Final Girls(51)

That’s because my phone has been turned off the whole time I’ve been home. By now the texts, emails and missed calls are probably stacked so high I’ll never be able to sort through them.

His hands now free, Jeff pulls me into a hug. “How are you doing?”

“She’s fine,” Coop says dryly.

Jeff nods at him—the first overt acknowledgment that he’s even in the room. He turns to me. “Are you?”

“I’m surprised,” I say. “And upset. And angry.”

“Of course you are. It’s shocking news. Poor Lisa. They know who did it, right?”

I shake my head. “They don’t know who or why. All they know is how.”

Jeff, refusing to let me go, turns to Coop again. My head remains against his chest, turning involuntarily with him. “I’m glad you were here with them, Franklin. I’m sure it was a big comfort to Quinn and Sam.”

“I only wish I could do more,” Coop says.

“You’ve already done so much,” Jeff says. “Quinn is lucky to have you in her life.”

“And you,” I tell Jeff. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

I press myself deeper into Jeff’s chest, his tie slick on my cheek. He mistakes it for distress, which I suppose it is, and holds me tighter. I let myself be held, turning inward, Jeff’s body edging across my field of vision, eclipsing the image of Coop staring at me from across the kitchen.

Later, Jeff and I watch another film noir in bed. Leave Her to Heaven, with Gene Tierney as an obsessive, murderous bride. So beautiful. So damaged. When the movie is over, we watch the 11 o’clock news until a story about Jeff’s case comes on. The police union held a press conference with the dead cop’s widow, urging stiffer penalties for those convicted of crimes against officers. Before Jeff can grab the remote and switch off the TV, I get a split-second glance of the widow’s face. It’s pale, deeply creased, smudged with sorrow.

“I wanted to see that,” I say.

“I thought you’d want a break from bad news.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Just like Sam’s fine. And Coop’s fine.”

Coop left minutes after Jeff arrived, mumbling excuses about the long drive back to Pennsylvania. A clearly subdued Sam spent most of dinner trying to avoid the need to speak. And I remained mad, despite the Xanax and the baking and probably half the box of wine. I still am, hours later. It’s an irrational, all-encompassing anger. I’m mad at everything and nothing. I’m mad at life.

“I know this is hard on you.”

“You don’t have any idea,” I say.

That’s more than anger talking. It’s the stone-cold truth. Jeff doesn’t know what it’s like to have one of only two people just like you snatched from this earth. He doesn’t know how sad and scary and confusing that feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I don’t. I never will. But I do understand that you’re angry.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“You are.” Jeff pauses. I tense up, knowing he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “And since you’re already mad, I might as well tell you that I have to go back to Chicago again.”

“When?”

“Saturday.”

“But you were just there.”

“The timing sucks, I know,” Jeff says. “But a new character witness has come forward.”

I look at the television’s blank screen, still picturing the face of that cop’s widow.

“Oh,” I say.

“The guy’s cousin,” Jeff continues, even though I have no desire to hear about his client’s character. “He’s a pastor. The two of them grew up together. Got baptized together. It could really help his defense.”

I flip onto my side and face the wall. “He killed a cop.”

“Allegedly,” Jeff says.

I think about Coop. What if he had been gunned down by this guy? Or what if Jeff’s client had murdered Lisa? Would I still have to pretend to be happy some niceties from a preacher cousin could reduce his sentence? No, I wouldn’t. Yet Jeff seems to expect exactly that.

“You do know that, in all likelihood, he’s guilty, right?” I say. “That he shot that detective just like everyone says he did.”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” Jeff says, matching me in testiness. “It doesn’t matter what he’s been accused of. He deserves as good a defense as anyone else.”

“But do you think he did it?”

I sit up slightly, peering over my shoulder at Jeff. He’s still on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He blinks once, and I can see the truth in that swift flutter of his eyelids. He knows his client is guilty.

“It’s not like I’m some expensive criminal defense attorney,” he says, as if that makes it slightly better. “I’m not getting rich from defending obvious murderers. I’m upholding a cornerstone of the American justice system. Everyone has that right to a fair trial.”

“What if you were assigned to defend someone really bad?” I say as I flop back onto my side, unable to look at him.