The End of Her

by Shari Lapena

  Lange stands up straight, his hand on Stephanie’s shoulder. She’s still bent over, probably so that she doesn’t have to look at him. Her worst fears realized, Patrick supposes. How wrong she is.

  Lange turns his attention to Patrick, exhales deeply, and says what they all now know. “I’m afraid you failed the test, Patrick.”

  Patrick shakes his head. “No. That’s impossible. The test is wrong!”

  Stephanie slowly sits back up, but she seems to have turned to stone. Why does she believe the machine over him? He’s told her how unreliable these tests are.

  Freed now from the wires, Patrick finds himself stumbling over to his wife, kneeling down beside her. “Stephanie, you know how inaccurate these tests are. It was an accident!”

  She doesn’t even look at him.

  Lange says, “Look, we have to make some decisions.” He nods to the examiner, who is quietly leaving the room with his equipment. “Thanks, Roddy.” He turns to Patrick. “Sit down,” he says, moving back behind his own desk. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Stephanie faces the attorney. Patrick doesn’t like the expression on her face. He can imagine what’s going through her mind. She thinks he did it. Maybe it’s all over between them now, Patrick thinks numbly. She won’t trust him after this. She won’t love him anymore. He wonders how long it will be before she leaves him. The thought renders him frightened and hollow.

  “We’re expected at the sheriff’s. Here’s what I suggest,” Lange says. “We know they will ask you to take a polygraph. You will, on my advice, decline. They will probably, in that event, arrest you on the charge of first- or second-degree murder. It will depend on the level of premeditation they think was involved.” Patrick can only stare back at the attorney, frozen in disbelief. “You will then be in custody. You don’t have to talk to them. I will be there with you. I suggest we allow a brief interview in which you deny the charges unreservedly. You explain, again, that it was an accident. And that’s it. I won’t allow them to question you any further. It is up to them to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt at trial. We don’t give them anything to work with, got it?”

  Patrick nods, unable to speak.

  “You won’t be going home tonight.” The attorney glances over at Stephanie, and Patrick dully follows his gaze. “I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by your going to the sheriff’s with us,” he says.

  Patrick has to agree with him. Stephanie looks like she thinks it’s a foregone conclusion that her husband will be convicted of murder. He wants her to go home. She’s certainly not helping.

  The attorney turns to him, and he must look as frightened as he feels because Lange says, “Chin up. It’s up to the state to prove it was murder, beyond a reasonable doubt. You sit tight. The burden is on them. And honestly—I don’t think they’ll go through with a trial.”

  Patrick wonders if his own lawyer thinks he’s guilty. Does Lange care? To him Patrick’s just another client.

  Lange comes from behind his desk and helps Stephanie up with a hand at her elbow. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s best if you just go to the airport. I’ll have my secretary call you a cab. Let’s go see her.”

  Patrick watches her leave the room with his attorney without a backward glance. He feels terribly alone, and despite his attorney’s reassurances, what he’s facing terrifies him. And it’s all because of that treacherous bitch Erica.

  * * *

  • • •

  STEPHANIE WANDERS AROUND the airport, killing time until her scheduled flight. How strange, to be in an unfamiliar airport, drifting in and out of shops, while her husband is at the Sheriff’s Office, being charged with murder.

  Finally, exhausted, she stops at a Starbucks and sits at a little table with a coffee. What she needs is someone to talk to. Someone she can trust. She has so much turmoil inside her, and no one to unburden herself to. She thinks about Hanna. Can she trust her? Can she tell her what happened at the attorney’s office today? No, she decides. She can’t.

  She can hardly come to grips with it herself.

  He hadn’t passed the lie detector test. What does that tell her? He did it. He killed his wife and unborn child on purpose.

  She wrestles with the information, trying to get hold of it in some way that makes sense. Polygraphs can’t be counted on. Everyone knows that. He didn’t mean to kill her. He couldn’t have.

  But the police believe in polygraphs. They will believe that her husband is guilty, if they ever find out about the test. The lawyer had turned to her, outside of his office, and assured her in a low voice that the police will never learn that he failed the test. The information is privileged.

  Maybe she wants them to know.

  It was a strange, surreal moment.

  She’s the only one, besides Patrick and his lawyer—and the examiner—who knows. It’s such a heavy burden to bear. But she knows she can’t tell anyone. She must keep it to herself.

  And now, she must decide what to do.

  43

  Patrick stands up straight and walks toward the building that houses the Sheriff’s Office. He arranges his face into an expression of resolution. He is an innocent man, unfairly treated, doing as his attorney is advising him to do.

  “Ready?” Lange says, beside him.

  As they walk up the steps, Patrick thinks back to the last time he went up these same steps, the morning that Lindsey died. It was winter then. He can’t believe he’s back here. He feels sick to his stomach. He was sick that day. He threw up in the snow.

  They are expecting him. He is taken into an interrogation room, Lange close beside him. The sheriff and a uniformed police officer are there. This is all just a formality. It’s what comes after that is terrifying him. The nights spent in jail. The trial. He’s projecting into the future, barely able to pay attention to what’s happening in the here and now. He hears his attorney explain that, on his advice, he will not be taking a polygraph, as they are unreliable and inadmissible in any event. Patrick sits up straighter then and meets the sheriff’s eyes firmly, unwilling to look guilty. He sees the sheriff’s knowing smirk and realizes then that the sheriff assumes from this that he’s already taken one and failed. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Suddenly his situation seems much worse. The sheriff sitting across from him already thinks he’s guilty.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right with you,” the sheriff says.

  “He’ll make a statement, but that’s it. Patrick?” The attorney sits back and waits for him to say his piece. They’d discussed this—what he was to say—in the car on the way up.

  Patrick clears his throat and speaks in a firm voice, with conviction. “I did not intend to kill my wife. It was an accident. I didn’t know that the exhaust pipe was plugged, or that she was in any danger.”

  “Anything else you’d like to add?” the sheriff asks after a moment.

  Patrick shoots a nervous glance at Lange.

  “No, I think that’s it,” the attorney says smoothly.

  The sheriff stands up and says, “Patrick Kilgour, you are under arrest for the murder of Lindsey Kilgour on January 10, 2009. . . .” Patrick’s mind goes blank and he doesn’t hear the rest. Then someone is nudging him. “Please stand up.”

  Patrick stumbles to his feet, blood rushing from his head.

  “Hands behind your back, please,” the uniformed police officer says quietly.

  Patrick puts his hands behind his back, feels the cuffs go on. And just like that, he’s arrested for murder. He’s going to jail.

  * * *

  • • •

  STEPHANIE APPRECIATES the anonymity of the plane ride home without her notorious husband by her side. He’s handsome, recognizable; on her own, she’s able to pass as a tired, ordinary woman. No one bothers her or looks at her twice, not the way they had when they�
�d traveled back from the inquest. Patrick had attracted a few curious looks, and because of that, she had too. She knew what people were thinking when they looked at her: Who could possibly marry someone who had murdered his first wife?

  They’d read the newspapers, seen the coverage on TV, and assumed he was guilty. And now she knows something they don’t. She knows he failed the polygraph. Now she wants to scream, I didn’t know about any of it. I didn’t know!

  She wants to weep against the window of the airplane, but she doesn’t allow herself. She will weep tonight, at home, alone, after the twins are asleep. She will let it all out in a way she had never felt able to do when Patrick was in the house. Perhaps it will be cathartic, and then maybe she will finally be able to sleep. And to think clearly about her situation.

  She’s had a text from the attorney telling her that things went as expected, that Patrick has been arrested and is now in the county jail. She won’t be hearing from Patrick directly anymore, unless he calls her from a phone at jail. She pictures him in a cell, wearing some kind of jumpsuit. She imagines they have taken away his belt, his shoelaces—anything he might use to kill himself. But she can’t imagine what’s going through his mind. Because she doesn’t have any idea of what’s in his mind at all. She shudders to think that a machine might know him better than she does. Did she ever know him at all?

  Maybe she’s safer with him in jail. She and Emmie and Jackie. If he really is a murderer, they’re all better off with him locked up, far away. She thinks with horror about the fire in the kitchen. She still can’t remember putting the pan on the stove that day. Could Patrick have done it? Was Erica right? Did Patrick want to get rid of her and the twins, so he can have her money—over three million dollars altogether?

  She can’t believe it. She can’t believe that she could have been so terribly mistaken about someone she loved. But she has just enough doubt left to make her utterly miserable.

  She doesn’t know what is true or how to act anymore. Patrick’s lawyer expects her to be supportive, to rally around him. But can she do that? Should she? What if he did it, and he gets away with it, and comes home? Surely he wouldn’t . . .

  But he could be innocent.

  How will she ever know for sure?

  By the time the plane lands, it’s already late. She retrieves the car from the airport parking and drives the hour and a half home, her eyes burning with fatigue. The house is dark; she wishes she’d thought to leave the porch light on. Finally, she gets the door open and enters the house nervously, all her senses on alert. Being alone in the house at night frightens her. She’s used to having Patrick here—he used to make her feel safe. Now every little noise startles her, every shadow jumps out at her. She wonders if she will ever feel safe again. But then she tells herself to snap out of it.

  She quickly turns the heat up a bit, flicks on lights all over the house, slips into some sweatpants, and then grabs her keys and hurries across the street to pick up the twins. She thinks about what to say to Hanna. She must not tell her about the polygraph, no matter how much she longs to confide in someone.

  When Hanna opens her front door and smiles a welcome at her, Stephanie surprises herself by bursting into tears. Hanna hugs her and then pulls her from the chill of the doorstep into the warm house. She looks at her sympathetically. “Come on, the babies are all asleep upstairs. I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Are you sure? It’s so late,” Stephanie says.

  “I’m sure.”

  Feeling too weary to protest, and utterly alone in the world, Stephanie follows her toward the kitchen. She wants to see her girls first, though. “I’ll just tiptoe up and look in on them, okay?”

  “Of course,” Hanna says, changing direction. “We’ll be quiet, though—let’s not wake them.”

  The twins’ playpen is set up in the nursery next to Teddy’s crib, with her two girls fast asleep. Stephanie creeps into the room and peers down at them. The nightlight casts a soft glow. They are on their backs, their heads turned toward each other, little fists curled, knees bent, chests rising and falling. They’re so innocent. Her heart breaks a little, looking at them.

  “Okay?” whispers Hanna.

  Stephanie nods, and they quietly exit the room and go back downstairs. Stephanie follows Hanna into the kitchen. She’s startled to see Ben, Hanna’s husband, there. But of course, he lives here. She’s the interloper, relying on the kindness of strangers.

  “Don’t mind Ben,” Hanna says. “He’s watching something in the basement.”

  Ben nods cordially at her, having the grace not to stare as he grabs a beer from the fridge. He probably expects to hear it all later, Stephanie thinks cynically. But she shouldn’t be cynical about them, she tells herself. They have been good to her. She can’t let what’s happening to her color her view of everyone else.

  Ben retreats downstairs with his beer and Hanna asks, “Tea? Or something stronger?”

  “Do you have any wine?” Stephanie asks.

  They sit down in the living room with a bottle of red and two glasses, the lights low, and Hanna asks, “What happened?”

  “They’ve arrested him,” Stephanie says bluntly.

  Hanna’s expression is a mix of shock, compassion, and dread.

  “What are you going to do?” Hanna asks quietly.

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  • • •

  LATE THAT NIGHT, in his cell, Patrick lies on his bunk, his mind racing. He imagines Stephanie lying awake in their bed, staring at the ceiling. Or is she wandering around the house, the way she’s been doing since all this started, thinking about him? Does she think he did it? Does she believe the polygraph? Or has she calmed down now and seen sense?

  The fucking polygraph. She shouldn’t have been there. Still, he expected to pass it. It had been a terrible blow when he hadn’t.

  44

  Cheryl feels like she’s trapped in a living nightmare. Now that she knows more about Devin’s biological parents, she finds herself studying Devin and wondering about every little thing. She’s seen behaviors in him lately that she’d perhaps been blinding herself to. Sometimes Devin puts himself first, before his friends. He has considerable charm, which he uses to get what he wants. She’s never worried about that before. She’ll hardly admit it to herself, but she’s looking out for sociopathic traits.

  Gary tells her she’s imagining things, looking for problems that aren’t there. He assures her that love is enough; love can solve anything. They’ve brought Devin up properly. They’re good people. They’re going to get through this.

  * * *

  • • •

  ERICA VOSS is in her apartment the next morning scrolling through the news feed on her phone when she stops suddenly. Arrest Made in Kilgour Case. Her adrenaline surges; she taps the link and races through the short article. Then she sits back in her chair, a slow smile playing about her lips.

  Serves him right. That’s what happens when you fuck with her.

  She picks up her cell phone and calls the Manning residence. She’s already planned what she’s going to say.

  “Hello,” Cheryl’s voice comes over the phone.

  “Hi, Cheryl,” Erica says.

  “Who is this?”

  Erica can hear the suspicion, even fear, in the other woman’s voice. She’d prepped her with that visit to her house. “It’s Erica, Devin’s mom.” There’s a long, fraught silence.

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve been following the news . . .” Erica says, and waits.

  “You mean about the inquest,” Cheryl says, her voice uneven.

  “It must have been quite a shock,” Erica says, “learning all that about Devin’s father.”

  “Tell me the truth,” Cheryl says harshly. “Did he really kill them?”

  “Of c
ourse he did.”

  “What do you want?” Cheryl asks again.

  “I’d like to see more of my son,” Erica says.

  “He’s not your son. He’s ours. You terminated all your parental rights when we adopted him.”

  “I don’t care about legal rights,” Erica says. “You’re welcome to him. But I think he should know where he came from, don’t you? I could meet him, tell him he’s adopted—I bet you haven’t even told him he’s adopted, am I right?—and I could tell him about his father, why I had to give him up, even though I didn’t want to.” She waits a beat and says, “Did you see that Patrick was arrested this morning?” There’s an audible gasp from the other end of the phone. “For murder.”

  “I’m hanging up,” Cheryl says.

  “No, you’re not,” Erica replies. “You’re going to listen to me. You’re going to tell Gary that I want another hundred thousand dollars, or Devin will soon find out things that I don’t think you want him to know. You can’t watch him every minute of every day. I’ll call you back in a few days. In the meantime, get the money together.” She adds, “When Patrick goes to trial, I really don’t want to tell them I actually know where my son is, and put you through the whole paternity testing thing. It would be so hard on Devin to learn the truth that way.”

  * * *

  • • •

  STEPHANIE PICKS UP the newspaper from the front step and carries it inside to the kitchen. The day is cold and wet. She sits down at the kitchen table and leafs through the paper, looking for any mention of the arrest. She finally finds it, buried in the back of the front section. At least it didn’t make the front page here. She wonders how much longer she’s got before the local press is all over this.

  She presses her palms against her burning eyes. She’d spent longer than she’d planned to at Hanna’s last night and had more wine than she should have. It felt good to lean on Hanna, to dwell in her comfort and normalcy. She’d wanted to confide in her. Now she’s afraid she’d let slip a bit too much—about her doubts. But she hadn’t said anything about the polygraph.