“We don’t want money or anything from him.” I cough. “We just want to know what happened.”
The bartender grabs a champagne flute and strains the lipstick-colored concoction into it. “We don’t really talk about guests. Don’t want to out anyone for coming. Understand?”
All doubts about the sexual orientation of the bar’s primary clientele disappear. The man probably thinks that I am a girlfriend trying to figure out whether her boyfriend is using her as a beard.
I sip my drink. It’s good, but too sweet for me. Still, I effuse over the man’s efforts. He smiles in a thin way that shows he’s all too aware that my compliments are because I want something and moves to straighten the glasses on the back bar. If another patron were here, he’d probably start chatting him up right now to avoid me.
“My husband and Nick were prominent in the LGBT community after their law firm sued the city on behalf of a bullied teen,” I blurt out. “Please, look. He thinks Nick could have been the victim of a hate crime.”
This gets the man’s attention. His arms puff out as he walks over to me. He picks up my phone from the counter and taps the screen to zoom into the photo. “The guy on the right, smiling. Nick, is it?”
“Yes.”
He hands me back the phone. “He’s a regular. Takes dates here often. Great tipper.”
I remember Christine. Did Nick have a thing about bringing women to gay bars? “Female or male dates?”
The bartender’s mouth pinches on the side as though I’m particularly dense. “Honey, look around. Men bring men here.”
Nick was gay! Things that never made sense to me before become clear. Why he was never particularly affectionate with any of his “girlfriends.” Why he hadn’t been interested in sleeping with a clearly willing Christine. Why he still wasn’t married, while David and I had just celebrated twelve years.
My mouth must be hanging open because the bartender’s hands are folded across his oiled pectorals as if to tell me to get on with it. I clear my throat and pose another question. “The night he disappeared, Saturday, July ninth, Nick came here with a man. A woman came in later. She was upset.”
The bartender regards me skeptically and shakes his head. “I wasn’t here. I spend most of July in Fire Island. But I can ask the rest of the staff if you text me a photo.”
I type in his number as he rattles it off and then send him the picture of David and Nick. There’s a beep under the counter that I assume is his cell acknowledging receipt.
“Do you have a photo?” he asks.
“I think you just got it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of you.”
“Me?” I don’t understand. Maybe bartenders for gay clubs aren’t necessarily homosexual. Or he’s bisexual? A flush rises to my cheeks. “I—”
He chuckles. “You’re cute, hon. But I also want to ask around about you. How do I know you’re not the girl who came in here all upset about her boyfriend and then had her homophobic brother or some other asshole murder him?”
I want to protest with a list: (a) I’m married. (b) My husband is straight. (c) We’ve been together twelve years and are trying to have a baby. (d) I’ve never been here in my life. But I hold my tongue. He wouldn’t believe me, anyway. After all, I hadn’t realized Nick was gay.
I pull my wallet from my purse and remove a business card. My last book cover is on the front. A flattering photo of me is printed on the back with a few lines of positive criticism for my first book, the international bestseller. “This is me.”
He examines the image and then stares back at me, comparing features. Recognition sparkles in his eyes. He flicks the card with his finger. “I read Drowned Secrets. Good book.”
Chapter 14
Victoria sleeps in her bassinet, body positioned for a police pat down. Her arms are raised in a stick-’em-up position. Her legs are spread. Yet there’s no tension in her expression. Her bow mouth is untied. Her lids are closed without fluttering. She does not have bad dreams.
Fatigue weighs on my eyelids. REM is not an option. I know Colleen waits for me in my subconscious, bloody and beaten. Banquo’s ghost, prepared to accuse me of murder and usurp my position as Victoria’s mother.
I need to think like the detectives. They are questioning Jake. They must suspect murder. They’ve seen the blood-soaked floor. And Jake must be a suspect. He was the last known person to see Colleen alive. I’m certain to land on the short list, too, if anyone figures out that I knew of his affair.
Although, how would they discover that? Jake thinks he’s slipped everything past me. My mother believes she’s lying about my whereabouts to cover up an indiscretion with a coworker. The only person who knows that I knew is Tyler. Surely he wouldn’t say anything. He was my shrink, after all—though sleeping together probably voided any doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. If a policeman came to his door asking questions, would he say he treated me? Would he confess everything?
I need to find out. I grab my house line off the nightstand and call his office. He answers on the third ring.
“Hello. Dr. Tyler Williams.”
“It’s Beth.”
“Oh, hi. Did everything go all right last night?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you free at all today?”
His voice drops. “Did you tell him anything?”
If I say no, he’ll assume that he’s safe and won’t see me. “Can we meet?”
“I have one more appointment for the day coming up in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll see you in an hour and half then. I’ll come to your office.”
*
Tyler doesn’t leave me loitering. He’s waiting at the door. As soon as I get within fifty feet of his office, he waves me and the stroller through like a frantic traffic director and locks the door behind us. His facial expression does not befit a shrink. Visible worry lines crease his brow as he motions to his couch. I push the stroller around to the side of the room and then settle down on the sofa, hoping he’ll sit beside me.
He takes his usual chair. “So what happened?”
No “nice to see you.” He only cares about how close my husband is to filing malpractice charges. “I didn’t tell Jake anything. I didn’t even go home last night. I went to my mother’s house. She has assured me that, if Jake asks, she’ll claim I was there all night.”
He scratches his neat goatee. “But she knows something occurred.”
“She believes I went out for drinks with a male coworker after Jake stood me up. I’ve made sure, the best I can, that this won’t come back to you.”
His expression relaxes. “Thank you.” He starts to rise from his chair, hand extended, as though we’ve made a business deal to bury our rendezvous and all that remains is to shake on it. Me, bare-skinned beneath his body, can be deleted from his memory.
“I apologize for all this,” he says.
“The police came to my apartment this morning.”
Tyler slumps back into his chair. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Jake’s girlfriend is missing. Apparently, she was supposed to meet a friend late last night for drinks and didn’t show. A neighbor found blood outside her apartment and called the cops.”
Images of the stained floor overpower me like an unseen wave. I am caught without enough air. I start gasping. Hyperventilating. Suddenly, Tyler is beside me, brandishing a paper bag from the ether. He places it over my mouth, a parent securing a child’s oxygen mask on a plane going down.
“Just breathe.” His palm, warm and wide, rubs my back. A few long inhalations and I’m ready to speak again. I focus on the feel of his body next to mine. I can get through this. I have to concentrate on Tyler.
“The cops came to the house to question Jake,” I continue. “I’m sure he was with her last night. That’s why he cancelled our date last minute.”