“Hey.” His voice is low, as if he is with clients, but that has never stopped him from answering. It is one of the nice things about Sam, if I had to make a list of the nice things. Excellent communication. Always on time, if not early. Always has me finish first, regardless of whether he does.
“You said you spoke to Lillian the morning that she died and that she seemed off her meds. I need to know everything about that morning.”
“I can meet you. Just tell me where.”
“The coffee shop in Brentwood, by the farmers’ market. Meet me in the parking lot. I’ll be in the car.”
“Sure. I’m . . . uh . . . twenty minutes away. Okay?”
“Yeah.” I end the call, then play the video again. She put the liquor in her purse and then . . . I look at the timeline of her calls. Three and a half hours later, she calls the taxi and then the abuse hotline and then her office, then somehow ends up in Malibu, dead in the surf. Her bag was there too—I remember the detective mentioning it. I hadn’t cared because I hadn’t been aware of the missing bottle at that time. Now it could be the most important thing in my life. Was the bottle still in the purse, in the evidence locker?
I replace the drive and tuck the cords back in, returning the cabinet to its normal operation and the key to the can, though there is no longer anything of value inside. You still need to put things back in their place; otherwise your home, your marriage, your life is just one continually crumbling edifice.
I take my key from the hook and call up the stairs to Jacob, who is playing music at a level that is unhealthy for his ears. I wait, then head to the garage. I have thirteen minutes to make it to the coffee shop parking lot to meet Sam.
On the way, I call the detective to ask about the purse, but he doesn’t answer. I leave a message and make sure that I sound broken and weak, a man in mourning. The stress is easy to inject into my voice. The grief . . . I’m still working on the grief. For now, all I feel for her is hatred, and this new development has poured kerosene on that fire.
CHAPTER 57
LILLIAN
I’m in a strange house and standing in the middle of a skinny hall, trying to place my surroundings. At the end of the hall is a mirror, and it’s odd to look at it and not see my own reflection. The walls are a pale blue, and the other end of the hall opens to a living room with midcentury-modern, white furniture and a large dalmatian, who launches off the couch and begins barking at me. I watch him with interest, and when I crouch and hold out my hand, he trots over and sniffs it, then barks again. Interesting.
A woman yells at him to shut up and I straighten and turn toward the sound, following the hall to an open doorway. Pausing on the threshold, I look in to see a small office, one with stacks of books and papers on every surface. Behind the L-shaped desk is a woman I don’t know. I move closer, watching her with interest. She has almost translucent white skin and black hair, which is pulled into a low braid and contained with a thin red headband, which gives her a young look, though she is probably five or six years older than me. She’s wearing round tortoiseshell glasses and a pair of jean overalls with a red tank top, her shoulders hunched forward as she types away at a keyboard, her attention on the computer screen before her.
The dog has followed me in and is still barking at me, and the woman yells at him again. I point to the door, and surprisingly, he obeys, walking into the hall and sitting and staring at me as if waiting for his next command.
I do a slow spin of the room, wondering why I am here. I’ve never been in a strange place before, at least not as a dead woman. The woman sighs in frustration, and I circle the desk to see what she’s working on. It is an email, something about code enforcement and a backyard deck. I perk up at the same time that she does, both of us hearing the slam of a door and a male voice calling out a name. Caroline.
“I’m in here,” she calls.
I step back from the computer, conscious of how it will look, then remind myself that I don’t exist, at least not to these people. Then he appears in the doorway and I forget, for a moment, that I am dead.
David.
He looks different. The scruff is shaved and he is in a golf shirt and jeans, his hair shorter and neater. He’s wearing glasses, ones that match hers, and they look like the sort of couple that goes to organic swap meets on the weekends and open-mic poetry readings. When I look at her, she’s smiling and he’s coming around the desk and kissing her on the lips, and a sharp knife of jealousy hits.
So he’s not single. This is his house. That is his dog. This is his . . . I look at her hand and see the ring. This is his wife. He is also now wearing a ring, a thin silver band that glints as he caresses the back of her neck, and I think of him on top of me, grunting. A drop of sweat had come off his forehead and splattered on my cleavage. A wave of revulsion hits, and I turn away from them.
“I thought you were going to be gone this week,” she says.
“That project’s over.” And . . . wow. No French accent.
“Oh.” She is surprised. “Everything work out?”
“Not exactly.” He sits on the edge of the desk. He turns away from her and leans down to pet the dog, the action shielding her from the view of his features, which twist in pain, then are forced smooth. I watch, fascinated. “She, ah. She didn’t make it.”
“What?” She sits back in her chair. “What do you mean? She caught you?”
“No, no.” He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “Overdose.”
“Was it you?”
Was it you? I frown at the question. Is she asking if he killed me?
He sighs, as if disappointed in the question. “Caroline.”
“What?” She shrugs. “I can ask. You don’t have to answer.” She doesn’t seem concerned about my death, and I decide that I don’t like her.
David puts his glasses back on, but there is a tear he has missed, a dot of moisture that hangs on his right cheekbone. Ha! I want to shout. See! He liked me. He really liked me. “I’m going to get a shower.”
“Are you in trouble?” She spins in the desk chair as he heads for the door, passing me so closely that I can smell his cologne, and even it is different from the one he wore with me.
“They’re not happy, but I’m fine. Things happen. We’ll find another way to get the rest of what we need.” His true voice has a hint of a New York accent, and I’m fascinated by the differences between this man and the one I knew. The rest of what we need? What is he talking about?
I’m trying to piece together the meaning of that sentence when he scratches the dog on the back and heads out of the room.
“Welcome home,” she says quietly, and I bare my teeth at her and growl for absolutely no good reason.
CHAPTER 58
LENNY
I pay the bill with three twenties that have seen better days. Gersh eyes the limp cash but doesn’t say anything. I made it through breakfast without ordering a drink, so other than having a raging headache, I’m doing pretty good. I will need something soon; otherwise I’ll start detoxing, and that won’t help Lillian at all. So my reward, once this pretty boy coughs up the rest of his intel, is a pool hall I walked past on the way here. Low lights, assholes in the doorway, a collection of cigarette stubs on the windowsill—it looks perfect, and I’m trying not to think about it as I follow him to his car.