A Good Marriage(97)
Q: Why did he say that?
A: He was in a hurry, too, I guess. I probably was in the way. Like I said, I was drunk.
Q: What happened after that?
A: After that, he shoved me to the side and headed out the front door.
Q: Are you sure that Mr. Grayson left before Amanda left?
A: Yeah, like right before. Because after I saw her, I got up and I went to find the bathroom. I ended up passing out in there for a while on the floor. When my wife found me it was after 10:00 p.m. and she was seriously pissed.
Lizzie
JULY 11, SATURDAY
St. Colomb Falls was farm country, but not the quaint Vermont farms that I’d so loved when Sam and I had been there for his thirtieth birthday. My memories of that weekend had always been of charming red barns and white fences, and Sam and me dancing alone to distant country music in the Echo Lake Inn’s moonlit backyard. But now I’d also remembered how wasted Sam had gotten on Dark and Stormies, sleeping both days until noon. It was as though Sam’s admission about the earring had finally ripped my blinders off, taking the top layer of skin along with them. I could now see every memory for what it was: corrupted by the reality of Sam’s alcoholism. And my pathological willingness to overlook it.
Unlike picturesque Vermont, St. Colomb Falls was filled with working farms, where hundreds of cows were raised for slaughter and chickens were crammed into feather-filled warehouses the length of football fields. It was gritty and dirty and desolate.
The farms were set off the main highway that ran through the center of town, which, it turned out, consisted only of a post office, gas station, Dollar General store, and Norma’s Diner—a rusted metal box that looked like it had been there for decades. On the far side of town, there were occasional signs for hiking trailheads and campgrounds and the Adirondacks, though it was hard to imagine anything remotely recreational or scenic taking place anywhere nearby.
The homes were heavy with wear and tear, the worst downright disintegrating. And why was St. Colomb Falls so empty at ten on a Saturday morning? Like everyone was hiding from some threat about which I was stupidly unaware. I was feeling extra jittery, too, maybe because I’d gotten up so early. In an effort to continue avoiding Sam, I’d left well before dawn. He’d woken anyway, long enough to demand to know where I was going and for me to turn my destination into an attack.
When Xavier Lynch’s house finally appeared ahead on the left, I felt a small wave of relief. The low ranch was the same shape and size as all the others, but it was painted a deep gray with sparkling white trim and a cheerful red door. There were large planters on either side of the small front porch, too, filled with fuchsia and purple flowers. Even the mailbox was painted to match the house with some steel detail. I double-checked the address. Definitely the right house. Of course, Xavier Lynch having a nice house did not make him a good person. But a monster with a well-tended home might be less likely to kill an uninvited lawyer from New York.
All I needed to do in this first visit was to confirm that the person who lived here was, in fact, Xavier Lynch, bonus points if he admitted he was Amanda’s dad. My plan was then to occupy myself somehow until dark. Under cover of night, I’d return to Xavier’s home and quietly rifle through his garbage in search of some things likely to provide fingerprints—a bottle, a can, a plastic fork.
I took a deep breath as I got out of the car and headed up the manicured front walk. I knocked hard on the screen door and waited, bracing myself for the door to snap open, for someone to lead with What the fuck do you want? Or worse, for pain—a hand on my throat, a fist to the jaw.
But the door opened slow and calm, the huge man looming on the other side of the screen the very same, very large Xavier Lynch from the church newsletter. He was even wearing similar khakis and a button-down with the same large, nearly fashionable glasses covering half his big face. A diamond, maybe. These shapes weren’t obvious to me. He was even taller than he’d appeared in the picture, though. Maybe it had been the angle, or that the woman pictured had also been exceptionally tall. Xavier Lynch was bigger than Sam, six foot three or four, and must have been pushing 225 pounds. I suddenly felt very easy to kill.
“Can I help you?” His voice was taut. He looked past me out to the driveway, as though worried I might not be alone.
“My name is Lizzie Kitsakis, and I’m an attorney. I’ve been asked to locate the beneficiaries of a significant financial estate,” I began, sounding—I now realized—like an email scam.
“I’d highly doubt you’re looking for me,” he said, skeptical but not aggressive. “I don’t stand to inherit nothing from nobody.”
He adjusted his glasses then, and in a way that made me wonder if they were just for show. He also opened his door some more—hopefully not to invite me inside. My entire strategy—such as it was—had been predicated on staying in the relative safety of the outdoors.
“Are you Xavier Lynch?” I asked, not moving a step closer.
“I am.” He adjusted his glasses again. Then he slid his hands into the pockets of his pleated pants. There was something so deliberate about each gesture, as if he had carefully studied the steps of a normal-person routine.
“The inheritance is actually in the name of Amanda Lynch. She didn’t leave a will, and under the circumstances, you are her sole heir.”