The Ex(72)

“I can’t picture that.”

“He loved Molly—don’t get me wrong. It’s like Molly was to Jack, as Jack was to you. Does that make any sense?”

Unfortunately, it did. I had known in my head that I should be devoted to Jack. That I should love him and marry him and grow old with him. But we never actually felt right together. Being with him was so much work, like I was constantly pretending to be a nicer, better, more generous person than I really was. “This sounds awful, but our relationship was so—”

“Uninspired? That’s what Jack said to me once about his relationship with Molly.” Charlotte began to fiddle with a pen on the table. “Eventually third parties got involved—no one that really mattered, but who filled the gap in his life with Molly and Buckley. It’s kind of ironic: you always thought Jack was too nice for you, but he always had an edge, a darkness, that he didn’t show you.”

“How dark? Dark enough to kill three people? Because, I’ve got to be honest, Charlotte: I think that’s what we’re looking at.”

“That’s why I came here, Olivia. To tell you, I honestly don’t know if Jack did it or not. The minute Buckley pulled out Jack’s laptop at my apartment, I thought, maybe somewhere deep in her unconscious, even she knows it’s possible her father did this.”

“You’re the one who’s been telling me the whole time that it’s ridiculous to even imagine Jack hurting another person.”

“Because I wanted you to help him. I still do. And I was probably lying to myself, too. But I’m not blind; I’ve seen the evidence trickling in. The reason I’m here is because I’ve thought about it: Jack could tell me he did this horrible thing, and I’d still fight for him to my last breath. I’m not talking about excusing him. I’m talking about supporting him. I still love him, and I need to know that you’re still fighting for him.”

What she was saying would probably sound crazy to someone who wasn’t a criminal defense lawyer, but I knew exactly what she was talking about: the parents, spouses, and siblings who came to understand their loved ones were guilty, who helped them get through the court process, who visited in prison. People don’t stop existing just because they’ve done something terrible.

“I don’t know, Charlotte. I’ve been lied to by clients, but this is Jack. It feels personal.”

“That’s because it is. You owe him, Olivia. Help him however you can.”


I WOKE TO THE SOUND of people screaming at each other. My left ear, resting on my pillow, was killing me. I slipped my hand beneath my cheek. I had fallen asleep with my earbuds in, repeat episodes of Law & Order still playing back-to-back on my iPad.

It was four in the morning. A half-empty bottle of wine was open on my nightstand. I resisted the temptation to pour another glass.

There was a reason I had jammed those earbuds in. Without the distraction of a television show, I kept hearing the clash of competing voices in my head. Ross Connor, saying Jack had a dark side. Scott Temple, telling me that Jack was playing me. Then the sound of Jack, begging me to do what I could to keep him out of prison. Followed by Charlotte, saying that I owed him.

I pulled out my earbuds, sat up, and opened my nightstand drawer. I found the black velvet box at the very back, covered in dust. I hadn’t looked inside it for years. I pulled out the watch first and placed it next to the clock. The necklace was tangled but I managed to smooth out the chain and slip it around my neck. It was Jack’s present to me for my twenty-first birthday, the first time I’d ever received a little blue box with a white ribbon.

I had returned his mother’s ring to Charlotte after the breakup, but these things I’d kept: the watch because how could I return it, and the necklace because I wanted it. The tiny silver clasp locked on the second try, still a familiar maneuver after all these years.

I rolled onto my back, closed my eyes, and ran the tip of my index finger around and around the infinity-shaped pendant. Over the last twenty years, my relationship with Jack had been condensed down to a single day—no, the single moment when he had walked into the apartment and seen the evidence that would finally convince him to leave. But there had been all those other moments when he had stayed.


THE LAST TIME I SAW my mother in person was during winter break of my senior year in college. It was January third. I remember the date because Dad put her in the emergency room with internal bleeding in the early hours of the New Year. The next-door neighbor called me on the second because she thought I “ought to know.” From what she’d heard, the emergency room had called the police, and my father was in custody.

I had to max out one credit card and dip into another for a full-fare ticket on the earliest flight the next morning. I would have spent ten times more if necessary. Jack insisted on coming with me. I suspected it was the only time in his entire friendship with Charlotte that he asked her for money.

When I got to the hospital, I found my mother watching Wheel of Fortune in a shared room. She turned her bruised face away the second she saw me. “Thought you were staying in New York for the holidays.”

“Marla called.”

“Of course she did. Does your father know you’re home?”

“We came straight here from the airport.”

“He picked you up all the way in Eugene?”