The Other Mrs.(64)

I use my commute time wisely, searching my phone for information on Jeffrey Baines’s ex, Courtney, who lives somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic. I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s easy enough to assume. She doesn’t live on the island with us. And I watched the other day, after the memorial service, as she and her red Jeep boarded the ferry and disappeared out to sea.

I type “Courtney Baines” into the web browser. Finding her is almost too easy because, I come to find out, she’s the superintendent of the local school district. Her name pops up nearly everywhere. It’s all very professional, nothing personal. Superintendent Baines approving salary increases for teachers and staff; Superintendent Baines expressing concern over a string of recent school violence.

I find an address of the administrative building and type it into my map app. It’s an eight-minute drive from the ferry terminal. I’ll arrive by 8:36 a.m.

The ferry steers into the terminal and docks. I jog down the steps, from the upper deck and to my car. I start the car and, when given the go-ahead, I pull from the ferry.

I head out onto the street and follow my directions toward the school district’s administrative building. The city is nothing compared to Chicago. The population is less than a hundred thousand; not one building surpasses fifteen stories tall. But it’s a city nonetheless.

Located in the heart of downtown, the administrative building shows its age. I drive into the lot, search for a place to park. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Superintendent Baines when we meet.

I make a plan quickly as I weave through the parking lot. I’m a concerned parent. My child is being bullied. It’s not so hard to believe.

I step through the first row of cars. As I do, I spot Courtney Baines’s Jeep, the same red Jeep I watched pull from the Methodist church. I go to it, look around to be sure that I’m alone before reaching a hand up to tug on the car’s handle. It’s locked, of course. No one with any common sense would leave their car unlocked. I cup my hands around my eyes and peer inside, seeing nothing unusual.

I make my way into the administrative building. Once inside, a secretary greets me.

“Good morning,” she says, and, “What can we do for you?” speaking in the first-person plural, though there is no we here. She’s the only one in the room.

When I tell her I’d like to speak to the superintendent, she asks, “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

I don’t, of course, and so I say, “This will only take a second.”

She looks at me, asks, “So you don’t have an appointment, then?”

I tell her no.

“I’m so sorry, but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked today. If you’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow, we can get you in.” She glances at the computer screen, tells me when the superintendent will be free.

But I don’t want to see the superintendent tomorrow. I’m here now. I want to speak with her today.

“I can’t do it tomorrow,” I tell this secretary, making up some sob story about my sick mother and how she’ll be going in for chemotherapy tomorrow. “If I could just speak with her for three minutes, tops,” I say, not sure what I think I’ll accomplish in three minutes—or what I think I’ll accomplish at all. I just want to speak with the woman. To get a sense of the kind of person she is. Is she the kind of woman who could kill another? That’s what I want to know. Would three minutes tell me this?

It doesn’t matter. She shakes her head empathetically, says again how sorry she is but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked for the day.

“I can take your phone number,” she suggests. She reaches for paper and a pen to jot my information down. But before I can give it to her, a woman’s voice—one that’s surly and astute—comes through an intercom, beckoning the secretary.

I know this voice. These days, I hear it nearly every time I close my eyes.

I’m not sorry for what I did.

The secretary pushes her chair back and stands. Before she goes, she tells me she’ll be right back. She leaves and I’m alone.

My first thought is to go. To just leave. There’s no chance I’m getting past the secretary without resorting to desperate measures. Times aren’t desperate, not yet. I make my way toward the door. On the wall behind me is a coat hanger, a cast-iron frame with matching pegs. A black-and-white houndstooth coat hangs from it.

I recognize the coat. It belongs to Courtney Baines. It’s the same coat she wore the day she slipped out of Morgan’s memorial service and hurried to her car.

I take a deep breath. I listen for the sounds of voices, of footsteps. It’s quiet, and so I go to the coat. Without thinking, I run my fingers along the wool. I sink my hands into the pockets. Immediately my hand clasps down on something: Courtney Baines’s keys.

I stare at the keys in my hand. Five silver keys on a leather keychain.

A door opens behind me. It’s immediate and swift. There was never the warning of footsteps.

I spin around with the keys still in my hand. I don’t have time to put them back.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the secretary says as she drops back down into her seat. There’s a stack of papers in her hands now, and I’m grateful for this, because it’s the papers she’s looking at, not me.