The Ex(41)

“As directed,” he confirmed.

Jack’s building had a keyed exit for residents in back, next to the freight elevator, with no cameras. I didn’t want footage of him disheveled and in handcuffs getting leaked to the media.

They attached his ankle bracelet and checked the signal while he walked through every inch of the apartment and then out into the hallway to make sure that the monitor alerted before he made it to the elevator or staircase.

During the entire process, Jack moved like a scared cat, hunched, like someone might grab the scruff of his neck at any second and throw him back into a box of other animals. When the officers finally left, they made Charlotte leave with them, and she gave Jack a final kiss on the cheek before departing. When I locked the door behind them, Jack seemed to grow two inches taller.

I looked out the window, watching a woman on the sidewalk wrangle a dozen dogs ranging from a mastiff to a rat terrier, while Buckley and Jack hugged and cried. The emotions that come with pretrial release are complicated. There’s the obvious relief of being home. There’s the temptation to think that a favorable bail decision bodes well for the future. But there’s also intense sadness at the thought that these days may be numbered. The days pending trial can become a kind of prison sentence in and of themselves.

Jack let out a small whoop of relief. “Is it terrible that all I want to do is take a shower and sit on the sofa with you and eat pizza and watch movies?”

Buckley ran to the coffee table and held up two DVDs that she had already set aside: Working Girl and Ghostbusters. “Great minds think alike. I’ve got your favorites ready to go.”

“Excellent. Just let me talk to Olivia about some legal matters before she goes.”


JACK GAVE ME A QUICK hug once we were alone. I was surprised by how natural it felt. “I still can’t believe it. I thought I’d never get out of there. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The look in his eyes took me to a night at Arlene’s Grocery, back when it was first converted from a bodega-slash-butcher shop into a bar with live music. Jack and I were dancing near the front of the stage. The band was one of our favorites—the Spoiled Puppies. That night, the band broke out into a cover of “Anything, Anything” by Dramarama.

We danced so hard while the singer promised candy, diamonds, and pills that Jack’s arms were slick with sweat when he wrapped them around me as we jumped to the beat. And when the final chorus came, the band added one more repeat of the line, “Just marry me, marry me, marry meeeee.”

The lights came up, the band fell silent, and Jack dropped to one knee. I couldn’t even hear what he had to say over the sound of applause and wolf whistles from the back of the bar—Charlotte, Owen, some college friends who I thought had all come to celebrate our graduation. But I saw the ring. And I saw the look in Jack’s eyes—longing, pleading, vulnerable. He needed me so badly, and, in that moment, I believed we’d be one of those couples who brought out the best in each other for the rest of our lives. I made him stronger. He made me softer.

I shook myself out of the memory. Jack needed me now, but for a very specific purpose, and I had done my part so far by getting him home.

I acted like my performance at the bail hearing was no big deal.

Jack settled into his sofa like it was the most comfortable place in the world. “I had no idea about the gunshot residue until the ADA mentioned it. Is that why they suddenly booked me?”

I nodded.

“The detective wouldn’t tell me. That test has to be wrong. Or the police faked the results or something. Do they really do that?”

I wasn’t above arguing that police would intentionally doctor the evidence—it was an argument I’d made more than could possibly be true—but did I really believe it? No. And, sure, accidental transfers happened, but it was yet another unlucky coincidence, and too many of those could add up to proof beyond a reasonable doubt. “Jack, can you think of any way you would have that residue on your shirt? Were you ever around a gun, or someone else who fired a gun?”

I was shocked when he answered yes. Long before Molly was killed, Jack already hated guns. I was there the first time he ever held one. My father took us to the range. Jack was terrified, positive that he was going to be the first victim of an accidental shooting in the history of the Roseburg Shooting Club.

“It’s research for a book,” he said. “I’ve been going to a shooting range, trying to understand the gun culture.”

“A book about Penn Station?”

“Not directly. Fictionalized.”

From what I gathered, Jack’s previous novels were all fictionalized versions of his real life. His debut novel—the one he’d written while Molly supported him—was about a young couple whose female half was a pathological liar and a serial cheater. The second was about a man who became a father after struggling with mental health issues. The third was about a male writer whose only meaningful relationships were with his wife, daughter, and lesbian best friend. You get the drift.

“That’s great, Jack. If we can explain that GSR, all they have is speculation. Why didn’t you tell me this at the bail hearing?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was still in shock. And I didn’t think that was possible. I mean, it would have been probably a month ago. And I don’t even know if I wore that shirt.”