The Wife Who Knew Too Much(61)
“You’ll call him?” I said.
“Will do. I’ll report back, ma’am,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. Ford, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn,” Juliet said when he’d left.
“What is it?”
“I know the detectives. They interviewed me after Mrs. Levitt died. I’m just saying, they’re pretty low-key, reasonable people. Are you sure you want to send Steve to deal with them, rather than speaking to them yourself?”
I’d forgotten that Juliet was the one who’d told the police about Nina’s cancer diagnosis. But she didn’t have skin in the game when she talked to them. My own experience of speaking with the police was a traumatic one. When they opened the secret compartment in Derek’s truck and pulled out bags full of pills, I was shocked. I’d never been in trouble in my life. I wanted to cooperate, to prove that I was an honest, law-abiding citizen. I remembered how they separated us by the side of the road, then put us in different cruisers and took us to separate rooms back at the station. They just had a few questions, they said, then set about pressuring me to give information on Derek. Maybe I would have, but I had none. I was innocent, and I said so. They refused to believe me. At the end of the interview, they put me in handcuffs and took me to the holding cell. What little information I gave was used against me. Later, my lawyer said I’d been a fool. The next time you find yourself in a tight spot, he said, don’t trust the cops. Keep your mouth shut and call your attorney.
“Do you have reason to think Mr. Kovacs won’t represent our interests properly?” I asked.
“I never said that.”
“Then why would I talk to them? I know nothing about Nina’s death.”
“Okay. That’s your call, ma’am.”
“I mean, what could I possibly say?”
“Of course.”
“Seriously, Juliet. I don’t get why you’re telling me to talk to them.”
“You’re right. That doesn’t make sense. I’ll let you rest,” she said, and walked from the room.
My phone rang. Grabbing it from the bedside table, I saw Connor’s number flashing on the screen. He’d blamed me for the paparazzi. Was he going to blame me for the search warrant, too? I hit Decline and tossed the phone on the bed. Let him wait for me to call back, like I waited for him. After a pause, the ringing started again. I ignored it.
A couple of minutes later, the phone dinged with a text.
Tabitha, it read—a name he never called me—I just heard the police are there with a search warrant. Pack a bag right now. Dennis will take you to the airport. There’s a plane waiting to bring you to Dubai. I want Juliet to go with you. We can’t risk having you interviewed or letting the media anywhere near you. Connor.
The undercurrent of blame in his text made my blood boil. He’d left me at the mercy of the paparazzi and the police, then acted like it was my fault when things went south. Now he was ordering me to flee the country, with Juliet as my babysitter, so I didn’t screw things up worse. I should just say no. Better yet, I should go talk to the police right now and tell them I honestly didn’t know whether Nina killed herself, or if Connor had anything to do with it. That would show him.
I might be furious. But acting out of spite like that would be a huge mistake. I was out of my league here. I’d say the wrong thing. The cops would trick me again. The press was already accusing me of Nina’s murder. Next thing I knew, I’d be in jail. Or Connor would. And as much I hated him right now, I loved him. And didn’t believe he’d commit murder.
The time had come to ask him. I needed to ask him to his face.
I found my passport and started packing.
28
Stepping onto the plane was like entering a different world—a world in which nothing could touch me. The police investigation, Nina’s death, the bad press, even my husband’s guilt or innocence—all the bogeymen faded away. I was a one-percenter flying first class on an exotic journey. The flight attendants lavished attention on me, bringing pillows and chocolates and drinks. My seat compartment was the size of a small bedroom, with its own fully stocked minibar that popped up from a lacquered console, and a giant television that showed a map of the route. I loved reading the names of the places we’d be flying over. Paris and Madrid, Athens and Tangiers. The world had been closed to me before, but with Connor, any destination was possible.
I’d arranged to meet Juliet in the bar for a drink as soon as the seat-belt sign went off. My OB had said that one alcoholic beverage per week was permitted in the second trimester. Though I still wasn’t sure I wanted a drink, Juliet insisted the bar was not to be missed, and she was right. I walked in with eyes like saucers. White leather banquettes lined the sides of the cabin, which was glamorously lit with blue neon and full of beautiful, well-dressed people. A uniformed bartender stood behind a marble-topped, circular bar. There were trays of appetizers for the taking—mini quiches, caviar on crackers, cocktail shrimp. A calligraphy menu of artisanal cocktails. Fine wines and champagnes and brandies. As I took it all in, Juliet walked up behind me.
“Can you believe this?” she said, a wide grin on her face.
The tension I’d felt building between us at Windswept evaporated in the rarefied air. She ordered Veuve Clicquot Brut Rosé, and when I saw the bartender pour it, I realized it was a pink champagne. I smiled and said I’d have one, too. We sat on a banquette and clinked glasses. The champagne bubbles tickled my nose, and my first taste of alcohol after so many months loosened my tongue. I’d been so lonely. I found myself telling Juliet about my life. My rootless childhood, my mother’s death, the grandparents who saved me. Somehow, I got on to talking about Connor. How glorious he’d been that summer at the lake. How I’d never stopped loving him. What a miracle it was when he walked into the restaurant after all those years. I was lost in time, visualizing him in my mind’s eye, when I noticed Juliet’s horrified expression.