Page 34 of The Better Sister

“Why don’t you call your boyfriend? What? I mean, if I had to guess... that’s apparently your type. Is that the Bill name you gave the cops?”

“Will you stop? He’s the magazine’s lawyer, and he’s eighty years old.”

Of course, I didn’t tell her that “the boyfriend” she was asking about worked at the same firm, two offices down from Adam. The reality is that I couldn’t think of a better person to give me a referral for a criminal defense attorney than Jake. And a phone call to one of my husband’s law partners wouldn’t look suspicious, even to Nicky, who apparently knew my tell.

“I’ll call someone at Adam’s firm.” I made a point of looking up Jake Summer’s contact information in the master contact list on my computer, then using our landline to call his phone number. The least intimate method of communication possible.

“Hey,” he said. So much feeling with that one little word. His voice was tender and caring. I wanted to fall into it.

“Hi, Jake,” I said, trying to sound businesslike. “I’m so sorry to call you.”

“Of course you can—”

“Thanks so much for asking. Yes, we’re holding up as best we can. But I have a favor that I wish I didn’t need to ask.”

“Chloe, stop it. Of course I’d do anything—”

In an instant, I saw a life I might be living if I had left Adam the way Jake wanted me to. Somewhere in my gut, I knew none of this would be happening now if I had simply walked away.

“We have attorney-client privilege, right?”

“Yeah, of course. As long as you’re contacting me in my capacity as a legal advisor. Is that what’s happening here?”

“I need to call a criminal defense attorney. Not someone like you or Bill. Someone who could potentially handle a homicide case.”

“Oh, Chloe. The police can’t possibly think—”

“Someone who could represent a teenager, for example.”

“Oh my god. I’m coming over right now. Please. Let me help you.”

I felt my eyes begin to water. I wanted to travel back in time and undo so many choices. “A phone number. And a name. Really, that’s what I need right now.”

The name he gave me was Olivia Randall. After a quick Google search to make sure she was legit, I made the call.

Forty minutes later, Guidry and Bowen were back. And this time, there was no call from the doorman to announce their arrival. They had six officers in uniforms with them, and a search warrant.

21

Guidry watched over us in the living room while the other officers—all men—swept through the apartment as if they were expecting henchmen with machine guns to ambush them from the closets.

“You were just here. Is this all necessary?”

Guidry was silent until someone—Bowen, I thought—yelled “Clear!” from Ethan’s room. “We have the right to keep you here while we execute the warrant, but to be clear, you’re not under arrest.”

“We have a lawyer on the way,” Nicky said.

“That’s all fine and well,” Guidry said, “but that’s not going to change anything about the search warrant. Now we’re going to do a brief pat-down on all three of you just to make sure you’re not holding anything that might be used to hurt us, okay?”

A uniformed officer thoroughly patted down my terrified son, checking his pockets and inside his waistband, while Guidry used a cursory back of the hand for Nicky and me.

“We’ve got some sharp objects over here,” one of the officers noted, gesturing to the coffee table.

“It’s stuff I use for jewelry,” Nicky explained. “Trust me, a paper cut would be worse.”

The officer inspected a pair of wire cutters and tucked them into his already-loaded belt. I couldn’t believe this was happening. They were frisking us and seizing Etsy tools. Nicky rolled her eyes, and for the first time ever, I wished I had her fuck-it, this-is-bullshit attitude. I was the one who was always worried about low-probability but high-consequence outcomes. I was also the one who tended to trust authority. Even now, when I saw clickbait about police supposedly getting something wrong, something in me said “There must be more to the story.” Deep down, in my fearful, rule-abiding core, I believed that if the police were in my apartment with a warrant, they knew they were going to find something.

I was picturing the burner phone in my desk when the apartment door opened. Olivia Randall was pretty with dark, straight, shoulder-length hair, angular features, and an athletic build. She wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and flats, and had probably pulled on the blazer at the last minute when I begged her to come over as soon as possible. The fact that she recognized my name as soon as I uttered it probably explained the instantaneous house call.

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