The Accomplice(94)

Griff poured more wine, against his better judgment. He already felt a headache coming on. “That summer when Owen came back from England,” Griff said, “I asked him about returning to Markham. He was angry at me for suggesting it. He said something about how no one cared what actually happened that night. Then he briefly mentioned Scarlet, how she was dressed the night she died. He knew what shoes she was wearing,” Griff said.

When Luna didn’t respond to that comment, Griff asked, “Did she have only one pair of shoes?”

“Maybe that detail was in an article somewhere,” Luna said.

“No,” Griff said. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t in any article anywhere. I read every last one. He knew she was in a party dress.”

“She always wore miniskirts or dresses,” Luna said.

“On a late-night hike? Why would you assume that? The answer is, you don’t make that assumption. You know it because you saw it. He was there.”

“Griff, I had his phone. I was communicating with her and even I didn’t know where she went. The text was misspelled and basically gibberish.”

“He had a phone in his dorm room, in the hall. There were other ways they could have communicated. How did he know what she was wearing if he didn’t see her?”

“How do you know what he said was right?” Luna asked.

“Because I got the police report.”

“When?”

“After he slipped up,” Griff said. “When I asked him about it, how he knew what she was wearing, it got weird. He looked angry. Like I’d caught him in a lie. That’s when I started to think he did it.”





Irene, 2014


Chantal Boucher eventually came to realize that she’d married a lout. A money-grubbing, medium-talent lothario. But while Leo had been a truly terrible husband, he was an adequate deathbed companion. Near death, Chantal’s sentimentality won out over spite. She simply couldn’t bring herself to leave her husband penniless, though she’d witnessed the way Leo tore through his—and her—income. By all objective standards, Whitman had done well for himself as a young artist. If he’d had any discipline, he would have been comfortable for the rest of his life. Chantal did what she thought was best. She left some funds designated for her husband, making her daughter trustee, unwittingly forcing a lifelong relationship that neither daughter nor husband would have desired.

At first, Irene would just give Leo what he asked for to make him go away. But once that money was gone, then what? He’d keep coming back. Irene started saying no, putting her foot down, forcing Leo to stick with a budget. Once she understood her power over the man, she noticed that wielding it—not abusing but managing it—was satisfying in its way.

When Leo had finished his latest dick-waving sculpture series, he wanted a proper fete for the unveiling. He’d given Irene an itemized budget, expecting to get a nice check in return. Irene told Leo that she’d arrange the party. She wasn’t being punitive or parsimonious. Irene needed more donors for her arts-education nonprofit and knew that Whitman could likely bring in some fat-wallet patrons. Irene borrowed a friend’s seldom-used studio for the gathering. It was a drafty old barn just south of Hudson, New York.

Irene recognized Owen the moment she saw him. He was simply an older, handsomer version of his younger self. Age had blunted his too-feminine features. And he still had that shiny, almost black hair. She’d never forgotten that night, the sex especially. She’d had only three partners up to that point. But that night was special. At least, she thought it was. She thought for sure he’d call. When he didn’t, it hurt.

As Irene, now thirty-one, was debating whether to go over and reintroduce herself to Owen, she saw a woman sidle up next to him. Wife or girlfriend? Irene wondered. Either way, she felt more jealous than she should have. Irene cringed in private embarrassment. She shouldn’t feel such things toward a man she hadn’t seen in almost a decade. Irene kept watching Owen and the woman, who she’d soon learn was called Luna. She seemed out of place, Irene thought. Luna was dressed for an office—boots, skirt, blouse—but she had on a long military jacket over the professional ensemble. Maybe she worked at one of the local colleges, Irene thought. She definitely wasn’t from the city. Her hair and makeup weren’t right for that. Irene was good at spotting city dwellers among the upstaters. There was always a tell—an excess of cashmere, a physique too lean or too toned, professionally highlighted hair, or a ring that cost more than a car.

Whatever Owen and Luna were to each other, it wasn’t casual acquaintances. It seemed unlikely they were a romantic couple, because they didn’t greet each other with a hug or kiss. They stood right next to each other, in front of a floor-to-ceiling poster of Leo Whitman standing next to his piece. While the image measured over eight feet high, it wasn’t to scale. Leo Whitman was about four foot six in the picture. Irene watched as Owen bumped Luna’s shoulder. That was their first point of physical contact. Irene circled the room to get a different angle on them. Luna was squinting to read Leo’s pompous mission statement.

“Is this considered good?” Luna asked.

“It’s considered big,” Owen said.

“Is it solid?”

“That would be impossibly heavy,” Owen said. “It’s just aluminum siding. The whole thing probably weighs a couple hundred pounds.”