“But the kids are good. You know teenagers. They care more about their phones than us.”
No, I don’t know. Marcella should be twelve, but she isn’t. I let his careless comment slide. “Thanks for the info. Call me if you hear anything?”
“Yeah, definitely. I’ll do some snooping.”
“Appreciate it.” I hang up the phone and think, my gaze settling on the empty, half-dug grave.
CHAPTER 51
LILLIAN
I’m in a white room and can smell bleach and another chemical that I can’t place, but it makes me dizzy. A dark-skinned man with a shaved head and a lab coat is standing beside a body and talking to Mike.
The body is covered in a white sheet, and I know—without them pulling back the cover—that it’s me. I move to stand beside Mike, and I can feel his discomfort at being here, at having to listen to the instructions from the coroner. He asks Mike if he’s ready, then folds the sheet back to reveal my face.
I lean forward, shocked. I’ve never seen my eyes closed before. It’s an odd thing to realize, that you don’t know what you look like, dead—but here I am, face slack, eyes closed, my mouth slightly open. I gotta say, it’s not my best look.
“That’s her.”
My husband doesn’t budge from his spot at the head of the table, his voice calm and, as always, in perfect control. I glance at him, annoyed that he can’t manage to shed a single tear, for appearance’s sake, at least.
I return my focus to my body. My hair has clumps of sand in it, and it’s all over my skin, as if I were rolled in it before being carried here.
As if sensing my critique, the doctor speaks. “Her body will be washed prior to the autopsy. We’re still collecting evidence from it.”
Evidence. That’s interesting. I move to the other side of the table and crouch, wanting to see my profile.
“Are you suspecting foul play?” Mike seems to be following my thoughts.
“I’ll have to let the detectives answer that question. You’re speaking to them, correct?”
“Yes, later today.” Mike’s phone rings, and he reaches for his front shirt pocket and withdraws his cell and checks it. “Do you need me for anything else? I need to take this call.”
“No, that’s it.” The doctor’s tone is mild, but I can feel the judgment toward Mike. I’m right there with him. His wife is dead, and he has to interrupt the viewing of her body for a phone call?
Strike one, Mike.
Empowered by my new ability and unfettered access, I follow him out the door to see who he’s so anxious to talk to.
Is it her? Is she already swooping in to take my husband?
CHAPTER 52
MIKE
It’s Sam, and I move quickly through the halls of the medical examiner’s office, not sure who might be listening. “Yes?”
“I got your message about your friend’s vacation home.” Our code is fairly simple—Colorado equals vacation home—though Sam isn’t great with using it properly. “Are you sure they’re ready to sell it now? The market isn’t great.”
“They don’t care.”
“Okay.” Sam falls silent for a beat. “Will you be home later? I’d like to come by.”
“No,” I say curtly, and if he doesn’t understand why it’s not a good time to come to the house, he’s an idiot.
“Someone will need to pick out Lillian’s outfit for the funeral. I know her style better than anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone at the house right now. Jacob isn’t taking this well.”
“Well, his mom died,” Sam points out. “What the hell do you expect?”
I didn’t say that there was anything wrong with Jacob mourning. Sam is misassigning my emotions, which he does often. I decide to ignore the statement, because arguing with Sam is like racing on a hamster wheel. Even when you’ve won, you’re stuck in circles.
I take a different path. “Have the police called you?”
“No.”
“They probably will,” I caution.
“I hope they do.”
I know it isn’t meant to be threatening, but it feels like there’s a bit of malice in the words. I see Detective Gersh striding down the hall toward me and hang up on Sam without responding.
CHAPTER 53
MIKE
It’s critically important that I answer the detectives in a way that removes all suspicion both from me and from Lillian’s death. With that acknowledgment in place, I’m aware that I’m royally fucking this up.
They have introduced themselves as Alec and Emily, and Alec Gersh was the one who questioned Lillian about Brexley Axe at the time of the restraining order, a year ago. They aren’t the officers who informed me about Lillian’s body being found, and that’s probably a good thing, because I’m not certain I reacted to that in the most compassionate way.
I’m trying to do better here. I’ve made sure that my voice cracks at times. I continually pinch my features. Pause at times, as if I’m too overcome with emotion to continue. I’ve rambled, intentionally. Been praiseful of my wife, but not too much so.
All the right things, but still, I can feel the suspicion in the air. It chokes me, the weight of it sitting on my lungs, and it doesn’t help that we’re in the police station, a place I’ve spent my entire adult life plotting to avoid.
Of course Lillian would put me here. Even in death, she is a weakness in my armor.
“We’ve pulled Lillian’s phone records and credit card activity from the day she died.” The woman pushes a few pages toward me and I lean forward, pretending I’m seeing them for the first time.
“Let’s talk about the phone records first. Do you recognize any of these numbers?” The man taps on the left column of the printout.
They have assured me that I am not a suspect, that they are not even sure whether there is a suspect, that this is probably an accidental death and they just need to do some pesky paperwork to make sure that all the i’s are dotted on the death, but I am the husband, and the husband is always a suspect, especially in a case where the wife is unfaithful. Have they found my own affair yet? They shouldn’t. They shouldn’t suspect anything, yet cops always do.
I look at the lines of numbers with care, the way any diligent widower would because maybe—hopefully—the killer’s information is right here, right in front of us.
“Ah, I think this might be Sam’s number. That’s her best friend. He’s a Realtor. It might be. If you let me look at my phone, I could make sure.”
They nod—yes, of course you can look at your phone, please type in these other numbers, just to see if they match any in your address book. They give me an encouraging look and the man leans back in his chair and stretches, then drums his fingers on the belly of his uniform, as if they don’t know who these numbers are, and as if they haven’t already pulled my phone records also.
I go through the motions of typing in the numbers, nodding in mock confirmation when I verify that—yes!—I am correct, and this first number is for Sam, her best friend. The other phone numbers don’t match anything in my phone, and I push the list back to them. “Can’t you look up these numbers? Maybe call them? They might know something.” I’m just a poor dumb husband, but gee whillikers, guys—this might help.