Lies She Told(59)

My husband is going grief (or guilt) crazy. I love this man. I don’t want to know which one. “Hey, I’ll help you look, okay? Just tell me what it is we’re searching for.”

My offer only makes things worse. “No. I got this.” He sniffs. “Um, what have you been up to?”

I consider whether or not to tell him. Will learning that his best friend was gay make things worse? Or will he be relieved to know that police are exploring a theory about Nick’s death that doesn’t involve him?

I choose my words carefully. “My contact at the police academy spoke to the detectives on the case. They’re looking into a woman who was following Nick. Apparently, he’d gone to a bar by his apartment before he went missing and some upset lady was asking after him.”

David’s chin retracts toward his neck, a turtle retreating into his shell. He may not be ready for this revelation.

I take a deep breath. “The bar was a gay bar, babe. I know you probably won’t believe this, but the bartender said that Nick went there often on dates—with men. He was homosexual.”

David’s expression relaxes. He should be shocked. Protesting.

“Wait, did you know already?”

He clears his throat. “He came out last year.”

I notice a new tension between my temples, as though a rubbery sinew is being pulled to its breaking point. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Why would I? Nick’s sexuality was his private business.”

“I tried to set him up with friends.” I rub my temples, trying to stop the tugging. “You could have at least mentioned that I was wasting my time and my friends’ ti—”

“I always told you not to bother with Christine, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“But he couldn’t have only been gay. Nick had girlfriends. That one with the pixie cut. That mod-looking girl.”

David shrugs. “They were friends. Just friends. Coming out was hard for him. He didn’t want to be labeled.”

“It’s not taboo to gay.” The rubber band snaps. A jackhammer starts trying to break open my skull from the inside. I stride to the couch, my eyes in slits, and slump down on top of one of David’s suit jackets.

“The world isn’t New York City, Liza.” I can’t see David’s expression, but I imagine that he looks annoyed from his tone. “You think everyone is accepting because you’re a progressive elitist who grew up in the Hamptons, went to an Ivy League university, and then settled in Manhattan. For you, sexual orientation is like hair color, right? Change it every week if you want. No one gives a shit.” David releases some of his normally well-covered Texas accent. He’s spent so long trying to sound like an Upper Midwest news anchor that I know he must be upset. “Nick was from fucking Mississippi, a pray-the-gay-away state. His parents raised him to think something was fundamentally wrong with homosexuals.”

I peek between my fingers to see David scowling at me. “He was thirty-eight and he lived here, though. A stone’s throw away from Stonewall. I mean, gay marriage is legal now.”

I cradle my aching forehead in my palm and force my head back to look at my husband. He is staring at me like the bartender from earlier. The expression says, Are you really this stupid? “The ink on the marriage law is still wet, and there are plenty of people out there who want to erase it. They think being gay is like a psychological dise—”

A knock interrupts. David’s head snaps toward the foyer. He is not expecting anyone.

The sound comes again, three short raps and a word that I can’t hear over the heartbeat in my head. David walks toward the exit, arms hanging stiff by his thighs. I brace myself for whoever is on the other side of the door.

“Mr. Jacobson, Detective Campos.”

I force my knees to straighten and hoist myself from the couch. The detective from yesterday stands in the doorway with a piece of paper in his hands, which he passes to my husband. I squint to see it through my headache haze. There’s a government seal on the top.

“I don’t consent to this search,” I shout.

David shoots a scowling glance over his shoulder. Wasn’t that what he wanted me to say? I’m disoriented from the events of the past thirty-six hours and my pounding brain. I’m not sure that I can trust the images in front of me.

Behind Detective Campos are two uniformed cops. They stand in the hallway, thumbs in the pockets of their suit pants, leaning back on their heels as though they have all the time in the world for David to scrutinize the document—as though, no matter what my husband does, they will be coming into our home.

I hover behind David in the doorway, reading the warrant over his shoulder. It doesn’t say much. It includes our names and address. A superior court judge whose signature I’d never be able to transcribe has signed the lower half of the document. The officers have permission to search the premises for evidence as well as seize any firearms and locked gun boxes.

The hairs stand up on my limbs like a sudden burst of static. They want my Ruger! But it’s not here. I don’t know where David put it.

“Everything checks out,” Detective Campos says.

David hands back the warrant. He rubs beneath his nose like the men in the hallway have activated an allergy. “May I see the affidavit?”

Campos pats his pockets for show. “It’s with the court clerk.”