Page 41 of The Better Sister

I was mortified, but everyone pretended to laugh, which was nice. Nicky was doing a better job than I was of keeping up with the party chatter.

“Is that one of your designs that you’re wearing now?” Catherine asked.

Nicky glanced down and fiddled with the necklace around her throat. The chain was some kind of blackened silver, ending in an amalgam of hammered metal jigsaw puzzle pieces. It was... a lot.

“Uh-huh.”

“Do those pieces come apart?” Liam asked. “It looks like they’re barely together.”

“Nope,” she said, tugging at the pendant in different directions. “All welded tight. But, yeah, that’s the intended effect. Tough industrial materials, but it still looks fragile, right?”

Christof and Liam both agreed it was cool.

“You should sneak a promo for her work intoEve,” Catherine suggested.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Bill warned with a wagging index finger. “As her lawyer, I happen to know that would present a conflict of interest that would put her in breach.”

“Well,someoneshould discover you,” Catherine announced. “Now,who wants dessert?”

When I trailed Catherine into the kitchen to see if she needed help, she had already placed six perfectly sliced pieces of peach pie and was topping the plates with fresh whipped cream.

“So much for helping,” I said.

She flashed me a quick smile. “I’m glad you’re here with me, though.”

I nodded. “Me, too.”

“Is it okay to ask about Ethan? I just can’t imagine.”

“He’s holding up,” I said softly. “Thanks.” She started a follow-up question, but I grabbed two of the prepared plates and made a dash for the dining room. “Don’t want the cream to melt!”

I stopped even pretending to pay attention as the pie was consumed. Ethan wasn’t “holding up” at all, not as far as I was concerned. Because of the severity of his charges, he didn’t qualify for what they called “nonsecure” detention. Despite what the detention center’s website claimed about providing “holistic services” for the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds housed there, the place seemed no different to me than a jail.

Olivia had scared all three of us away from making any mention of the case whatsoever, because conversations were monitored, and Olivia seemed to think the prosecution might call Nicky and me as witnesses. So our visits were made up of small talk about how the cat was doing and whether Ethan was reading any of the books I was bringing him. The only time he mentioned his father was to ask where he was buried. When I told him Adam had been cremated, he broke down in tears, and I realized what a mistake I had made.

Not to mention that the mandatory mental health assessment he’d undergone at intake had led to a prescription for an antidepressant. I was adamantly opposed at first, but Nicky, who had more experience with that world, was open-minded. After consulting with Ethan’s pediatrician, we had consented to the medication, but I was nervous about the long-term consequences. I was even more terrified that there would be no “long term” for Ethan at all—or, at least, not a normal one.

Nicky helped me clear the dishes when desserts were finished.

“That Liam is smoking hot,” she said as I used the sink sprayer to rinse the plates.

“Please don’t make the moves on him, Nicky. I’m begging you.”

“Oh, jeez. I was just kidding.” Nicky had mentioned two weeks earlier that the nameless, childless fifty-two-year-old divorcee she’d been seeing in Cleveland had finally told her that she should “do what she needed to do in New York” and wished her all the best.“You told me not to embarrass you, and I didn’t, right? The soup was good. Everyone liked it, just like I said.”

She was right. I knew she was. But the truth was, I still didn’t want her here.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t sleepanynights. From my bed, I stared in the darkness at the armoire, knowing it contained the urn that contained Adam. The medical examiner’s office could only keep him so long, and then the funeral home they suggested needed a final answer, too. We couldn’t even have a memorial, not without Ethan, and so I had done what sounded like the simplest thing. Adam always was practical.

Now Adam’s “cremains” were in an urn, where they would stay until Ethan and I could go out together on a kayak to watch the sunset and spread them on the water. In the meantime, I couldn’t even put the urn on display, because I was terrified that Panda was going to knock the container over. The cat was still getting adjusted to life in East Hampton, where we had relocated to be closer to Ethan’s detention center.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time I gave up, got out of bed, and went looking for my briefcase. My assistant had forwarded a pile of mail from the office.

The fourth envelope I opened was a sympathy card from London, signed by Carol and Roger Mercer, the in-house counsel for the Gentry Group.

I picked up my iPad from my nightstand, opened my contacts, and started a new email message to Carol:

Dear Carol and Roger, thank you so much for keeping me in your thoughts. I’m sure it’s proper etiquette to say I’m doing fine under the circumstances, but the truth is, it’s been a struggle. I know this is an odd question, but, Roger, do you know if Adam had any meetings relating to the Gentry Group last May? I find myself trying to piece together every minute of his last days. Anything you know would help. With love, Chloe

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