The Good Twin(60)

“No, Pips, I’m not. But I will be. Are you okay?”

“No. But I will be.”



I arrived home a little past 8:00 p.m., much earlier than I had been coming home the past few months. I heard the television on in the den, and then Ben call out, “Who’s there?”

A moment later, I walked into the room.

“This is early for you.” Ben said. “Something happen?”

“Dad’s taken a turn. It’s just a matter of days now. I came home to pack a bag. I’m going to stay there until the end. Sandy will run the gallery.”

Ben didn’t even bother to try to comfort me, take me in his arms, and ask if I’d be all right—but would it really matter if he had? It didn’t seem worth the effort for either of us to pretend. Instead, Ben just said, “Sorry,” and sat back down in his chair.



I cut through Central Park on the walk back to my father’s apartment. Even though it was dark, it was still early in the evening, and the park was filled with people. I don’t know what made me turn around, but when I did, I saw a man twenty paces back who looked just like the picture Mallory had drawn of the hit man. I picked up my pace. Five minutes later, I turned again, and he was still there. My heart began to beat more quickly. I thought about running, but I was still dressed in my stiletto heels from work. I knew all the stories of muggings that had taken place in the park, even with lots of people around. Could Ben have called the hired gun so quickly? Told him my father was near the end? No, it was too fast. I’d been home only fifteen minutes. I spotted a bench up ahead with a father and teenage son seated, a lamppost over it, and as soon as I reached it, I sat down next to them. Surely, he wouldn’t try something with others this close. I clutched the duffel bag I’d packed back at my townhouse to my chest. A minute later, the man passed me by, and I stared at him. He didn’t look like Mallory’s picture, after all.





CHAPTER 42

My grandfather arrived at Dad’s apartment just after noon the next day. For the next three days, at least one of us was always by Dad’s bedside, giving him morphine when he’d wake up in pain, then watching as he’d fall back under its spell. He couldn’t swallow any longer, so I’d administer sublingual drops of morphine onto his tongue. It supplemented the transdermal patch of fentanyl on his skin that Janice had placed. It was three days of watching my father die, and when he did, instead of being inured to the inevitable, I broke out in uncontrollable sobs. My grandfather, who looked like he’d aged three years in those three days, took me in his arms and held me tight until I was able to slow my tears.

I called hospice, and Janice arrived an hour later. She made the official pronouncement of death, after which I called the Frederick Canton Funeral Chapel, and they came and took away Dad’s body. The funeral home I’d chosen, located on the Upper West Side, was the place the rich and famous were taken when they’d drawn their last breaths. With its own security staff that ensured only those invited to the funeral were granted access, and its lovely chapel, it had gained a reputation as the top funeral home in Manhattan.

Once Dad was gone, I stayed in the apartment with my grandfather. Neither of us wanted to be alone, and even though Ben waited at our townhouse, I would still feel alone there. We both began making phone calls, to family, to friends. Despite Detective Saldinger’s caution about Mallory, I felt an urge to call her. She picked up on the first ring.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” were her first words.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Charly. I know how much pain you’re in now.”

“Because of how you felt when your mother died?”

“No. It’s something else. I felt overcome with sadness about three hours ago. Is that when he passed?”

I was speechless. Since meeting Mallory, we’d both noted similarities in our tastes, in our habits. But this? She was right, though. Three hours ago, I was sobbing in my grandfather’s arms. Somehow, it made me feel better to know how connected we were. “So, it’s going to start soon. Ben’s plan.”

“Don’t think about that now. Just mourn your father. And call me whenever you need to talk.”

The next few days passed in a blur. Poppy helped me pick out a casket. The funeral home had every kind imaginable, with prices that soared into six figures, but Dad wouldn’t have wanted that. Instead, we picked out a classic mahogany casket with solid brass trim. From there, we headed to Dad’s church and met with Reverend Stokes, Dad’s minister at the Park Avenue United Methodist Church. He would conduct the service, and even though he knew Dad well, we filled him in on his life.

Three days after his death, we held the wake. Over two days, more than five hundred people came to pay their respects, and most cornered me to say what a wonderful person he was. By the time the funeral was held, I’d cried myself out. I sat there, in the first pew, Ben on one side and Poppy on the other, as one by one, family and close friends walked to the front to eulogize Dad. I only half listened. All I could think about was that in a few days, the man sitting by my side, my husband, would text a man to say, It’s time to kill my wife.



Shortly after 10:00 p.m., I got a call from Mallory.

“It’s going to happen Friday night. I just spoke to Detective Saldinger and let him know. Ben will be at a Knicks game. Are you ready?”