Girls Like Us(69)

“I need to stay in Suffolk County. Just for a little while.”

He gives me a look of exasperation. “Nell—”

“There are just a few things left to do. A few days, tops. I’ll be back at my desk next week.”

“Nice try. You still need to do the evaluation. And I’m sure Maloney’s going to be thrilled when he hears about what you’ve been up to.”

“Oh, fuck Maloney. Tell him there’s no point in having me on leave. I end up working, anyway.”

“Sarah’s worried about you. She wanted to come see you.”

“She’s got enough going on. I’ll give her a call when I get out of this place.”

“Where will you go? You can’t stay at your dad’s house.”

I shrug. “It’s my house now. It’s time to pack it up and say goodbye.”





28.



Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

My hammer hits a nail square on, pinning another shingle to the roof. The row is finished. Just three more to go.

I sit back on my haunches, admiring my handiwork. When I began this project a week ago, I thought I’d just cover the leaks and replace the rot. I found the work enjoyable, almost meditative. I didn’t want to stop. It’s hard, certainly. I do it in small bits, an hour or two at a time. When I see the new shingles, when I hold them in my hand and feel their clean, straight edges and their heft, twice as dense as the old ones, I can’t help but think the whole damn roof needs replacing. I have the time. I like saving the money. And I really enjoy the view. From up here, I can see over the dunes to the ocean. On a clear day, I can see past the looming arc of the Ponquogue Bridge all the way to the rocky point of Shinnecock County Park.

As it turns out, I’m pretty good at home repairs. Once I was released from the hospital, I got a contractor to put in new windows, but I fixed the boiler and the fridge on my own. Next, I want to tackle the deck. The stairs creak and the railing isn’t sturdy. Lightman tells me I should hire someone to do the outside work, especially now that it’s getting so cold. But I enjoy being outside. It’s like physical therapy for my shoulder. Every day, I feel myself getting stronger.

Before I returned home, Lightman made sure that any trace of Lee’s car was removed. The driveway was repaired, new gravel filled it. There is still a shallow indent where the explosion occurred. I want to leave it that way. I think about him every time I see it.

I haven’t yet decided what to do with the house. Maybe I’ll list it in the New Year. For now, I’m content to live in it as I fix it up. As Dr. Ginnis says, I’m taking it one day at a time. I speak to him most mornings, usually for longer than either of us expect. He tells me that he’ll sign my medical evaluation form whenever I’m ready to go back. For the time being, he isn’t pushing me. Neither is Lightman.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

I have just started another row of shingles when I hear a car pulling into the driveway. I stand up, shield my eyes from the late afternoon light. Sarah Patel emerges from a gray sedan. She wears black jeans and motorcycle boots, just like the first time I met her.

“Sarah!” I call out. I wave when she looks up.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be in bed! What the hell are you doing up there?”

“Just a little home repair.” I laugh. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

We hug by the front door. After a few seconds, she pulls back, holding me at arm’s length.

“Well, we obviously need to fatten you up. But all things being equal, you look pretty good.”

“You, too. You didn’t need to come. You must be exhausted.”

She makes a face. “Oh, please. I’ve been meaning to visit you for weeks. But this investigation . . . well, you know. You really opened Pandora’s box, my friend.”

“Come sit. I want to hear all about it. First, though, I have something for you.”

In the living room, I set a log on the andirons and light a fire. We settle on the couch, Sarah on one end with her boots off and her feet tucked up beneath her, me on the other with a blanket draped across my waist. The fire crackles, filling the room with light and heat.

I take off the cross from around my neck and hand it to her. “This belonged to Adriana Marques. She’s wearing it in the photos my dad took of her.”

She turns it over, examining it. “It’s lovely,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t understand why I want her to have it.

“It’s a recording device.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, amazed.

“I didn’t realize at first, either. But it kept bothering me: why did Dad have it? Last night, it occurred to me: of course. She was recording all of her meetings for him. Look here.” I point at a small gold ball at the back, no bigger than a pinhead. “This is it.”

“Wow. Thank you. I will get this to the team as soon as possible.” She tucks it into her bag. Then she hands me a folder. “I have something for you, too.”

“What’s this?”

“Film stills of one of Meachem’s parties. From the video footage inside his Palm Beach home. Some heavy hitters in attendance.”

I open it and start to flip through them. I whistle. “You’re not kidding. Half of Washington is at this one.”