The disappointment was palpable. “Do you think he could have been working with the backhoe guy?” I suggested as we drove back out of the cemetery gates. “Maybe that guy purposely blocked us in?”
We’d passed the backhoe operator parked along a road near the front of the cemetery; he’d been kicking back, listening to something on his headphones while another cigarette dangled from his lips.
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “I hope not.” She was drumming on the dashboard again.
What if the backhoe guy wasn’t the only person he’d told—what if there were others who knew? I hadn’t considered the possibility of more than one person knowing or seeing those photos. “We’re screwed.”
“Don’t say that!” Julie said, as I took a left with enough force to pull her sideways in her seat, knocking her hand off the dash. “We paid the money, it’s over.”
“Is that the way it typically works with blackmail?” I said, unable to contain my frustration any longer. “Do blackmailers typically just take the money and people never hear from them again?”
“I have no idea what’s typical,” Julie said in a prissy voice, clearly choosing to ignore my sarcasm. “Look, we didn’t catch him, but that doesn’t mean that everything failed—he got the money he asked for. We just have to stay calm.”
“You know, I don’t think we’re going to be able to fix this with positive thinking,” I snarled, accelerating up Blackburn Road.
“Well, we certainly aren’t going to fix it with drinking.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I know you’ve spiked your sippy cup.”
“It’s Irish coffee. Lots of people have it that way.”
“Sure. You can explain that to the cops when you get pulled over for speeding.”
“Shut up, Julie, okay? Because I really can’t take any more crap right now.” I was practically spitting I was so pissed off, but I did slow down, my hands knotted on the wheel so tight I could see the bones.
Apparently I wasn’t the only angry one: Julie looked like she wanted to hit me, but she crossed her arms instead, turning her back and staring out the passenger window.
“We need to call Alison and Heather,” I said after a few minutes of silent driving. Julie didn’t respond and wouldn’t look at me. Another few minutes passed and I tried again. “It’s no use blaming me—it’s not my fault this didn’t work out.”
“No one’s blaming you, Sarah, except for telling me to shut up. That I am blaming you for.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry I told you to shut up.”
She finally looked at me. “And I’m sorry I commented on your driving.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’re sorry for commenting on my coffee?”
She pursed her lips for a moment before saying in her most holier-than-thou voice, “If that’s what you need to hear.”
I laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I couldn’t stop a smile from slipping out. The atmosphere in the car relaxed a little. I made a call to tell Alison what had happened and she sounded almost comically distressed. “Is this guy some kind of ghost? How could he just appear like that?”
“He’s not a ninja, he hid behind construction equipment,” I said, rolling my eyes at Julie, who laughed, prompting Alison to say over the car speakerphone, “Why are you laughing?” Which only made us both laugh.
“Sorry, we’re just punchy,” Julie said.
“There’s nothing funny about this,” Alison said, sounding annoyed before dropping back into panic. “Oh God, the police have pulled Heather’s phone calls, they’re watching her and us, and now this crazy guy is just out there, a ticking time bomb who can go to the police at any moment.” Her voice climbed higher as she wailed, “What are we going to do?”
“Ask for adjoining cells?” I said before bursting out laughing along with Julie, who just lost it, both of us laughing so hard that I had to pull the car off to the side of the road.
“I guess you should consider a career in stand-up,” Alison said, tartly. “I’ve got a project due—got to go.”
“She actually hung up on me.” I held the phone out to show Julie.
“Oh dear, you have to call her back,” she said, still giggling and swiping at her eyes.
“Not until we’ve stopped laughing.”
“Maybe I should call Heather.” She started to select her number, but I stopped her.
“No, don’t. None of us should call her right now, not so soon after that detective visited Alison.”
That sobered her up. “Do you think they’re going to want to talk to us, too?”
“Maybe? Heather only called Alison that night—that’s why they wanted to talk to her, but who knows what else they’ve found out.”
“There’s no proof of anything, aside from the photos,” she said. “If this guy keeps his end of the deal we’ll be okay.”
“There’s no reason to trust him, especially after today.”
“We have no choice—there’s no other option.”
The atmosphere had changed again; we were both somber, and we drove the rest of the way in silence, under a sky that was gray and heavy with clouds, seemingly as weighed down as we were.
chapter twenty-nine
ALISON
Any time the doorbell rang I tensed, convinced it was the police. Every day carried with it a dual threat: The police would find out the truth and come to arrest us, or the blackmailer would go to the police with the photos and then they’d arrest us.
There’d been no more encounters after Detective Kasper questioned me, no sign that they had any interest in Julie or Sarah. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched, that everything each of us did was under surveillance.
Invariably, that tension we all were feeling transferred to our families. No matter that I did my best to hide the stress—I wasn’t good at it and my children seemed to catch my mood, especially Lucy, who became irritable and anxious.
“Is this some sort of developmental stage?” Michael asked one night after he’d packed a crying Lucy off to her room to think about why she couldn’t just yell at her brother no matter how annoying she found him. “Or should I find a priest willing to do exorcisms?”
“She’s okay, it’s just sibling rivalry.”
He snorted. “It’s more than that and you know it.”
We were cleaning the kitchen together post-dinner and I turned from loading the dishwasher to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“That this isn’t about her and Matthew—she’s picking up on the overall mood in this house.” He scraped some plates into the trash and handed them to me.
“And what would mood would that be?” I said, grabbing them from him and loading them noisily into the dishwasher, hoping my obvious annoyance would make him drop the subject.
“Tense. Irritable.”
“You mean my mood, right? Isn’t that what you’re trying to say?” I straightened up and looked at him, everything in my face and tone daring him to agree. Emotionally intelligent spouses know how to read the signs, and Michael was usually smart enough to back away from this kind of interaction with me. I’ve often thought successful marriages are as much about couples knowing how to create space for each other’s moods as they are about togetherness and communication.
He paused, but when he spoke again, I could hear his determination to have this conversation. “Yes—it’s your mood affecting Lucy.”
“Sure, blame the mother.” I turned back to the dishwasher, pleased with my deflection.
“C’mon, Ali, you know I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“You’re stressed and it’s affecting the kids. It’s affecting all of us.”
“You’re working long hours, too, Michael—I’m not the only one who’s got stress.”
“For God’s sake, Ali, you can’t even load the dishwasher without slamming things.”
He was right, but that only fueled my irritation. I hurled a handful of cutlery into the sink, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the house.
“Mommy, what happened? Are you okay?” Matthew came around the corner, eyes wide.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” I said, forcing a smile. “I just dropped some silverware.”