Page 49 of The Better Sister

Olivia held up both palms. “I appreciate the enthusiasm—both of you—but if it looks like you’re willing to say anything to save your son, it makes all our witnesses look like liars, which makes Ethan look guilty. And, Nicky, I can’t suborn perjury. And even if I did let you take the stand and try to confess, they’d destroy you on the stand—with the phone records Chloe mentioned, for example—or they’d just argue that you and Ethan did this together, and he’d get convicted, and you’d be up next. So, forgive my bluntness, but don’t be stupid.”

“What about your promise?” Nicky said. “Where do things stand after today?”

Olivia had promised to be brutally honest if we were losing. “The promise stands, and we’re still good, all right? We have a strategy. We just have to stick to it.”

The strategy was nothing flashy. It was all about reasonable doubt. No murder weapon. No bloody clothes. No DNA.

Before Nicky and I left to head back to East Hampton, I asked Olivia if she had had a chance yet to follow up on my theory about Adam’s purpose in going to Kew Gardens. My initial curiosity about his meetings with the Gentry Group had taken a back seat to Ethan’s defense, but the discovery of an FBI office across the street and a pending investigation against the company had changed all that.

“I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to approach that, but preparing for trial has been the priority.” I took that to mean she hadn’t done anything at all. “Hang tough, okay? I know today didn’t feel great, but we got Guidry on the record admitting they have no physical evidence. It’s not splashy, but that’s the kind of thing that leads to an acquittal. And there’s a long way to go. Go home and try to get some rest.”

I couldn’t rest, not until Ethan came home. It didn’t matter what the prosecution thought. I wasn’t going to turn on him, no matter what.

27

For the next two and a half weeks, the drive between the courthouse in Riverhead and the house in East Hampton became our shared commute. I tended to drive in the mornings, while Nicky took the wheel on the way home. After a few rounds of arguing about the radio, we adopted the rule that whoever drove controlled the satellite stations. I tended to go for news, light rock, and the ’90s hip-hop channel. She opted for metal, ’80s new wave, and Howard Stern. I had to admit that I ended up liking everything except the metal.

We also fell into a rhythm at the house. Usually I’d pick up stuff from Blue Heron, a former side-of-the-road farm stand that had grown into a posh gourmet market. But I’d learned by now that Nicky was actually a good cook. Whoever chose the menu did the cooking, while the other helped with prep and cleanup.

On this particular Sunday night, I was keeping it simple with roast chicken, haricots verts, and baby potatoes. Less simple was the fact that we had two dinner guests who were out on the East End for the weekend: Catherine and Jake. I had introduced Jake as a friend from Adam’s law firm who had been trying to schedule a time to check in on me for weeks, but I had a feeling Nicky knew precisely who he was to me the second she laid eyes on him.

My suspicions were confirmed after I asked Jake if he could trim the haricots verts while I trussed the chicken and Catherine made refills for our martinis.

“See, I remember back when Chloe called them ‘green beans’ like everyone else in America,” Nicky said. Passing behind me with a bowl of scrubbed potatoes, she whispered in my ear. “Funny how the hot lawyer knew exactly where the cutting board was without being asked.”

“Nicky,” I said loudly, “maybe since I have these helpful minions in the kitchen, you could consider taking down all those Halloween decorations from the front porch.”

“Party pooper.” One of the items she had hung by the door was a motion-detector vampire that cackled and wiggled each time you passed. It was a week from Thanksgiving, and I was still jumping every time I walked out of my house. “I confess I’m better about putting things up than taking them down.”

“You’re going to be one of those crazy old ladies who has her Christmas tree up all year-round.”

“Knock it off with the crazy old lady jokes,” Catherine said, handing me a refreshed martini. “I consider them hate speech.”

I heard a chime come from Jake’s cell phone, which was faceup on the kitchen counter. The number on the screen was one of only ten or fifteen that I would have recognized from memory—the central switchboard for theNew York Times. He must have recognized it, too, because he set down the paring knife he was using, said he had to take the call, and slipped out the sliding doors to the back deck.

“Hmm,” Nicky mused, wiggling her fingers. “Take over bean duty or destroy all scary, happy things on the front of your house?”

“Removal of all the fun, please,” I said, adding a sad trombone sound for effect.

Catherine watched as Nicky trudged off to the front door with the step stool from the pantry. “You two seem to actually be getting along.”

I shrugged and took a big sip of gin that I knew I’d regret in the morning.

“And to think, last summer you were saying there was no way you could keep her under the same roof with you for the whole trial.”

I avoided her gaze as I cut off a two-foot-long piece of cooking string and began to tie the chicken in a neat, tight tuck. “That was before I realized she’s the only one who understands how scared I am.”

When Jake came back inside, he allowed his arm to brush against mine as he spread the thin, bright beans in a single layer across a baking sheet. I shot him a warning look, but when my eyes connected with his, I realized how much I wanted to be able to be here with him like we were a normal couple.

“So was that theTimes?” I asked.

“Invasion of privacy much?” he said with a smile.

I recited the number from memory. “Same number that popped up every time they called me for a quote.” I spoke in the past tense because, these days, no one called except about Ethan’s trial, and I referred all the media to Olivia.

“Just a reporter,” he said.

“About Ethan?” No matter the context, my fears for him were always lurking just beneath the surface.

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