Lies She Told(52)

David pats me on the back, happy, I think, that I am finally as broken up about his friend as he has been. “God, Liza, his face was barely recognizable, just this waterlogged . . .” I feel his body tremble beside me, as though an electric current has been applied. The cops tortured David with these details. Why would they get so graphic? What could they hope to gain?

“His skull was destroyed. He might have been alive when—”

I put up a hand, unable to swallow any more gory details.

My racing heartbeat resounds in my head. “I don’t get why the police told you all this.”

“I don’t know.” David stands. I look up long enough to see him walk from the couch to the curtains. He pulls back the heavy fabric. A long rectangle of light from the neighboring building breaks in, bathing my husband’s button-down and suit pants in a white glow. I can’t stand to see that halo.

“I don’t understand who would do this. I mean, the savagery . . .” David gasps. “The hate they had to have . . .” A sob cuts off his words. I peer from beneath my lowered lids at him, trying to see his expression without taking in the light. His body shudders and shakes as though he dove into a cold ocean. I have never seen my husband cry this hard.

“Why would they show you the photos?” I mumble the question, unable to silence my inner monologue with the throbbing in my temples.

He rubs his hands back and forth over his bald head. “For all I know, I’m a suspect.”

“What reason would you have to hurt Nick?”

“I don’t know!” He whirls on me like an angry dog. “I don’t have a fucking clue! I don’t even own a gun. I had no reason to want Nick dead. He was my friend. The best man at our wedding.”

I recall Detective Campos’s line of questioning. “Do the police think you and Nick had disagreements about the firm?”

David shakes his head in disgust. “I don’t know, Liza. I do know that without Nick, our biggest clients might leave. So you tell me. Why on Earth would the police think I’d hurt my friend?”

If I were writing a book, I could invent a variety of reasons. Nick was stealing money from the firm and David found out. David had messed up a case and Nick was blackmailing him. Nick planned to leave and take their best accounts. As I consider motives, needles stab into my forehead, forcing my eyes shut. In the blackness, I see the empty space in the lockbox. A horrifying thought flares in my brain. It consumes the oxygen in my lungs. Suddenly, I’m gasping. Choking.

David killed Nick with my gun.

Fear wrests open my eyes. I watch David step from the window and survey the room, scanning for evidence. His red, tear-stained face looks wracked with guilt. “The police always spend the first part of an investigation leaning on those closest to the deceased. That’s probably all this is. They might come here at some point.” His index finger shoots toward me, accusing me of wrongdoing. “If they do, demand a warrant and call me. They’ll probably have one since they know I’d have any search overturned in court otherwise. Still, ask. If they don’t give you anything, make sure you tell them, ‘I do not consent to this search.’ Okay? Those exact words.”

My head swims with the migraine and the realization that I may be married to a murderer. Memorizing anything is too much. I drop my forehead onto my thighs. Bile sears my throat. I swallow it along with any idea of revealing that I know my gun is missing. I don’t want David to think that I suspect him or, worse, to confess anything to me. Ignorance is bliss. Whatever he did, I don’t want to find out for certain. I don’t want to know anything at all.

“Say it, Liza!”

His volume startles the words from me. “I do not consent to this search.”

“Good. Good.” David is pacing. I hear his shoes against the hardwood. Three steps right, turn, three steps left. “By the way, I was looking for a note Nick sent. Um, for a case . . .”

His tone has changed from angry to distracted. He’s trying to hide the importance of this note. Does it show a motive for him to kill Nick? I don’t want to know. I mentally repeat the words like a silent prayer. I don’t want to know. God, I don’t want to know.

“I have to go the office. If they come, call me.”

It must be after midnight. Maybe after one. What is so important in the office?

It’s an effort to raise my head. I see that David’s briefcase is in his hand. Despite the dim lighting, the room is far too colorful. My gut is clenching. I need the bathroom. “But—”

“Liza. Whatever you do, don’t say anything to the police, okay? Spousal privilege. Tell them you’re invoking spousal privilege.”

I can’t answer.

“Liza, say spousal privilege.”

My stomach does a last somersault. I wretch and cover my mouth, running to the toilet before the next spasm spews the contents onto the floor. The front door slams as I hurl over the bowl.





Chapter 13

Jake answers the door before I can put my key into the lock. He’s showered and dressed for work, though he’s not wearing a tie, socks, or shoes. It’s past noon. Dark circles swell beneath his lower lids. Last night, apparently, was not a restful one. Welcome to the club.

As I enter with Vicky, he tries to reach into the stroller. I push my baby past him into the apartment, knocking his arm away with the bassinet’s sunshade. Victoria fell asleep ten minutes ago. He cannot play daddy now and wake her because it’s convenient for him. Besides, she’s played already. Vicky stayed awake the whole boat ride back to the city and during the lengthy stroll through the chain of parks and piers lining the Hudson River en route to our condo. Her navy eyes had observed everything. She’d been so engaged, I’d even taken her to play on the lawn outside Chelsea Piers. As I’d swept her bare feet over the blades of grass, she’d gurgled an openmouthed infant laugh. Neither of us had been in a hurry to return home.