Reputation(28)

Ollie stands at the full-length mirror, Freddie still in his arms. “I’ll take him,” I offer, reaching out. It’s paranoid, probably, but I don’t like him standing with Freddie in front of a mirror.

Ollie angles the baby away. “It’s fine.”

Cowed, I turn to the closet again. But then I feel eyes on my back. “Babe.” Ollie sounds worried. “What’s that on your leg?”

“What’s what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“There’s a big scratch.”

I don’t have to look down to know where he’s pointing. The jagged scratch on my calf is redder today, scabbed over. I touch it gently. “Tree branch, I guess. Freddie and I went walking in the woods yesterday afternoon.” I make a quick mental calculation: Yesterday afternoon, the weather had been gray but warm. A walk could have occurred.

Ollie nods. The tension has loosened from his face when he sees that I’m choosing a dress and shoes. “So everything went okay with Reardon yesterday?”

I’m glad I’m facing the closet, for I wouldn’t want Ollie to see my stricken expression. He means Detective Reardon, the lead detective working Greg’s case. Reardon called me in for questioning because Greg and I worked together.

“It was fine.” I hate the hitch in my voice. “It’s not like I had anything to tell him.” I yank a cardigan from a hanger. “Do they have any leads on the killer?”

I can sense Ollie stiffening. “You know I can’t discuss that with you, babe.”

My stomach contracts. I try to nod, to understand, but I wish he’d tell me something, anything. Whom do the cops suspect? How much do they know? And how much, by association, does Ollie know?

“I will say that it’s been more complicated because they can’t find the weapon,” Ollie suddenly pipes up. “Once they do, they’ll have their guy. Or girl.”

I feel the muscles in my cheeks twitch. “What if the weapon isn’t found?”

“Oh, they’ll find it.” Ollie swings around for the door, Freddie in tow. “Reardon’s search team is the best. They’re really digging into Strasser’s life. I have a feeling those e-mails that broke in the hack are just the tip of the iceberg of what he was hiding.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Goes to show you really don’t know anyone.”

I open my jewelry box. I’m not really an accessories girl, but I need to do something with my hands. Ollie is right, though. Greg was hiding things. Things far bigger than those silly e-mails. A heat comes over me, prickling behind my eyes. I feel I might faint. Keep it together, Laura, I tell myself. Get through this.

I need a moment alone to collect myself, so I give Ollie a warm smile. “Can you take Freddie downstairs and make him a bottle? I’ve already thawed some breast milk. It’s on the counter.”

When I went to the police station, I’d had all my answers worked out. Reardon had a kind, gentle demeanor, but I could tell he wouldn’t go easy on anyone. “You hear about those e-mails of Strasser’s that were leaked?” he asked me.

“We all did. A lot of nurses thought they would ruin his reputation as a surgeon.”

“Any idea who the woman is?”

I shook my head. Did he believe me? It was hard to gauge by his unwavering expression.

Then he asked about the benefit. I told him about Kit Manning-Strasser hurriedly downing a martini, and how Greg was absent, and how the reporters were questioning everyone about the hack. I said how dreadfully stuffy and pretentious the whole night was, especially because I was alone. Then Reardon wanted to know where I went after the benefit.

I halted. “Why does that matter?”

“We’re trying to put together an accurate picture of where everyone was.” He sipped his coffee. “Dotting our i’s, crossing our t’s.”

I could feel my palms going clammy. “Am I a suspect?”

“No, no, of course not.” He raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Unless you have something to tell me . . .”

On the tip of my tongue was the simplest alibi—that I left the party at around ten and had driven straight home to my son. Except it isn’t true. All Reardon would have to do was call up sweet Lucy, the babysitter, with her college textbooks and her nanny bag of special games and toys to entertain Freddie, and she’d tell him that I didn’t come home until almost 2:00 A.M. Lucy was asleep on the couch, Freddie snuggled in next to her.

And how would that look?

Now, I swallow hard, thinking about what I’d told Reardon instead. Ollie couldn’t have read my alibi statement, could he? He’s too much of a Boy Scout to break police protocol. He knows nothing. Not about the benefit—and not about what happened a year ago, either. About Greg, that night. The night that started it all. These are things I didn’t tell Reardon, either. Things I haven’t told anyone. And now, Greg has taken them to his grave.

It was a bitter cold, early January evening a year and three months before. A snowstorm was imminent—the air tasted of it—but we’d had a hard day, and we were both eager for a drink. I pushed inside to the lush darkness of the Modern, the sexy hotel bar in the new boutique hotel across from the hospital. Icy crystals were stuck to my hat. Greg’s, too.

Greg and I settled into a private banquette next to an aquarium full of exotic fish. I ordered a glass of wine. When we received our drinks, Greg held his up for a toast. “After a day like today, I needed this.” He rolled his head on his neck. “I don’t know how we stand some of those people in that hospital day after day, you know?”