Page 78 of The Better Sister

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softening. “That must have been hard for you. My point is that you did what you needed to do to help Ethan. I will never breathe a word of this to anyone else, mind you, but I don’t believe for one moment that you told Jake that Adam had raised his hands to you. If you had, the police would have found Adam very much alive, but with two black eyes and a broken nose he’d have to explain. You said what you had to say to protect your son.”

I took another sip of my drink.

“I know, I know,” he said, waving his free hand. “Don’t say anything, one way or another. I’m just an old man running my trap. But I do want to say one more thing: even Jake understands the situation you were in. He loves you, you know.”

I looked down. This was going to be even harder than I had thought. “That’s not possible,” I said. “Not anymore.”

“I can see it. He’s different now. The light I saw in him—I realize now it was because of what he had with you. And it’s gone now. He misses you. You should call him, down the road, when the time is right.”

I reminded myself he was only pretending to care about Jake’s happiness. Just like I had allowed a jury to wonder if Jake was a killer, Bill had allowed Olivia and the press to suggest that Jake was the one responsible for the wrongdoing at the Gentry Group. I knew otherwise.

“That might be a little awkward if Jake ends up getting arrested for whatever Adam was reporting to the government. I don’t need a white-collar criminal in my life right now.”

Bill smiled, and his gaze drifted into the distance.

“I’m not kidding, Bill. Ethan’s defense lawyer said the FBI made it sound like arrests were imminent and that they’re definitely targeting your firm. What if it’s not just Jake? What if they come after you, too?”

“I have absolutely no plans to go to prison.”

“Of course not. I’m just saying, you should be prepared. Maybe you should go ahead and get your own lawyer, in case it happens.”

“I’m eighty-one years old, my dear. Any kind of federal sentence would be a death sentence. Hypothetically, if I thought that was going to happen, it would be lights out. I’ve had a good run.” This clearly wasn’t the first time he had pondered the question, and his answer did not sound hypothetical. “Now, enough with all this paranoid talk about court cases and overzealous FBI agents. Tell me everything you’re doing now that Ethan’s back home.”

For nearly an hour we talked about Nicky and Ethan and the draft of my memoir and even a call from a film agent who was interested in our story. It almost felt like old times with my favorite octogenarian boyfriend.

After our second round of toddies, he headed to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine, but I held up a hand to stop him. “If I go down that road, I won’t be able to drive home. But thank you so much for having me over. You’ve been so wonderful through all of this. I won’t forget it.”

I stood to leave, tucking my fancy martini shaker into my handbag. As he walked to the front closet for my coat, I patted his arm. “You know, I think I need the little girl’s room before I hit the road. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. You know your way around.”

I opted for the en suite bathroom in the guest room. It seemed like a natural enough choice. I had stayed in this room for two nights a couple of years before, when we lost power over New Year’s at our place.

As I ran the water to wash my hands, I pulled the latex glove from my purse and snapped it on. I slid the middle gray wicker bin from the lower shelf of the vanity, the one filled with fresh hand towels. I unwrapped a white, waffle-textured dishcloth from around my father’s Buck knife. I tried not to look at the brick-brown stains at the base of the blade. I placed it at the bottom of the bin and restacked the guest towels on top of it.

I pulled off the glove, stuffed it in my bag, and gave my hands a quick rinse.

When I returned to the foyer, Bill was waiting with my coat, wearing his new cashmere scarf. “What do you think?” he said, tossing one end across his shoulder.

“You’ve still got it, my friend,” I said, stepping into my coat. “That’s what the girls at work call a smoke show.”

“Love it. And I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I said, giving him a final hug.

I drove straight from his house to the police station. I asked if I could leave something for Detective Jennifer Guidry. To my surprise, the clerk made a phone call, and Guidry appeared a few moments later.

I handed her the Redweld file that Adam had hidden in my desk. “I found these when I was cleaning out our home office. They’re about the Gentry Group and Adam’s law firm. I thought you could get them to your FBI contact.”

Olivia had told me that we probably never would have known about Adam cooperating with the FBI if it hadn’t been for Guidry. She opened the file and began flipping through the pages.

“I still don’t know who killed Adam. But there’s enough there to put Bill Braddock away in prison for years. And, oh, you should make sure the FBI knows that Bill keeps files at his house in Amagansett. He works there all the time.”

41

Four Months Later

“You guys sure you want to sell this place?” Ethan was standing in the backyard with his hands on his hips, gazing out at the two acres of woods behind my parents’ old house. “This lot is pretty sick. You could, like, camp back there.”

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