pillowy pink elephant that was missing one eye. We’d eat ourselves silly, filling our souls with sleepover foods like salty chips and ice cream and chocolate syrup. We’d tempt our bellies afterward, running back and forth in the hallway, sliding across the wood floor, our feet padded with our footie pajamas. Later, we’d huddle up close together beneath the bedcovers, shining pocket flashlights beneath our chins and telling spooky stories until we thought we’d bust open in screams. Our last sleepover was special. It had snowed that night, and we woke together, kneeling at my bedroom window, our noses touching the frosty glass while staring at a world that looked like it had been covered in white icing. That had been our last sleepover. We’d never have another now.
“I’m so sorry, Katie,” I whispered, visiting the memories while stifling a cry as I curled up into a tight ball. “This is my fault.” My body shuddered. I was broken inside.
I sank deeper beneath blankets, closing out the world over my head. I disappeared into the darkness. I imagined Katie telling me a story the way she used to. I could hear her recounting one of her favorite anecdotes, and I moved my lips along with hers—I was her best friend, so I knew the story by heart. And in my grief, I’d come to understand what it meant to have lost someone who would be missed.
“The world will miss you, Katie,” I whispered softly into my pillow. At times I’d fall asleep. I called it sleep, but with my eyes half-closed, lying still, listening to the world go on around me, I was really only taking a break from grieving.
The kids came in a few times, checking on me. Steve stood in the doorway, peering in, mouthing words to ask if he could get me anything. I’d shake my head, showing just enough of my face to be able to see the light creeping through the open door.
Michael—so sweet with worry—told me how sad it was that his Aunt Katie had died. He didn’t pry as I’d expected him to. He was surely curious to know the details, but he didn’t ask how or why. I wouldn’t have known how to answer him. And Snacks, well . . . with mommy in bed in the middle of the afternoon, that was just another excuse to play. She had no idea what was going on. She jumped up and down, thinking the tall stack of blankets was a sign that I was having fun without her.
“You want to come inside with Mommy?” I asked. She nodded eagerly, crawling under to join me beneath the blankets. “Comfy?”
“Comfy,” she answered as she lay next to me. “Smells kinda funny.” I let myself laugh, but the overwhelming guilt doused the joy. Snacks cuddled up, and I wrapped myself around her body. I could feel her tiny heartbeat pattering against my chest. The intimate moment with her lasted only a minute, but was powerful enough to stay with me forever.
“Love you, Snacks,” I whispered to her.
“Uh-huh too. But Mommy, it’s too hot,” she answered, popping open my comforter sanctuary and tumbling out to the floor. She flipped her hand behind her, waving as she ran to the door, leaving the room empty. I listened to her feet race down the hall and then to the top of the stairs, which she stuttered down in a set of shuffled steps, her legs short but careful. “One foot. Two feet. Step,” I’d taught her, and that is what I heard.
Maybe, when I felt better, I’d invite Snacks to have a sleepover in our bed and show her how to use a flashlight when telling stories from beneath the covers. I’d bring a stuffed animal and tell her to bring her favorite stuffed animal. It’d be fun and something she could show her best friend.
I lost track of the day after that. I didn’t know what part of the morning or afternoon it was in or if the evening was already upon us. Grieving steals time. It crowded out everything else and forced me to think about what I’d done. The hardest part of lying there was the constant mind-fuck. I puzzled over what had happened. There had been no way for me to know that Sam Wilts was the father of my first mark. If Jerry was playing hard-ass and Sam believed others were involved, then I’d probably sparked a war when I killed Todd Wilts. And Katie was the first casualty.
“I killed her,” I said into my pillow. “I killed you, Katie.”
“What was that?” I heard Steve ask. I tugged the comforter up over my head to hide in my bubble. My face warmed again in the total darkness. His hand pressed against my back. The mattress leaned under his weight. “Babe, you can’t think like that. Katie had just told you what was going on. Even if I had more time, there might have been no stopping it. We’re talking about a bad bunch. Killing to them is like ordering breakfast.”
“Could have done more, done something sooner,” I answered sleepily. He’d never know just how much at fault I really was. He’d never know that I was the one who’d ordered breakfast. “I’m sorry. I need more time.”
Steve lifted the lip of the comforter, slipping his hand inside my tiny protective world. I shivered at the early winter air that crept in uninvited and felt gooseflesh rise on my arms.
“Come on, babe,”
he began to say as he pushed the comforter back.
“What are you doing?” I scolded, angry that he’d broken my cocoon.
“Let me help you,” he said, but I stayed confused and uncertain about what he meant.
His hands were beneath me then—fingers crawling, scrunching, fishing from front to back, one arm beneath my shoulders and the other beneath my legs.
“No, babe,” I objected. “That’s not what I want to do.” But there was no flirting in his touch, only tenderness and care, the kind I’d seen shared between old couples, the kind I’d always imagined us becoming. He lifted me without hesitation or strain, and I felt my body rise into the air.
“Don’t worry,” he answered. “That isn’t what I have in mind.”
Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his neck and laid my head on his shoulder. It had been years since he had picked me up like that, but my body fell into his arms, remembering. His smell woke me up too. I nuzzled against him and tightened my grip on him, wanting to stay like that, wanting to tell him everything.
What if I told him the truth about the buttons and the homeless man? What if he knew that it was my fault that Katie was dead? Would he stay?
In my heart, I always thought he’d be there no matter what. But the mother of two boys—Michael’s closest friends—was dead.
Steve carried me to the bathroom. The sound of running water rushed around me. He eased me down, leaning me against the wall. He took my hands in his. I opened my eyes, finding the room bathed in golden light from a dozen burning candles. The walls and mirror were sweaty from the heat of the drawn bath, water still running, a layer of bubbles wading atop the surface. A tall glass of wine was perched on one side of the tub, a carafe next to it on a small plate of cheese and fruit.
“Lift,” he said, taking my hands in his and urging me to raise my arms. I did as he asked and he pulled my bedtime T-shirt over my head. He disappeared then, crouching, and slid my underpants down my legs. The instructions came again, “Lift.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“What?” he asked, standing to face me, looking hurt by my question.
I didn’t want him to help me through this. I deserved to feel bad. The tears came then, powerful, painful, zapping what little strength I had.
“She was my best friend,” I managed to say, feeling my legs turn to jelly as I fell to my knees. I cried harder than I’d cried all day. “I feel like I can’t even breathe without her.”
Steve knelt in front of me, tears wet on his cheeks. “I know this is hard,” he began. “But it does get better. Come on.” I put my arm around my husband and let him help me. I was drained, exhausted, too tired and filled with shame to do anything.
I dipped myself into the hot water, sinking up to my chin, disappearing into the cloud of soapy bubbles as they raced to the edges of the tub. Steve rolled up his sleeves and dropped his hand beneath the water, pulling my arm up. He began to sponge my skin. My sobs had settled into rattles that I chased with a gulp of wine. I tried choking back another wave of sobs, finishing my glass and refilling it, but could only shake my head and let them happen.
“Now tell me everything,” Steve said, pushing the sponge around my back and across my neck. He gently rubbed my side next, brushing against me in a way that was soothing and intimate and loving. But his words put me on guard, leaving me to wonder if he knew something. I shook my head, confused. “Tell me everything about Katie. All of your fondest memories.”
“Oh,” I answered, leaning over to kiss his arm. I tried to smile, but nothing came.
“Just start with one,” he encouraged me. “A small story.”
Both of Steve’s hands were in the tub with me, massaging the soap, causing a small wake that lapped against my bare skin. When the bubbles separated enough to show my nipples, I shivered in the cold.
“Need more bubbles,” I said, suggesting without asking. I turned the knob on the hot water faucet with my toes while he emptied the bottle of the remaining bubble bath into the running water.
“All out—” he began to say.
“There’s more under the sink,” I finished for him. And, as I should have expected, the sound of hollow thumps came when his clumsy hands knocked over my personals.
The shirt! I suddenly remembered.
I hastily added, “Or maybe not!”
Steve jumped at my voice. I’d forgotten about the shirt. Balled up and stained with Todd Wilts’ semen.
“Hold on, I think I have it,” he said, his arm lost up to his shoulder under the cupboard, but I could tell he was moving around. “What’s this?”
I shook my head. “Please. Don’t worry about it, babe.”
“Got it,” he said, producing the bottle. Hot water crept over my legs, rising to my middle and then hugged my belly and breasts while Steve stirred in the bubble bath.
“And how did you do that, anyway?” he asked, moving my hair away from my forehead. “I saw it earlier, covered up with makeup, but didn’t want to ask in front of Jerry.” Steve’s hand drifted from above my eye and down to my cheek. I cupped his hand in mine, kissing his palm.
“Snacks,” I answered shamelessly. “Caught one of her toys in a tantrum.”
“I think you need to go see your mother,” he said abruptly, sneaking in the suggestion when I would have least expected it.
The idea of visiting my mother hit me like a stone and made me groan. I dropped his hand and shut off the hot water, kicking the faucet’s knob with a thump. The valve snapped shut, and he gave me a look that asked me to take it easy. Sensitive plumbing. Sensitive subject. The last thing I wanted to do was visit my mother.
“Why?” I asked, sounding distracted while I worked the sponge over my neck and shoulders. There was a long silence between us, filled with thousands of foamy bubbles erupting, popping with each squeeze of my hand. Steve took the sponge from my hands and wrung it out. He washed my front but kept his touch innocent. I stared long and hard into his eyes, watching my reflection. Finally, he answered.
“Your mom should hear about Katie, but not on the radio. The news—as hard as it is—should come from you,” he explained. “She shouldn’t hear about it on the news.” I supposed he was right. I laid against the back of the tub, making a swell of water rise against the sides and douse his rolled sleeves. He didn’t flinch. If my mother was going to hear about Katie, she should hear it from me. Katie was the daughter my mom always wanted; I was the best friend that parents dreaded their daughter bringing home.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE DOORBELL RANG, a sharp noise that caused my skin to crawl. I clutched my shoulder, shielding myself from the interruption. I felt awkwardly sensitive and tried ignoring the distraction, but remained still in a restless stance.
“I wish they would go away, leave our house alone,” I muttered. “It’s better to be alone, anyway.”
Since Katie’s death, I hadn’t seen anyone other than Steve—even the kids had been scooped up and hauled away to give me some grieving space.
Alone time, as Steve’s mother had put it. Amy just needs some alone time.
She offered to take them before leaving for her annual trip to Florida. I nodded, hesitant, but half agreed. Michael fixed me a puppy-dog look that made me want to cry, but he listened to his father and grandmother, taking to the backseat of her old sedan with a brief wave. And Snacks blindly followed her older brother, nary a question about where they were going. Another bell came from the door, followed by a rap against the glass. I cursed under my breath and thought about going upstairs and hiding beneath the folds of flannel sheets and the down comforter. But when I peered through the door’s smoky glass and saw the outline of a man shuffling back and forth, my heart warmed. I recognized the figure at once, and welcomed the sight.
The dinner ritual, the one where Steve’s boss, Charlie, hands down the keys to his new job, had never taken place. My work in the alley with the homeless man had had a play in that hand. But it was a necessary tra
dition at the station, and Charlie wasn’t going to retire officially until after all formalities had been properly concluded. That’s what he told his wife, but I tend to think he was hanging on for as long as possible just to piss her off. She wasn’t shy about complaining to anyone who’d listen: “Charlie should have retired five years ago. I waited thirty years. It’s my turn to have him.” And so, on the second day after Katie’s death, Charlie decided to visit our home and to make things official.
I opened our door, greeting him. He wrung his arms together, batting a chill, and motioned to come in without asking.
“Yes, of course. Please,” I told him. Steve joined me as Charlie blotted out the light from outside while he shuffled his feet on the foyer’s throw rug. The cold had made his nose run while a soft wind had teared up his eyes. He snatched a knitted cap from atop his head, revealing a poof of cloudy white curls that matched his wiry brows. His smile warmed me with grandfatherly affection; it showed fat dimples on his rosy cheeks. Although it was almost midday, the winter cold seeped in from the north, leaving the recent warm spell to become an abandoned memory.
“Winter’s coming fast, I think,” he said, clapping his hands against his arms. “That, or my thermostat is turned to Florida weather.” He laughed at his own joke, which got me and Steve chuckling. Charlie brought a warm vibe into our home. Without the kids around, the air had become heavy with sadness, so much so that it had begun to feel normal. I think I needed a jolt from my sulky brooding, like a good stretch after staying in one position for too long.
“I think you’re right,” I added. “Colder than it’s been.”
“That it is, darling,” he agreed. His face turned serious then, almost grim, and he cupped my arms in his thick hands. “And how are you holding up?”
Angst nipped at me, just a bite—a tiny razor bite—but it was enough to cause my lip to twitch and tremble. I said nothing, but swallowed hard and blinked away the sudden emotion.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 17