Page 19 of The Better Sister

When I reached the end of Ocean Avenue, I opted to turn left, away from the pavilion where a couple of women appeared to be setting up for some kind of party, based on the balloon bouquets they were struggling to tie to picnic tables. I walked east until I passed the lifeguard stand, and then kicked off my flip-flops and let the waves wash over my shins. When I was certain I was alone, I put my right hand in my pocket, retrieved the burner phone, and sent one final message. When I was done, I pulled out the SIM card and let it slip away with the current.

I continued to walk east, pausing to retrieve a paper bag that was caught in the brush. When I reached Egypt Beach, I placed my defunct burner in the bag and tossed it into a trash can in the parking lot for the Maidstone Club as I made my way north to Further Lane.

On the way home, I stopped by his house to tell him that I no longer had the phone he gave me. My husband had been murdered, and we couldn’t see each other again. Not any time soon, at least.

As I approached the turn to my house from Ocean Avenue, I noticed a small group gathered at the corner, their collective gaze focused north. They had to be watching the police activity, wondering what had brought so many cars to the house at the middle of Pudding Hill Lane.

My remaining phone—the real one—rang in my pocket. I checked the screen. It was Catherine. She’d already called once before when I was still at his house, saying goodbye. It was so like her to call the day after a party, wanting to kibitz about every moment. I hit the call-decline button and tucked the phone back into my pocket.

As I neared the intersection, I noticed a young woman in a white hoodie and black yoga pants nudge the woman next to her. I had been spotted. She raised her cell phone as if she were checking messages, but I recognized the move. I turned my face away on instinct, hoping it was fast enough to avoid her camera. I picked up my pace, but not so much that I could be described as running away from onlookers.

To my knowledge, the news of Adam’s death hadn’t broken yet, but it wouldn’t be long. And once it did, I knew the speculation that would follow. After all, isn’t the spouse always a suspect?

When I turned the corner, I saw a Porsche 911 heading in my direction. It pulled suddenly to the left side of the street and parked directly in front of my house. Catherine was at the wheel of the convertible, her cell phone in hand.

In all the years I’d known her, I had never seen her without makeup, let alone in a Pretenders T-shirt and jeans. She was all limbs as she climbed out of the tiny car and rushed toward me.

“Is it true? About Adam?”

Apparently the news was out.

I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. “Last night. I found him when I got home from your place. I couldn’t bring myself to call anyone yet.”

“I found out from Grace Lee.” Grace Lee was a reporter with theDaily News. Her husband was NYPD, and she was always at least an hour ahead of the rest of the press when it came to the big crime-beat stories. “Apparently ‘out of respect’”—Catherine made air quotes—“the official editorial response was to place a call to your lawyer instead of you directly.”

“Bill?” I asked. I checked my phone. No other calls besides Catherine’s.

“This is the problem with having such ancient friends,” she said. “He’s probably calling his secretary right now, trying to find your cell phone number. I can’t believe that geezer didn’t call me.”

She stopped speaking and pulled me into a tight hug. The curls of her humidity-soaked red hair tickled my cheek. It was the first time since I’d heard the news about Adam that I’d been able to let anyone comfort me. I sank into her embrace.

“Do they know what happened?” she asked.

“They think it was a burglary. Still the off-season. But...” I shook my head. They didn’t know a damn thing.

“Love, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to do a press release. Through the magazine would be best.”

My instinct was to hold up a hand, but I reached for hers instead and gave it a squeeze. “I really can’t deal with that right now, Catherine.”

“Stay ahead of this,” Catherine warned, “or the true-crime crowd will make you their newest black widow by bedtime.”

I looked up at the cloud cover and sighed. “Or... I’ll put out a press release like you say, and they’ll tweet about the selfish bitch who worried about burnishing her public image before her husband was in the ground. I’m not playing their game.”

“Well, I told Grace I’d reach you. Let me at least get back to her. I can be an anonymous source. Someone close to the family.”

“No.”

Her lips—I’d never seen them without lipstick before—opened, but no words came out. I couldn’t remember a time that I hadn’t been grateful for her advice. The truth is that she was probably my closest friend, but it had always been about the work. She didn’t know the parts of me that mattered right now.

And she must have felt that, too, because even though she had driven to my house, she didn’t follow as I marched across the gravel driveway. “Call me if you change your mind,” was her last attempt. She’d done enough so she could tell me—and everyone else—later that she’d tried her best.

How would it look that I was at a party without Adam when he was killed? Or that he had barely made it to the awards banquet on Thursday night? They were only two innocuous scheduling details, but could easily be twisted into a headline-grabbing, trouble-in-paradise narrative. And if they found out about the affair? Forget it, I’d spend the rest of my life a tabloid villain. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

12

I had almost reached the pool house when I heard a voice behind me, calling out my name. I turned to see Guidry on the opposite side of the pool, standing at the threshold of the main house’s open sliding glass door. I resisted the urge to scold her about bugs getting inside.

“I was waiting to call you in case you had managed to fall asleep, but I see you’re up.”

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