The End of Her

by Shari Lapena

  They put the babies in the swings in the living room so that they can talk.

  Patrick looks more worried every time she sees him, and she feels a rush of concern for him. She watches him, waiting.

  “I’ve talked to a lawyer in Colorado,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “If she goes ahead with this, it might be expensive.” He looks at her guardedly.

  “Of course it will be expensive,” she says. “Lawyers always are.” She reflects bitterly that she will be using her own money on a high-priced lawyer to get her husband out of this mess, rather than paying off his former lover. It doesn’t make her any happier. Her concern for her husband diminishes.

  “His name is Robert Lange; he’s with a large firm in Denver.”

  “How did you find him?” she asks.

  “He was recommended by a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “A friend of mine from Colorado, Greg Miller. I used to work with him, in Denver. I’ve spoken to him.”

  “And?”

  “I told him what’s going on. He knows Erica, too—he knew her back then. He’s completely on my side. He knows it was an accident.”

  Stephanie feels relief. It’s good to hear that someone else who was there, when it all happened, believes her husband is telling the truth. It makes her realize just how worried, how uncertain, she really is. “What did the lawyer say?” she asks. She sees the concern in Patrick’s eyes.

  “Well, you know what they’re like. He wouldn’t say anything definitive without looking into it further. But he remembers the case.”

  Stephanie hasn’t told Patrick about reading those articles on her laptop. The images crowd into her mind again—the snowy car, Patrick as a grief-stricken young man. His young wife, smiling at the camera. She tries to push them away. “Did he say whether it was even possible to reopen a case like that?”

  He looks at her, worried. “Yes. It’s possible, in theory.”

  Stephanie looks away from him and down at the floor, frightened. It could happen. Her husband could, possibly, be investigated for murder.

  19

  Patrick watches his wife’s reaction and thinks back uneasily to the phone call earlier that day. It hadn’t exactly been reassuring.

  Robert Lange, the criminal attorney, had seemed surprised, initially, to hear that Patrick thought someone might try to have the case reopened. Then Patrick told him about everything—Erica’s attempts to blackmail him, the original investigation—the lawyer interjecting with the occasional question, but mostly listening in attentive silence.

  “Why don’t you go to the police?” the attorney asked.

  “I don’t want to provoke her,” he admitted. “I’m still hoping she’s bluffing and that she’s not actually going to do anything. We haven’t heard from her for a couple of days.” He added, “And I don’t have any proof of the blackmail.”

  “I see.”

  “So,” Patrick asked, “do I have anything to worry about? It was ruled an accident. It was an accident. But can she get them to reopen it, and try to make it look like something it wasn’t?”

  The lawyer cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, I do have some concerns, especially from what you say about how the matter was dealt with at the time. I mean, it wasn’t much of an investigation, from the sound of it. They seem to have wrapped it up in a matter of hours.” There was a hint of a question in his voice.

  “Yes, well, it was so obvious that it was an accident.”

  The lawyer said, “If this woman were to go to the authorities and give them new information, they might decide to take another look. Especially if there is a new coroner, or a new sheriff, as there might well be, after almost ten years. The fact that she was having an affair with you, and that she might have had your child—that would, of course, be . . . relevant.”

  Patrick’s heart sank. “Can you find out if she ever had that child?” he asked.

  “That’ll be the first thing I do,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll find out what’s going on and get back to you.”

  Now, looking at his wife, Patrick is reluctant to tell her what the lawyer said.

  “What did he say, exactly?” Stephanie asks. “Tell me everything.”

  “Well, he had some . . . concerns.” Patrick gets up off the sofa and starts pacing the living room. He can’t remain still with all this anxiety running through him. And he can’t stand looking at Stephanie, so rigid with tension.

  “What? Did he think they’ll believe her?”

  Patrick says carefully, “He said that if she went to them with new information, they might take another look.” He doesn’t want to tell her the next bit, but feels he must. “He was concerned because the original investigation was—as he put it—‘thin.’”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There wasn’t much of an investigation at the time,” Patrick admits. “They took her body away for an autopsy. The sheriff asked me to come down to answer a few questions. I went in his car. I was a mess. I don’t think I was making much sense.”

  He rubs his face with both hands. “At the Sheriff’s Office, they asked me what happened. They were trying to comfort me, telling me that these kinds of accidents happen, that every year something like this happens somewhere.”

  “Are you saying there was no investigation at all?” Stephanie asks.

  He looks at her sharply, a bit taken aback at her tone. “They obviously believed it was an accident. They did the autopsy very quickly—that afternoon, I think—and it showed that she had died from carbon monoxide poisoning. So why would they do anything else?”

  He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him, as if he’s to blame for there not being a more thorough investigation. It seems to him that the fact that they’d ruled it an accident so quickly is in his favor.

  “They never talked to anyone else?”

  He frowns, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “It isn’t good that they weren’t thorough,” she says now, clearly uneasy.

  “Yeah, well, I disagree. Obviously they thought there was nothing to investigate.”

  “But if Erica—”

  “Fucking Erica!” It comes out explosively. The babies startle in their swings. He tries to calm down. “She’s a greedy bitch. There was never any question until Erica came along. She should mind her own fucking business.” He looks at Stephanie, at her pale, anxious face. He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his anger in check. “The lawyer’s going to find out if she had a baby. Apparently the sheriff can investigate, if he wants to. And the coroner can also decide to call an inquest, call witnesses—even after all this time.” He clenches his jaw and looks at his wife nervously. “The lawyer warned me that if there’s a new sheriff, or a new coroner, that might be more likely. And it has been a long time.”

  “Oh my God,” Stephanie whispers.

  “She might get them to take another look, Stephanie, and I think we need to be prepared for that. But what you have to believe is that there’s nothing to what she’s saying. I slept with her a couple of times. That’s it.”

  She looks back at him, nodding automatically, as if not even aware she’s doing it. She seems almost to be in a trance.

  “There’s one other thing you should know,” he says. “It’s not important but I’m sure it will come up.”

  “What?” Stephanie asks.

  He sees her clenching her hands on her knees as if she’s bracing herself for more bad news. “There was a life insurance policy on Lindsey. We were both insured, because we were going to have a baby. It was the responsible thing to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Erica’s trying to make a big deal out of it. Saying I stood to gain financially from the death of my wife.”

  “When did she say that? You never mentioned this
before.”

  He realizes he has made a misstep, and curses inwardly. “I—I forgot to mention it.”

  Stephanie looks back at him, saying nothing for a moment. Then she asks, “Did the police—the sheriff or whatever—know about the insurance?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. It never came up at the time. They never asked and I—I didn’t even think of it. My wife was dead. I was in shock.” After a moment he adds, “But I don’t think it’s something we really need to worry about. It’s perfectly legitimate to have life insurance once you have a family. I mean—it’s stupid not to.”

  20

  The next morning, after a particularly difficult night with the twins, Stephanie is completely drained, moving like a zombie around the kitchen. She finds herself reaching to put the milk into the cupboard instead of the fridge and shakes her head at herself. She has to get more sleep. She can barely function. And emotionally, she’s a wreck. Even when she does finally get to bed, she’s sleeping badly, a bundle of nerves.

  She kisses her husband goodbye when he leaves for work, the same as she always does. But this morning she turns her eyes away—because she’s keeping a secret from him. In a little while, she’s going to put the babies in the car and drive to the bank and try to find out what’s in the safety deposit box.

  Whatever he’s keeping from her, she must know what it is. She will find out, and she will confront him. Tonight.

  She gets the twins ready. She checks that the double stroller is in the trunk, puts the twins in the playpen, dressed and ready to go, and then goes upstairs to the office. She kneels down, pulls open the drawer, and reaches in for the hidden key. Once she has it in hand, it suddenly occurs to her that Patrick might not have the safety deposit box at their bank. If he wanted to keep it from her, he would probably choose a different bank.

  She makes her way back downstairs. The babies start to fuss, but she ignores them.

  She calls the bank from the kitchen phone, a finger over one ear to muffle the sound of the babies’ crying. When she’s put through, she asks to speak to the manager.

  “Yes, what can I do for you today?” the manager asks.

  “I’ve been trying to reach my husband to ask him, but he’s in meetings all day. Can you tell me, has he been in to our safety deposit box yet this morning? He was supposed to get me some documents. His name is Patrick Kilgour.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Stephanie waits at the end of the line, her heart pounding.

  She hears the manager come back on the line, sounding puzzled. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a safety deposit box here for a Patrick Kilgour. Maybe it’s at another bank?”

  “Oh, of course,” she says. “My mistake. Sorry to bother you.” She quickly hangs up the phone. She stands in the kitchen, the babies wailing now from the living room, her hand still on the phone, trying to breathe.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN PATRICK ARRIVES at the office, Niall says he needs to speak to him. Patrick’s anxiety spikes. What if Niall knows what’s going on? What might Erica have told him? He’s still hoping that somehow he can make Erica go away. But if Erica’s already told Niall—

  “Come into my office,” Niall says, his quiet voice relaying concern.

  Patrick enters the other man’s office, slumps, exhausted and uptight, into a chair.

  “How are things going at home?” Niall begins.

  Patrick feels a slow spreading of relief. Maybe this isn’t about Erica, then. Maybe this will just be the same old conversation. At that, he feels a stab of annoyance. Niall already knows how things are at home. They’re bloody difficult with the twins, and so little sleep. He takes a deep breath. “No better,” he admits. “If the twins don’t get over the colic soon, I think we’re both going to lose our minds.”

  Niall purses his lips tightly. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. Then he says, “I’ve been looking at the cost overruns on the Melnyk project.”

  “I know. I’m doing my best,” Patrick says defensively.

  Niall studies the top of his desk and says, “Kerri tells me that you cancelled an appointment yesterday.”

  Now he feels anger wash over him. Is there anything Kerri doesn’t tell Niall? Did she have to mention it? Does she have no loyalty to him?

  “I didn’t cancel. I asked her to reschedule.”

  Niall looks up from his desk and meets his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t feel up to it,” he says bluntly. “I didn’t feel properly prepared. I thought it was better to appear too busy and have to reschedule than do it unprepared.”

  “So why weren’t you prepared?” Niall asks, raising his voice. “You’re always prepared—at least you used to be. What the hell is going on?”

  Patrick begins to breathe a little easier. Niall doesn’t know—not yet, anyway. Erica’s keeping her mouth shut so far. “Nothing’s going on. I’m sleep deprived, I told you. Sleep deprivation can really mess you up. They use it as a method of torture—didn’t you know?”

  Niall looks back at him and narrows his eyes. “That’s not it, Patrick, so don’t try to bullshit me. Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.”

  Patrick tilts his head back and decides to bluster his way through. “Why wouldn’t you believe me, Niall? When have I ever been less than completely honest with you?”

  Now Niall shrugs. “I know. You’ve been a good business partner and a good friend. I’ve always trusted you. It’s just—I’m worried, Patrick. You seem—off lately, as if something is bothering you. I wondered if maybe you were having marital problems, if that’s what’s been distracting you.” He leans in slightly, and says, “You can tell me, you know.”

  “Maybe I should ask you how things are at home,” Patrick says, with an edge to his voice.

  “Why would you say that?” Niall responds quickly.

  But Patrick doesn’t want to push it; he doesn’t want to let Niall know he knows about him and Erica. Doesn’t want to let him know he has a history with Erica himself. Better let sleeping dogs lie.

  “To see how you like it,” he says. Then he shakes his head, gives a tight smile. “Forget it. I have a short fuse these days. Everything is fine. I just need to get some sleep.” He gets up. “I’ll take another look at how to offset some of those costs on the Melnyk project.”

  21

  Stephanie blinks her eyes. For a moment there, she completely forgot what she was doing. She feels a wave of dizziness and grabs the kitchen counter. She can hear the twins babbling from the living room, content for the moment, at least.

  Right, she’d come into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

  She was going to get herself a coffee and try to think for a minute.

  She reaches for a clean mug out of the cupboard and pours from the carafe. She feels like shit. She has to eat better. She has to get more sleep. Would it be wrong to fall asleep on the sofa with the twins safely in the playpen? She closes her eyes again for a minute, then blinks a couple of times and reaches into the refrigerator for the milk. It seems like she’s doing everything in slow motion. She feels detached, as if she’s watching herself go through the motions of getting her coffee ready. Weird. She shakes her head, quickly takes a couple of gulps of caffeine. Sleep deprivation can really mess with your head. She knows if she stares at the pattern on the wallpaper for a minute it will almost put her into a trance.

  Things are still calm in the living room. She pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and sits down. She doesn’t want to go back in the living room for a bit because she knows that as soon as she does, the twins will see her and start demanding her attention. For now, she’s better off here.

  She presses her fingers to her burning, itchy eyes. She needs to think. But her mind is such a crazy mess right now she can’t make sense of anything. If only she could ta
lk to someone, lay it all out clearly, get someone else’s perspective, someone objective—but there’s no one she can possibly talk to about this. Patrick is too close to it, and he’s freaked out himself. She wants to tell Hanna, but she can’t, even though she and Hanna have become close over the last few months, as first-time moms. Patrick would be furious if she told her.

  Although it might be in the newspapers soon enough.

  Her mind keeps circling back to Patrick’s safety deposit box. Where is it? She’s already called half the banks in town and hasn’t found it.

  She gives her head a shake and forces herself to get up and get ready to take the twins out. She fumbles through her preparations, almost forgetting her keys at the last moment, then going back into the house to get them. As tired as she is, she needs to get them all some fresh air. She’ll call the rest of the banks when she gets back. They can’t stay in all day.

  * * *

  • • •

  STEPHANIE PLAYS WITH THE TWINS on a blanket on the grass at the park, her eyes scanning sporadically for a glimpse of Erica. Patrick had suggested she avoid the park because of the run-in, but she had protested. What the hell else is she going to do with the babies on a nice day? She can’t keep them inside—they’ll all climb up the walls.

  Patrick had then suggested she put them in the car and drive to another park farther away, for a change of scenery. She’d turned away and said maybe as he looked on worriedly. But she’s not going to do that. She’s not going to be afraid to use her own neighborhood. And maybe she wants to talk to Erica. So here she is, sitting with the babies under a tree, a bundle of raw nerves. But there’s no sign of the attractive woman that her husband slept with a long time ago.

  Finally it’s time to go home. She picks the twins up, one at a time, to put them in the stroller, lifting them up and down in the air and smiling at them, making them giggle. God, how she loves them. And every time she looks at them now she feels a clutch of fear at her heart—what will happen to their once-happy family? What if they’re all dragged through an investigation—what will that do to her and Patrick? Thank goodness the babies are too young to understand what’s going on.