Beneath Devil's Bridge(47)

“Yet he goes to work every day, does his job?” I say.

She nods.

“And he tutors students here? Is he sober when they come over?” I ask.

“Yes. No. I mean, sometimes he has a beer or two before they arrive, so it’s like maintaining a base level. He’s an alcoholic . . . a functional alcoholic. He starts with a beer the moment he walks in the door.” She puts her face into her hands. Her bony shoulders heave as she starts to sob.

“Hey—” I get up and hand the baby to Luke, then go and sit beside Lacey on the ripped sofa. I place my hand on her bony knee. “I can see you’re struggling, Lacey. I can get you some help, put you in touch with someone, but first we do need you to help us by answering these questions. Can you do that?”

“Why?” She looks at me, her face tearstained. “What has he done? Has he done something bad? What does this have to do with Leena Rai?”

“We’re just trying to ascertain what everyone in the community was doing that night. There might be things that people don’t realize are of relevance, so anything can help. The bigger the picture we can paint, the better.”

She looks away. Out the window. Trying to marshal self-control. Bare branches nod hard in the frigid sea wind outside. The panes of glass are smeared with grime where the blowing snow collects in patterns. Lacey gives a small shudder. Like a physical release. She faces me, and her gaze locks on mine. I glimpse something raw in her eyes, and it punches me in the belly. My muscles brace.

When she speaks again, her voice is firm, almost strident. Clear.

“He was really drunk that Saturday morning when he came home. More than usual. From the way he was stumbling and knocking about. He fell over when he was taking off his pants. He smelled . . . he . . . smelled like sex. I . . . He’s come home a few times smelling like that, and I . . . He’s having an affair. He denies it. But I am sure of it.”

I meet Luke’s gaze. His eyes, intense over the baby’s head, hold mine. He’s jiggling the baby on his knee. If the mood weren’t so dark, I would find it comical. But my heart hurts for this young woman. And at the same time, my anger at Clay is hot. I reach for Lacey’s cold hand.

“I understand,” I say very softly, not intending the words that follow out of my mouth, but they come anyway. “I know what it feels like. To be married to someone who is being unfaithful.”

She holds my gaze, almost not breathing.

I feel Luke’s interest. It’s instant and keen. I can’t put the words back now. I realize at this very moment just how much Jake’s affair has been hurting me. I clear my throat. I take a deep breath.

“Do you know who your husband might be sleeping with, Lacey, if that is the case?”

She shakes her head.

“No idea?”

“No. I . . . was thinking maybe one of the other teachers. Or someone from the gym.”

I feel she might be lying, hiding her true, deeper suspicions.

“How many students does Clay tutor here?” Luke asks, awkward with the infant, who seems mesmerized by him and is now staring silently at his face, sucking her pacifier as he continues to bounce her on his knee. “Apart from Leena.”

“About four others. Off and on.”

“Females? Males?”

“Females.” She looks sick. Like she’s going to throw up. Like Luke’s questions are taking her mind where she doesn’t want it to go. She reaches for a tissue from the box on the table beside her chair and blows her nose.

“I think one is Dusty Peters. She’s sort of a problem student at school, with trouble at home. And Nina. She’s from Russia, and English is her second language. There’s a girl called Suzy, and a Melissa. But Clay hasn’t told me anything about them.”

“Are those work boots in the mudroom the ones your husband was wearing on the night he came home so drunk?” I ask.

She looks confused. “Why?”

“Just helps to eliminate things,” I say.

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Can we take a look at them?”

Her eyes darken. She swallows. “Okay. Sure.”

I go into the mudroom, pick up a boot, turn it over. My adrenaline kicks. It’s the right pattern. It looks like the bruise imprints on Leena’s body. I reenter the room and nod to Luke.

He says, “Do you mind if we take those boots?”

She says nothing for a long moment. She clears her throat. “Is this to do with Leena?”

“We’re investigating all avenues right now.”

“Take them,” she says, voice clipped. “Take the damn boots. Take anything you want.”

“One more thing, Lacey,” I say as I put the photos of the evidence found in and near Leena’s backpack on the coffee table. “Do you happen to recognize anything here?”

She moves to the edge of the sofa and leans forward, studying the images carefully. She points.

“That book of poems, Whispers of the Trees, it’s Clay’s.”

“How do you know?”

“The inscription there, on the title page, With love from A. C., UBC, 1995. A. C. is Abbigail Chester. She was a friend of Clay’s when he was at UBC. She gave him the book. He told me.” She looks up. “Where did you find it? Are these other things Leena’s?”