The Shadow Box(17)

“Well, she did a great job and we’re happy,” Edward said, putting his arm around Sloane, and we all clinked glasses.

I found myself thinking about that toast to Sallie while I cut up the melon for Griffin’s breakfast after our ugly dawn beach encounter. I used an expensive French paring knife, from a set chosen by Sallie because she thought a dark wood knife block would make a stunning contrast to the white marble counter.

“Are there any articles about the trial?” I asked Griffin. He was still at the table, reading the paper.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s going to make jury selection tricky. I don’t know who’s leaking what we have for evidence, but someone is. Right here—an unnamed source saying we have a student’s underwear with Jackson’s DNA on them.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

His silence made the sound of my knife slicing through cantaloupe and clicking on the counter sound like it was happening in an echo chamber.

“Too bad?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I know how closely you guard your facts, and you don’t want the jury pool hearing . . .”

“It’s a little more than too bad, Claire,” he said. “Do you know what Jackson did to those girls? I could sit here right now and tell you the specifics, you want to hear them? I need an impartial jury. I can’t afford to lose a big case right in the midst of my campaign.”

“Of course,” I said. “I know.”

“Of course. You know,” he said in a mimicking voice, pushing his chair back, then slapping the newspaper down on the table. “If you knew the things men do to women, you’d fall apart.”

“I’m sure I would,” I said. My tone indicated I had something on my mind.

He stood up and exhaled hard, taking one step toward me.

“You know, it really bothered me to see you kneeling at the cove. As if you were worshipping Ellen like a goddess.”

“Far from it,” I said. “She was as human as I am.”

“Why now? Why are you torturing me with her now? Don’t I have enough on my mind?”

“I don’t think I’m torturing you,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“You act as if I had something to do with her death. And that insults me. Believe me, I know the syndrome. A couple grows apart, and suddenly the husband is vilified. My office receives a hundred calls a year from women saying their husbands committed terrible crimes. They think he’s the Marshfield serial killer or a trucker murdering women on I-95. You’re such a cliché.”

“I still hear the sound of those crabs eating her flesh,” I said.

“So do I,” he said. “And the difference between you and me is that I loved her. She was my college girlfriend. Do you know what it was like for me to see her like that? I lost her when she went to Cancún.”

“Who did she go with?” I asked.

“What’s the difference?” he asked. “It was half my lifetime ago.”

And half of what would have been hers, I thought. I caught him gazing at me, almost dispassionately, as if taking my measure.

“You know, Claire,” he said. “I don’t need this swirling around right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rumors. Innuendo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“People hinting that I had something to do with what happened to Ellen,” he said.

“Who is hinting about that?” I asked.

He didn’t quite answer but went on, “I am in the middle of a campaign. I expect my wife and friends to protect my reputation, not cast doubts.”

“What friends aren’t protecting you?” I asked.

He stopped talking, just gave me a long curious stare; again, I had the feeling he was assessing me.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” I said.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he said.

“Okay.”

“It’s clear you don’t appreciate me or my work,” he continued. “Nate, the great scientist and environmentalist—you admire him even though you couldn’t wait to leave him and marry me. But your actual, current, working-his-fingers-to-the-bone husband, who only wants justice for two girls Jackson raped with a pipe wrench—you don’t care, it makes no difference to you. You can only think of Ellen.”

Interesting, his choice of words: fingers-to-the-bone.

At one time I would have turned myself inside out, saying I was sorry for giving him the wrong idea. By that Sunday morning, I was past apologies. Even so, I had to play my part, at least a little, to get what I wanted out of this week.

“Griffin, I admire you so much,” I said without inflection, just as if I were reading a script. “You care so deeply about your cases, all the victims. You’re just so amazing, so caring.”

“Other people think that,” he said. “You don’t.”

He filled his travel mug with coffee, then turned to look at me. “Maybe while I’m on the boat, you can reflect on what I said.”

“I thought I was going with you,” I said. “And the boys.”

“No,” he said. “I really think it would be to your benefit to give some thought about being more protective of your husband, instead of undermining him.”