Page 58 of Bad Summer People
Brian had walked across Bay Promenade, ducking for cover in the gazebo that overlooked the swirling, thrashing bay. He struggled to keep the slippery phone in his hand.
“Thanks, Simon. I’ll just sit tight for now. Keep me posted. What do you think I should tell Lisa? How bad is this going to get?”
“Just stick with your story about a trade gone sour for now. You can tell her the truth when we hear back from the SEC.”
“Okay,” sighed Brian. Lightning flashed.
“Where are you, anyway? The middle of a hurricane?”
“Basically,” said Brian. “I have to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow.” He hurried out of the gazebo, the rain hitting him in the face, then turned up Neptune, passing the playground and field. He could see a few people up ahead, but the darkness hid their faces. Who would be out in this storm?
He heard yelling and walked a few yards, close enough to see the crowd of Jen, Lauren, Sam, and Jason. Lauren shouted—“Jason!”—and Brian watched her ram into her husband at full speed. What the hell? At the same time, a bike went whizzing by. Jason fell back into it, sending the rider off the boardwalk with a sickening crunch. Jen shrieked, and Brian gasped. He should help them, he knew. He was an EMT. Instead, he turned and hurried across Harbor back to Atlantic, where he and Lisa lived.
He slipped inside his house and sat down at his white kitchen table. He couldn’t sleep at all that night. He lay next to Lisa, in her eye mask, snoring softly. She’d been so relaxed lately, given everything. Maybe she was on some new prescription she hadn’t told him about. His chest felt tight. He hoped he wasn’t about to die.
It served him right that he was the first to arrive at the scene. The siren went off early in the morning, after Danny Leavitt found the body. The sound cut through his head like a knife. He knew exactly where to go.
Susan’s body was nestled underneath her bike, her neck at a weird angle. Her face was yellowish, her mouth in a now permanent grimace. Brian thought he might vomit, but he swallowed it, waiting around with the other guys for the ambulance to take her away.
Everyone was already talking about it as an accident, but Brian knew better. He’d thought maybe Sam or Jason would step up, but clearly, that wasn’t going to happen; they’d have called the police right away. Brian wasn’t going to tell. He hadn’t done it, but he didn’t want to get involved. His life was such a mess already, he couldn’t add this.
Earlier tonight, he’d prodded Lauren a bit at the club, trying to get a rise, but she’d remained neutral, more interested in that Robert guy than Brian’s conversation about the woman she’d murdered. Murder, manslaughter, fleeing a crime, whatever, Brian had no idea. He couldn’t wait to get home tomorrow. Being in the city would make him feel more in control. He was going to be fine. Everyone in finance got a second chance.
29Sam Weinstein and Jason Parker
Sam Weinstein thought he might be going crazy. Did no one else care they’d left a woman for dead? Sure, he’d checked her pulse, but Sam wasn’t a doctor—he could barely put a Band-Aid on his kids’ knees. He hadn’t felt anything, no heartbeat pumping through her neck or wrist, but maybe she could have been saved. Maybe if Jen hadn’t forced them to leave the scene of a crime, maybe if Sam had suggested they all just wait a minute, that it was an accident, that they should call the ambulance…
Yes, it wouldn’t have looked great, Sam knew that. What were they all doing out there, Sam with his stupid Japanese knife, no less? But they shouldn’t have justleft.She might be alive now. It was insane that they were all just living their lives, packing up their summer homes, playing tennis as if nothing had happened. It was their fault! Mostly, it was Sam’s fault, he thought, for stalking Jason in the first place. Even though Jason deserved it. That fucking asshole.
He’d mentioned this to Jen, over and over, to the point that every time he started to talk, she walked out of the room. And instead of investigating his marriage, trying to figure out why his wife had cheated on himwith his best friend,he was stuck investigating a death. He had to know, even if it seemed like no one else gave a shit.
He wasn’t speaking to Jason. He wasn’t sure he’d ever speak to him again. Jen was Jen. She was the mother of his children. She lived in his house. She slept in his bed. But Jason he owed nothing. He had to hurt him. He had to get revenge. But what could he do? He’d tried and failedto kill him with a knife. That had been a joke. He’d bungled it so badly that an old lady had died instead. Could he somehow get him fired from his job? Concoct a story like the one Lydia-tits-a-lot made up about him?
Sam contemplated this as he walked to Robert’s house, after convincing Jen to take Robert out for a drink. He was glad he’d visited Rachel, sucking info out of her like a straw. Rachel was probably still lying on her bed, dreaming of him coming back and asking her to marry him. He’d become such a terrible person this summer, he thought, ashamed. What had happened to him? Rachel was his friend.
Sam was sure he’d find something incriminating in Robert’s house. Or at least something to point him in the right direction. Why would Susan run away from Robert? He must have threatened her, or she must have had something on him that he didn’t want anyone to know.
Sam arrived at the house, the itty-bitty place where he used to attend lifeguard parties when he was a teenager. The door was locked, but he knew exactly how to get in—the side window opened easily; they used to prop it up to let out the copious marijuana smoke. He lodged a stick in the small gap at the bottom, jiggling it hard. The window crept up steadily. Sam then lifted himself up and inside Robert’s house, careful to land as softly as possible. He’d never been inside a stranger’s house, alone. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.
First, he went into the bedroom, a little nook off the main living area. The whole place was less than a thousand square feet; it reminded Sam of his college frat house suite. The bed was unmade, and there were tennis clothes on top of the dresser. How old was Robert again? Thirty-two? It was time to grow up.
Sam opened each dresser drawer, shuddering when he reached the underwear. He sifted through the clothes. Then he moved into the kitchen, going through shelves and cabinets, finding only silverware, plates, cups, and the odd mug. The refrigerator was filled with bits and pieces—lettuce, a few beers, raw ground beef, carrots, cucumbers. But nothing looked out of place.
Sam wasn’t sure where to search next. He sat down on the ratty couch, peeking under the pillows, but all he found was dust and old pennies. Heleaned back and looked up. Something caught his eye on the old beams, a notebook or something tucked into the corner, where the triangle of the ceiling closed. He dragged a chair over and reached up on his tiptoes, feeling blindly for the object, grabbing it before nearly falling off the chair. He stumbled down. He was holding Robert’s lesson ledger. He’d seen him scribbling in it, filling hours with people’s names. Sam had been charged by Robert, many times, for Jen’s lessons this summer. She’d been quite liberal with them, at $200 a pop, but Sam had indulged her. Tennis was the only thing that made her happy lately.
He flipped through, noting Robert’s tight, neat handwriting. There was Jen’s name. There was her name again. There was Lauren. There was Lisa. And Beth. And Larry. And Brian. And Myrna. And Sam’s kids. And on and on. Sam was relatively sure he’d hit on the incriminating evidence, though he didn’t know exactly what it meant. He assumed Susan had discovered it. Had she taken the ledger? Is that what Robert was looking for at her house?
It was pretty cheeky of Robert to have pulled the same move as that guy from last year, Dave. Sam took the ledger to the kitchen, continuing to study it. He wasn’t sure what to do now. If he gave it to the police, Robert might get in trouble for stealing, but would immediately give up the others. At least now Sam knew what had happened.
He heard a bump, then a crash. He grabbed a dull butter knife, not knowing what he’d do if he had to use it. And then his wife of ten years stood up. She was still so beautiful, so slim, even after three kids. She’d lied and manipulated him this entire time. Now she had a plan.
Jason Parker felt better than he had in years. He wasn’t sure if it was the clean break with Jen—the idea that he didn’t have to torture himself anymore—or the fact that, knock on wood, he’d gotten away with literal murder. He knew he shouldn’t be happy about a woman’sdeath,he got that. But there was something darkly satisfying about it that pleased him.
He and Lauren had barely spoken about it at all. His wife had an uncanny ability to compartmentalize. He was beginning to think she wasslightly psychotic, with the violent outbursts and unpredictability. But maybe they all were. He’d been sleeping with his best friend’s wife. His best friend had gone after him with a knife. He wasn’t sure that normal people did stuff like that. There was something about Salcombe that teased it out—the intensity, the physical closeness, the fact that they were all competing against each other in sports. Sports! Ridiculous, when you thought about it.
More than Lauren, more than Susan, more than even Jen, Jason had been thinking about Sam. They hadn’t spoken since that night, though they’d nodded and been friendly in social situations: the Labor Day Extravaganza, a cocktail party at the Metzners’, a boys’ ride on Paul Grobel’s motorboat (Paul had worn a Bob Marley T-shirt that Jason desperately wanted to mock, but without Sam, the joke didn’t work). They couldn’t let anyone else know about their rift; they were all pretending nothing had happened.
The funny thing was, now that Sam hatedhim,he felt fonder toward his friend. Sam, golden Sam, was in a rut, just like the rest of them. It made Jason feel closer to him than he had before.
