A Good Marriage(109)
A: Yes.
Q: Sexual intercourse?
A: Yes.
Q: You’ll need to speak up. We can’t hear you, Mr. Abruzzi.
A: Yes.
Q: Do you have children, Mr. Abruzzi?
A: What does that have to do with anything? Are you trying to make me feel like a bad person?
Q: Can you answer the question, please?
A: Yes. They weren’t at the party, obviously. And they don’t know anything about it. Trust me. People are discreet. Except for this, here, now. No one ever talks about it afterward.
Q: Do these children go to Brooklyn Country Day?
A: Yes.
Q: Is that how you know Maude Lagueux?
A: We know Sarah and Kerry. My wife met Sarah at the PTA. Kerry and I are friends, too. Sebe, Kerry, and I go out sometimes to concerts. I’m big into indie bands. But Kerry wasn’t there that night. He texted me, looking for Sebe.
Q: What time was it that you went upstairs to have sexual intercourse with Jessica Kim?
A: Do you have to keep saying it like that?
Q: Like what?
A: Never mind. I think it was like 9:30 or 10:00 p.m. Sometime in there.
Q: Did you see anyone on your way upstairs? Somebody on the stairs?
A: Oh, um, yeah, there was a woman behind us. But I didn’t know her.
Q: I’m going to show you a photograph, Mr. Abruzzi.
(Counsel approaches witness with a photograph, previously marked as People’s Exhibit 6.)
Q: Is this the woman you saw on the steps?
A: Yes.
Q: Let the record reflect that Mr. Abruzzi has identified Mrs. Grayson as the woman he saw going up the stairs on the night in question.
A: If this is all secret, why is there a transcript?
Q: For the record, Mr. Abruzzi. That’s all. One last question. You said someone was looking for Sebe Lagueux. Did you happen to notice where Mr. Lagueux was while you were upstairs?
A: Yes.
Q: Where was that?
A: In a room with Mrs. Grayson.
Lizzie
JULY 11, SATURDAY
I didn’t hear Sam come in, but there he was in the bedroom doorway. He looked around at his scattered clothes, his bright eyes dimmed by sadness. But he also did not seem especially surprised. I’d torn our apartment apart, looking for more evidence. I’d opened every cabinet and every drawer, felt for something suspicious between Sam’s T-shirts, and thrown his socks all over the floor. I was shaking the whole time, a wordless howl roaring inside my head.
I lifted the earring off the bed next to me, my eyes so raw from crying they felt about to bleed. “This belongs to Amanda Grayson.” I shook the dangling earring. “She was wearing it the night she died.”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, then leaned back against the wall opposite me. I braced myself for his threadbare excuses, his well-worn defense. I wondered whether I could listen to any of it without launching at him. I could already feel my fingernails digging into his pretty face.
He looked down.
Say something, Sam. Fucking say something.
“You knew her.” It was a statement, not a question. I couldn’t bear to ask any more questions.
Sam looked up, eyes wide. “No. I didn’t know her.” He sounded panicky as his eyes darted back down. “I mean, not that I know of.”
“Why do you not seem surprised that you had her earring, then?” My heart was beating so hard, it was making my head ache.
“I am surprised that’s her earring,” he stammered back. “But I—Once you told me that a woman from the neighborhood was dead, I went and read about it. I have a memory of being on a bench along Prospect Park West that night. Just like a flash. I think it might have been in front of that little playground that’s near Montgomery Place. Isn’t that where her house was?”
“What the hell are you saying?” I asked.
“I’m saying: I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand.” My voice was high now, even more panicked than Sam’s. It felt like the room was running out of air. “If you didn’t know her, how could you have possibly ended up at her house? How could you have gotten her earring?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there, frozen, eyes locked on the pile of clothes on the floor. Then, suddenly, he started to pace, back and forth, like some kind of frightened animal. Stop, Sam, I pleaded in my head. Please stop. But I was too afraid to say a word.
“I don’t think I knew her,” he said finally, continuing to stalk back and forth. “But I do think maybe I’d seen her before, at Blue Bottle.”
“Blue Bottle? What’s that?”
“It’s a café.”
“Not around here, it’s not.” The bile was creeping back up my throat.
“It’s in Center Slope,” he said. “Also not that far from where she lives. I saw a picture of her—I think maybe I did see her a couple times at Blue Bottle, reading there, while I was working.”
“Since when do you work at some café in Center Slope?” I snapped. “You hate Center Slope!”
“I needed a change of scenery,” he said, defensive. “I didn’t tell you because I felt guilty spending extra money on fancy coffee. Anyway, I don’t know for sure that it was her, but she was, um, striking. Similar to the woman who was killed.”