The Ex(17)

“It’s about f*cking time.”

She hadn’t completely changed. “Nice to see you, too, Charlotte.”


THE GIRL INSIDE THE DOORWAY, though only a few years from being a beautiful woman, was still small enough to have been hidden from view by Charlotte’s imposing frame. Once Charlotte stepped inside the apartment, I was able to get a good look at her. Even without context, I might have immediately known her identity.

Buckley Harris had her father’s thin nose and angular chin, and her mother’s strawberry blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles. She was one of those kids who looked like a photo mash-up of her parents. Her shoulder-length hair fell in loose curls, and her light green eyes were enormous. To me she looked haunted, but maybe I knew too much about her life.

“You must be Buckley,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Olivia Randall.”

When she didn’t immediately return the gesture, Charlotte nudged her. “Sorry,” Buckley muttered. She did not sound sorry. “I’ve been going crazy wondering where my dad is. When is he coming home?”

I suggested to Charlotte that perhaps she and I should talk alone. Buckley interrupted with a firm no. “I’m the one who called you. I can handle it.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. I’d known her long enough to guess that she was counting silently. Old habits, etcetera. When she opened her eyes, her voice remained calm as she led the way to her living room. “Olivia, Buckley may look like Taylor Swift’s little ginger-haired sister, but she’s an old soul with the IQ of—I don’t know, some person too smart for me to have heard of. And, Buckley, not everyone gets you, okay? Get over it. Now, both of you: sit. Why the f*ck is Jack under arrest?”

I looked at Charlotte to make sure this was really how we were going to do this, and then launched in, telling Buckley that her fears were correct. “The police think your father was involved in the shootings this morning at the waterfront. If I had to guess, they’ll be making an announcement any minute now.”

“Involved?” Charlotte asked. “Like, how is he involved? They can’t just go around holding witnesses, can they? Don’t they need a material witness warrant? Some special order from a terrorism court or something?”

By now, Jack would be getting booked at MDC. He’d soon experience the shock of his first encounter with a real jail cell. He’d be wondering whether he’d ever sleep in a room alone again, on a mattress more than three inches deep, or use a toilet that wasn’t made of metal, or take a private shower.

“They’re not holding him as a witness.” I fixed my gaze directly on Buckley. “They think your father did this. They think he was the shooter.”

Buckley looked five years younger as her face puckered with confusion, then outrage. She looked like what she was: a terrified little girl. A terrified little girl with one parent dead from a mass shooting, the other an accused killer. As if sensing her sadness, the pug managed to leap onto her lap. Buckley gave her a pat and muttered, “Good Daisy.”

“I know it’s hard to process. But this isn’t the end of anything; it’s the beginning. At this point, he’s only under arrest.” I saw no point in telling them that a senior ADA had already made up his mind about Jack’s guilt. “From what I can tell, a large part of whatever evidence they have right now is based on motive. One of this morning’s victims was Malcolm Neeley.”

Buckley sucked in her breath at the mention of his name. She and Charlotte simultaneously launched into the same arguments I had raised at the precinct—that suing someone wasn’t the same as wanting to kill him, that other people blamed Neeley for his son’s actions just as much as Jack did.

I cleared my throat to interrupt. “There’s a complication.” I didn’t want to run the risk of them learning about the GSR evidence on the news. In dry, clinical language, I explained the process for testing for gunshot residue on a person’s clothing. “I’m told the test came back positive.”

Buckley fell back against the sofa, all the fight in her suddenly gone. Charlotte threw me a sharp look. So much for wanting me to give it to the kid straight.


THE GRANITE ISLAND IN CHARLOTTE’S kitchen resembled the set of a cooking show, covered by an array of fresh ingredients, already chopped and measured, waiting to be assembled. I wondered if she’d done the preparations herself or had a chef for that.

“You realize you basically just told that girl you think her father’s guilty?”

I could tell she wanted to yell, but didn’t want Buckley to hear us from the den. “You’re the one who said she was an old soul.”

“That’s because I didn’t think you’d pull a total mind f*ck on her. I treat Buckley the way I do to make up for all the tiptoeing everyone else has done around her since her mother died. She needs at least one person in her life who doesn’t act like she’s made of glass.”

“Jack said she could be sensitive.”

“No shit, Olivia. Some kid shot her mother at random. Kind of shakes your faith in the world, don’t you think?” Perhaps realizing there was no point to this conversation, Charlotte shifted the conversation back to Jack’s arrest. “So someone actually killed that * Malcolm Neeley?”

“According to the police. And I don’t see why they’d lie about it.”