The Guest Room(55)

“You haven’t seen the bloodstains,” Melissa said to Jesse. She wished that Claudia hadn’t stirred her Cherry Garcia into goop. Or, maybe, that her friend had ordered a flavor that was less…red.

“There are bloodstains?” Jesse asked, and then answered the question herself. “Good Lord, of course there are. Holy crap. Of course there are. Is it bad?”

Melissa nodded. And then, unsure what she was going to say when she opened her mouth, she admitted, “It’s kind of a disaster. The house.” It made her ashamed to admit this, but she couldn’t stop herself. She just couldn’t. She liked Jesse so much, and there was something so hip and charismatic in her animal print leggings and black jacket and perfect red nails—something that made her so different from all the other moms. There was something about her that just made you want to talk to her and accept this great gift of friendship. Of comfort. Of…coolness.

Suddenly Melissa was sharing everything that she had been keeping inside her: Her fears that her family was going to have to move. The reality that her parents might get a divorce. The fact that she had almost picked up this wet, messy thing called a rubber that a man had put on his penis.

“It was in your room?” Jesse asked, her eyes widening.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wait, what?” Claudia was asking. “A rubber what? What was made of rubber? I don’t understand.”

But Emiko knew. Melissa could tell. The girl was looking into her empty sundae bowl as if the bottom of the dish was a smartphone with a video. She was embarrassed.

“But the worst part?” Melissa said as she wiped at her eyes.

“Go on,” Jesse said. “The worst part?”

“No, wait,” Claudia said, grabbing her mother’s elbow. “What was made of rubber? Tell me!”

“Later, Claudia, okay? I’ll explain to you what a rubber is later.”

“I was just asking.”

Jesse must have regretted bringing any of this up, Melissa decided; she herself was blinking back tears, Claudia wanted to know all about rubbers, and Emiko was clearly uncomfortable. But Melissa was tired of trying hard to be brave for her mom and to be patient with her dad. Her mom and dad were talking to each other—or, more accurately, arguing with each other. But still. Still. Who was she supposed to talk to? Who?

And so now she took a deep breath and said the first and most honest thing she was feeling: “The worst part? I am so mad at my dad that I almost hope my mom does make him go back to that hotel to live.”

Jesse seemed to think about this for a moment. Then, once more, she reached across the table. This time she placed both of her hands atop Melissa’s.

…

Richard told himself he was overreacting. Yes, he was furious with Spencer. Annoyed by the news vans, with their George Jetson–like satellite dishes, and the way they appeared out of nowhere like elephants, lumbering briefly into view and then disappearing back into the wild. Alarmed by the portrayal of the Russian mob in the tabloids, and the dawning realization that they might be seriously pissed at him, too, since a couple of their own had died at his house. In his living room and front hall. Did this mean he was at risk—or, more importantly, that his wife and daughter might be at risk? He couldn’t say. But he felt vulnerable. Exposed. He was, he realized, on the radar of people with whom he would otherwise never have crossed paths.

Everything, it seemed, was unraveling. He imagined Spencer Doherty’s anger if, in the end, he refused to pony up the thirty grand. If a month from now he balked at an additional five. Or ten. Or twenty.

He also wondered if this was all about having too much time on his hands to think.

Still, he could not believe how—and this was indeed the adjective he heard in his head—f*cking difficult it was to get a handgun in New York. A week ago, this discovery would have thrilled him. Would have made all the sense in the world. But now? As he gazed up into the midafternoon autumn sunshine, unexpectedly warm this late in the year, he was furious. He needed to do something—anything—and the old guy with a beer belly the size of a Mini Cooper on the other side of the counter had told him that a pistol permit would take a couple of months. He had droned on about county and state and federal regulations.

“Do I look like a guy who holds up convenience stores?” Richard had asked, knowing the question was wholly unreasonable. But he couldn’t stop himself. “I just want to be able to look out for my wife and my daughter,” he’d added, hoping that the tone of his voice hadn’t sounded as disagreeably entitled in reality as it had in his head.

But there was going to be no negotiating here. The laws were the laws. The background check was mandatory. And so he had taken the application with him and left. But character references? Fingerprints? Waiting to hear back from the FBI? This was ridiculous. He was…a banker. An investment banker. He was in mergers and acquisitons at Franklin McCoy. He had always been—with, admittedly, one recent, egregious exception—a good husband and father.

The dealer had pinched the bulbous wattle beneath his chin and suggested he get a rifle instead. The fellow had said it was less likely there might be an accident with a rifle, but he could still use it to protect his family. All he needed for that was a hunting license from Fish and Wildlife. Not hard, especially now. After all, it was deer season. He—the store owner—would smooth out the paperwork.