The Ex(23)
“They’re going forward. When we talked on the phone today, I was pretty sure I was close to getting Jack released. But then the GSR tests came back.”
Don set down his mug roughly enough that some foam spilled onto the table. “See? This is why you don’t vouch for people. Residue on his hands?”
I shook my head. “His shirt. It’s still not good. But we’ve gotten past GSR evidence before.”
“Yeah, by arguing that the police were sloppy or worse. Pretty hard to believe they’d screw up a case this important, this fast, against a rich white guy beloved by the entire city. Not how the system works, Olivia, and jurors know it.”
“Right. But I’m mapping out another theory.” I walked him through the possibility that someone had either orchestrated the encounter at the pier from the very beginning, or been monitoring Jack’s e-mail looking for an opportunity to set him up for Neeley’s murder. “And we know that Malcolm Neeley has many more enemies than just Jack. For every person who feels sorry for him that he lost his son, another four blame him for the Penn Station massacre. So if someone was looking to kill Neeley, and somehow knew about Jack’s plans to meet this woman today—”
“And then somehow managed to spritz him with GSR?”
“It’s possible. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about possible sources of contamination. Or maybe the NYPD did something weird with the testing. Or whoever framed him passed him on the waterfront and—”
“Or he did it. The lawsuit against Neeley got dismissed. Jack could have snapped. It happens to people. You know that.”
Yes, I definitely did know that, especially when it came to Jack. But Jack’s version of “snapping” would never involve harming another person, and I didn’t know how to get Don to see that.
“You think my judgment is clouded, but trust me, Don: I know him at his core.” The entire reason Jack and I didn’t work out was because I knew him better than he knew himself. He thought I could make him happy for the rest of his life. I knew him well enough to realize that I’d keep disappointing him. “He didn’t do this. If nothing else, I can’t see him taking the risk of leaving his daughter without a parent.”
Don held my gaze for several seconds before speaking. “Look, I know I’m a hundred and seventy years old, and Melissa would probably accuse me of man-splaining for what I’m about to say. But the only thing I know about this man Jack is from when you’ve mentioned him on occasion over the years, never when you’re at your best.” That was Don’s polite way of saying that when I’m drunk, I have a way of blubbering about my past f*ck-ups, with Jack traditionally at the top of the list. “I gather he’s some kind of great love, and you think you botched it. I know you feel guilty, but God knows you’re not the first young person to have been a jerk to a boyfriend. You don’t owe him anything.”
“But I do, Don. You have no idea just how much I owe him.”
CHARLOTTE MAY NEVER HAVE LIKED me, but, ironically, I may never have met Jack if it weren’t for her. She was the one who kept bringing her childhood pal around the dorm, making a point to linger near our open door when Melissa was home. Her desire to play matchmaker between Jack and Melissa was almost as obvious as the fact that neither of them was interested, or that Charlotte might have had her own reasons for liking Melissa.
Under orders from my parents to make my private education “worth it,” I focused almost exclusively on my studies until the occasional episode of binge drinking left me open to the idea of companionship for the night. Jack’s name was never among the potential candidates. He was cute and funny and shared my passion for Twin Peaks and the Smiths, but he was a little too clean-cut for my taste. Then one night when he walked me home from an especially boozy off-campus kegger, we ended up talking for two hours. I spent the night with him, sneaking out of his dorm the next morning in time for breakfast. I thought we both knew it was a one-time hookup, and, sure enough, his sweet, safe drop-ins continued, with no mention of our stumble into bed.
When I was packing up my dorm room for a summer internship in D.C., he dropped by with a mix tape, and my first day back on campus, he found me at the new dorm, asking what I thought. I lied and said it was great, but he could tell I had never even listened to it.
He came back the next day with a twelve-pack, and a few beers in, made Melissa and me promise to dance with him to the first song on a duplicate tape; it was “Debaser” by the Pixies. We wound up in our own three-person mosh pit, slam-dancing around the room. When the song was over, he popped the tape from the stereo and declared that our “musical education” would continue later.
As the school year continued, we fell into a pattern. Impromptu dance parties—sometimes in a group, sometimes one-on-one, but always one song at a time with that same stupid mix tape. They were great songs, too: “Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf, “Candy” by Cameo, “Blue Monday” by New Order, “Hot Pants” by James Brown, “This Is Not a Love Song” by PIL, “Mirror in the Bathroom” by the English Beat, “Rock Your Baby” by . . . I don’t know. A Sting song I would have hated if I hadn’t found a certain amount of comfort in being held in my room for a slow dance.
That tape—and the ones that followed—had been a good move, the only one I ever saw Jack play. I started to look forward to his knocks on the door. Every pop-in was an adventure. I felt special and sought after. Over time, the music became less important than spending time afterward with someone who made me happy.