Locust Lane(73)

“It turns out Jack got in trouble with a girl last year.”

“Really? What kind of trouble?”

“He was overly aggressive. And it looks like the Parrishes paid the girl and her mother a small fortune to make it go away.”

“So have you spoken to the cops about him being the one you saw?”

“There’s a problem between the cops and me. I have a history with one of the detectives. Procopio.”

“Yeah, he’s a piece of work.”

“He was the one who busted Gabi right before she died. He was a real hard-ass about it.”

“Ah, okay. Shit.”

“I don’t think I’m seen as the most reliable source over there.”

“Still.”

“You’re right. I’ll call them. Just let me collect my wits.”

“I really want the person who did this to pay. I think that might make it just a little bit bearable.”

“You want justice. You want to move on.”

“I want justice, sure. But I don’t want to move on.”

“You don’t?”

“You haven’t.”

“I’m not necessarily the best role model.”

“Well, for now, you’re all I’ve got.” She looked into her glass as she gently swirled the thick liquid. “What you said about hearing her voice.”

She took her first sip of the drink. And then the glass was empty.

“Hearing my daughter is an auditory hallucination, Danielle,” he said. “It’s not uncommon in people with my condition.”

“But which condition is that? The booze or the dead kid? Because I got one of those.”

He opened his hands. He had no idea.

“What if when Gabi spoke to you on Monday, she was actually telling you to go to the Bondurants’ and hit that dog and get out of your car and see who did it?”

“You can’t…”

“No, hold on, I’ve thought about this. It makes sense, right?”

“What do you want from me, Danielle?”

She handed her glass to him.

“First, I’d like another drink. Hold the lime. And then I’d like you to help me figure out who killed my child.”





Monday





CELIA


She could have read the article online. They posted things at the same time that they released the print edition. But she wanted to read a hard copy, to hold it in her hands. The last few days had convinced her that what she’d always suspected was true—the internet was a festering wound that oozed hatred and lies. The less time spent there, the better. So, as her husband slept, she drove to the Mobil Mini Mart. She didn’t read the article until she was back home, in her alcove, coffee steaming beside the paper. Although there wasn’t a single unexpected word, it was still shocking. And then there was the cover photograph, a grainy nighttime image of a couple embracing inside in a sedan marooned in an empty parking lot. By the time she finished reading, she felt like she needed a sedative. And a bath.

The article was Oliver’s idea. He’d handled everything. From the moment she told him what she’d seen at United Unitarian, he knew what to do. The photographs, the research, the interviews. He took no joy in it. He was like some bow-tied Hercules, cleaning the suburban stables. But that didn’t stop him. This was necessary to ensure the family’s safety and the community’s well-being. Enough was enough. This had to end.

On Friday, once the kids were safely stowed in Back Bay, the Parrish house was transformed into a command center. Although Celia had been married to Oliver for twenty-six years, she was still surprised by the efficiency of his actions and the swiftness of the results. He really did plan to destroy Alice. A few times, she was tempted to ask him if he really wanted to go after her this hard. But then she remembered that this woman, this supposed friend, had set out to harm her child, and nothing her husband did could be too severe.

First, he made a phone call from behind the closed door of his study, followed by a Friday night visit from two men in a white van. Oliver conducted his business with them in private. By Sunday, they’d prepared a dossier on Alice Ann Hill. It was quite a document. First and foremost was a series of photographs of Michel and her locked in loving embrace, taken on Saturday night. Once again, their assignation took place in his car, this time in an empty parking lot on Route 9. The images left no doubt that they were lovers. In fact, the one of her straddling him on the passenger seat was not fit for a newspaper. But it could, if necessary, be used online. Celia could not believe she’d ever called this woman a friend.

The dossier also contained an extensive ledger of Alice’s past transgressions. These suddenly felt a lot less charmingly mischievous than the stories she told over lunch at Papillon. Those vaguely described scrapes with the law turned out to be an arrest for drug possession that resulted in a year’s probation, an assault complaint that was dismissed only when the victim had dropped the charges, and a DUI that landed Alice in jail for a few nights. Most damningly, there were Leander and Jill Quade in Santa Fe. They had quite a story to tell about a viperous young woman who’d slithered into their marriage to cause near-terminal havoc. Their entanglement with Alice began with a meeting at Jill’s gallery, then moved to the pool house where Alice took up residence. She became the lover of wife, then husband, then both together. The whole thing ended in tears. Money went missing; locks were changed; marriage counseling was required.