Good as Dead(42)

I counted out the Vicodin, then lined them up like little soldiers on the plate. There were eighteen, not seventeen. They must have given me one extra by mistake. I figured nine or ten would do the trick, but I’d take as many as I could get down.

I didn’t write a note, what was there to say? The only person on this earth I cared about would know why I was doing this. Between Logan and Evan, she would build a life not weighed down by me.

I took the pills one at a time.

Then went upstairs to my bed to wait for death.





EVAN


Three months ago

I didn’t know the first thing about buying a house.

I knew how it worked, of course. Find one that’s available, make an offer, put down a deposit, go into escrow, have an inspection. I knew how to do all of that. I just didn’t know how to choose a house, especially one that wasn’t for me.

I lived in a beachfront condo. When you grow up in New England surrounded by woods, the idea of seeing the ocean every day is irresistible. I had underground parking, a doorman, twenty-four-hour concierge service—it was more like a hotel than a home. But it worked for me, and was low maintenance. I didn’t have to worry about cutting the grass or who was going to get my mail when I had business out of town, the HOA took care of everything. I didn’t pick it to impress potential girlfriends, but on the rare occasion I brought one home it did the trick.

But I wasn’t shopping for a cool pad with curb appeal this time. I was shopping for a home. It had to be someplace a family would live—warm and inviting, a place to create memories and feel safe.

I thought about my childhood house. It was barely more than a mobile home, with its leaky aluminum windows and slick vinyl floors. But my mom did her best to make it feel cozy. She sewed curtains from retired bedspreads and disguised our cheap living room furniture with afghans she crocheted herself. But the thing that really made it feel like a home was the food. There was always something cooking on the stove. When I came home from school, I went straight to the kitchen. Most of our “How was your day?” conversations happened when I was burrowing in the refrigerator and Mom was standing over a pot of soup.

My condo was vastly superior to the creaky tract home of my childhood, but it always just felt like a place to live. It had a gourmet kitchen, but I rarely used it. My built-in Sub-Zero was stocked with beer and bottled water. I had a Thermador six-burner range, but I didn’t cook, and nobody had cooked for me since I was in high school. A home-cooked meal is an expression of love, and twenty years is a long time to go without one.

I started my house search on a real estate site to get a sense of what was available in the neighborhood Holly liked, and what it would cost. I had intended to just skim through the listings, but house hunting—even for someone else—was unexpectedly addicting. As I scrolled through pictures of lush yards, sparkling pools, and expansive master suites, I slipped into fantasies of living there myself. Of course it was absurd—it was just me, what did I need with a four-bedroom house? I barely used the extra bedroom in my condo. Occasionally I had friends in from out of town, but mostly I used the neatly made four-poster bed as a staging area for contracts when I was working on a complicated case.

Holly said she only needed two bedrooms, but even the smallest houses in the neighborhood she liked had three or four, with at least as many bathrooms. I didn’t want her to have to deal with aging plumbing or outdated air-conditioning, so I limited my search to new construction or recently remodeled. She wouldn’t have the wherewithal to replace a leaky roof, so whatever I got needed to have a new one.

I knew the house the moment I saw it. It was elegant but romantic, with beguiling gables and swirls of flowers hugging the front walk. It wasn’t new, but the previous owners had completely gutted it, installing new everything—floors, windows, light fixtures, appliances. It was a “smart home,” which meant it was wired with sensors that would alert the alarm company, and ultimately me, if she left the garage door open or if a smoke alarm went off. I had no intention of spying on Holly, but we were paying for the house—if someone was climbing through an open window, or the sprinklers stayed on for hours on end, I needed to know about it.

But what sealed the deal for me was the kitchen. When I’d asked Holly what kind of house she wanted, she’d mentioned two things: Calabasas neighborhood and a cook’s kitchen. She wanted a kitchen she could make dinner in, she’d told me, because she cooked every night. The oven needed to be “decent,” she’d said, because she also liked to bake. This kitchen had two ovens, both brand-new and top-of-the-line.

I called the agent and arranged for a tour. It cost more than I had intended to spend, but I didn’t want a house with problems. If something’s a bargain there’s usually a reason, and I couldn’t afford to run back and forth fixing things. Plus I wanted her to have something nice. I thought she’d earned that. That I liked the house was irrelevant. Because she would never invite me over. Once I handed her the keys, I would likely never go inside it again.

I took the tour, then immediately made a cash offer.

I don’t know why I was excited when they accepted it, I wasn’t going to live there.

I had a perfectly nice place to live, but I suddenly realized I wanted more. Not just a home. But also someone to come home to.

But it wasn’t my time to dream. I would give Holly the home she deserved. Then go back to my HOA and Sub-Zero full of beer.