Confidential(99)

I text Lucy.

Hi, stranger! Hope you’re doing well. I’m moving back to Miami and I’d love to see you before I go.

And I’ve got the scoop on Greer and Michael. You’re not going to believe this.





CHAPTER 81





GREER


These days, I spend almost all my time nesting. I sit in the rocking chair in the nursery, singing to my unborn child. He’s healthy and beautiful. The ultrasound has been blown up and framed and, in profile, he looks like his daddy.

Yes, it’s a boy. That particular instinct had been wrong.

My instinct about Michael was right, though. He made mistakes, and he was flawed, but he did a lot of good in the world, too, and he was ready to change, and he loved me. I still listen to his voice mail at least once a day, and I can hear it in his voice. I can hear the man he was becoming and the life we would have had together. It breaks my heart and restores it at once, which is very complicated, much like Michael was. Much like I am.

I still miss him and the vision of what we could have had, but this way, I’ll have full control. I’ll get to tell my little boy any story I want. Like I can say that his father was a hero. He helped people. Disturbed people. And one of them killed him.

I visit the police regularly to remind them that Michael’s case is important and he still needs justice. The detective hates me because I went over his head after all his harassment, but he has to do his damn job. The last time I saw him, he stared pointedly at my belly, and I stared right back. I’ve got nothing to hide but no reason to share unnecessarily, either.

It was crazy, running into Flora yesterday. I’ve been so sure she was the one, and now . . . I don’t know. The fact that she’s still so obviously grieving for him doesn’t rule her out, but there was just something about her.

So that leaves . . .

It’s ironic that my attempt to exact vengeance backfired. Flora seemed so much more peaceful and so much more likable than she had at dim sum. Getting fired suits her. Since I wasn’t about to get my hands truly dirty, not with my baby to consider, I’d thought that the least I could do for Michael was use my contacts over at Flora’s company to get her ousted for unethical conduct. So what if I had to invent the actual charges; I’d believed the underlying accusation. That Flora’s a loathsome human being. A murderer.

I’d thought she was getting off too easy, that it wasn’t an eye for an eye, it was an eye for a pinkie toe. But maybe I was wrong.

It could all be for the best, though. She’ll go take care of her cousin, and I’ll never have to run into her again. San Francisco will be all mine.

But does this mean that Lucy . . . ?

Now that I think about it, I really had tunnel vision about Flora. She’d just been so flamboyant in her rage. But it’s too obvious. Lucy’s the much more obvious candidate.

I’ll have to hire someone to follow her, see what he can find out. I can’t be going on stakeouts like Flora did, not in my condition.

I need to keep my focus where it belongs, on my baby. He’s all I have left of Michael, and I’ll cherish them both. But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up on justice.





CHAPTER 82





LUCINDA


I should have turned off my phone; I’m in a business meeting here. But I’m still not used to that whole idea.

And I definitely shouldn’t have glanced at the texts because now I’m thinking about Michael, which I try to do as little as possible. I’ve become quite good at it. He didn’t teach me compartmentalization (he might even think that was avoidance or denial or some unhealthy defense mechanism), but he doesn’t get to weigh in on my life anymore.

I sneak another look at the text. Nothing in there says that there’s been a development in the investigation. That’s what I think about most. I want to make sure my mother doesn’t get punished for what she did. She’s a hero, in my book.

As far as I know, the investigation stalled out. Detective Plath brought me in a couple more times. I think he expected me to break. But I’m stronger than I gave myself credit for, and really, that’s what my memoir is about.

I changed my book from fiction to nonfiction at the advice of my literary agent. My incredibly high-powered literary agent, that is. It’s turned out it’s much more marketable as a memoir than a novel, especially given the weird true-crime angle about the therapist who abused his power and then wound up dead.

I didn’t break through all of that, though I have to admit, some moments over the past three months have been touch and go. Fortunately, I had my mother there for it. I moved back into the river house with her, after a whole lot of cleanup. Not just the dust and garbage but all reminders of Adam got purged. She cooks and bakes for me and just generally looks after me, and I do the same for her, minus the cooking and baking. It’s felt good, like we get a do-over.

The detective never even asked me about Mom. And she must have done an amazing job on the crime scene, so there’s no physical evidence she was ever there. I’m pretty sure we’re in the clear.

The fact is, I’m in the clear because I didn’t do anything wrong, except pick the wrong man. I did it twice, and they’re both dead. I’m the survivor.

I need to pay attention. My editor is telling me what I need to revise. She thinks I really need to focus on the ending, on the uplift. She tells me, “You’re going to be an inspiration to so many young women.”