The Night Before(69)

“Oh God!” Rosie was in a panic now. Her head spinning with theories and facts from the past two days that now had nowhere to go.

“What about the calls?” Joe asked. “On her phone log?”

“We did get something,” Conway said. “The numbers around the time of the date belong to a company called Klayburn Capital. We got in touch with one of their administrative assistants—that number belongs to a man named Jonathan Fielding.”

Rosie jumped from her chair. “That’s it, then! Jonathan Fields … Jonathan Fielding. Do you know where he is? Can you find him?”

“All we have is an address in Boston. But he has an ex-wife here in Branston, and she gave us the name of a hotel where he was staying up until a few weeks ago. We’ll find him.”

Rosie leaned against the wall and stared at the photograph on the table. “So Jonathan Fields is Jonathan Fielding. Not Edward Rittle…”

“Yes. There’s no doubt about it,” Conway said.

Joe looked up then, surprised. “What did you just say? Edward Rittle? That was the man we’ve been chasing all this time?”

“Why?” Conway asked. “Do you know him?”

Joe stared straight ahead. “I’m trying to follow, that’s all. We thought Edward Rittle was Laura’s date because of the photo—because Edward Rittle was seen at the bar close to where her phone died? But he’s not the guy.…”

“No—he’s not the guy,” Conway said again.

Rosie looked at Joe. He was speaking in a tone she hadn’t heard before. Maybe this was how he sounded when he was with his clients or in front of a judge. Detached and analytical.

“I can’t believe this,” Rosie said. “What can I do?”

“Just stay put. We should have some emails and text messages soon. We may need you to go through them.”

“I’ll go,” Joe offered. “I have something to take care of, and then I should get back to our son. We left him with a sitter.”

He stood up, shook hands with the officer. He looked then to Rosie and started to move as though he wanted to walk around the table and hold her or kiss her—something. But she stood still, her body growing stiff. And Joe retreated, heading for the door.

“Joe…” Rosie said, making him turn. “I’m sorry.” She had all but accused him of sleeping with her sister, and that could never be taken back.

He nodded, acknowledging her apology. But his face was cold.

“So am I.”





FORTY


Laura. Session Number Five. Three Months Ago. New York City.

Dr. Brody: Tell me more about Gabe Wallace.

Laura: We were friends. We still are.

Dr. Brody: Never more? Is he someone who loved you that you pushed away?

Laura: It was never like that. I kept his secret. I’m the only one who knew.

Dr. Brody: What kind of secret?

Laura: The kind I can’t tell anyone. Not even you.





FORTY-ONE


Laura. The Night Before. Friday, 1:30 a.m. Branston, CT.

Gabe drives us away from downtown. Away from Jonathan Fielding, who lies on the floor of his apartment. Unconscious. Bleeding.

He drives slow and steady. Stopping at lights. Keeping within the speed limits. He is consumed with concentration. If I didn’t know him so well, if he hadn’t been my best friend all through childhood, it would have caused alarm. I am shocked and confused, but not that—not alarmed. I know there must be an explanation.

“Gabe,” I say. “Please tell me what’s going on.” I’ve been asking him for the past five minutes. Since the moment we got in the car.

“No one saw us,” he says, as though he doesn’t understand my question. “I covered the security cameras with spray paint.”

I stare at him now and he can feel it. He turns for a second to smile at me.

“What?” he asks. “You’re safe now.”

He says this like I should be relieved.

“Gabe … you have to tell me what’s going on.” I try to keep my voice calm, but I feel like reaching over and shaking him until the answers fall out. “What you did to him … we have to call the police. He could bleed to death.”

His hands clench the wheel tighter. One hand at ten and one hand at two, just like they taught us in driving school. Eyes on the road. Back up straight. Gabe always followed the rules. Meticulously. Obsessively. If I hadn’t been on the other side of that door, I would never suspect he’d done anything out of the ordinary before getting behind the wheel.

“Don’t worry,” he says now. “They’ll notice the cameras aren’t working and they’ll check the apartments. They’ll find him in time.”

This does not settle me.

“No!” I insist now. “That could take hours. Did you see his head? All the blood…” He doesn’t flinch. “Gabe!” I yell at him. “Tell me what the hell is going on!”

He sighs the way a parent sighs at an unruly teenager—frustrated that he has to deal with my insubordination.

“He was going to hurt you. Maybe even kill you,” he says. “There. Are you satisfied now? Do you still want to save his life?”