But I shouldn’t have done it. Of course I shouldn’t have. I should’ve let Paul rot in state prison, instead. My family would have recovered. If anything, maybe Joni wouldn’t have had it so rough. And little Tom Bishop wouldn’t have grown up believing such a lie about his own mother.
I abandoned him and my duty to protect him. That’s why Maggie Lewis’s death and her story affected me so deeply. That’s why I’ve spent the last fifteen years looking over my shoulder. Because, like Freud said, what we repress just comes out in worse ways.
“Emily? You there?”
“Don’t worry about my case notes,” I say.
“What about Michael?”
Blakely isn’t going to let the question go unanswered. Do I think Michael will tell on me, essentially? Throw me under the bus, like he should? If not to a jury, to reporters? In a tell-all memoir that makes the Oprah Book Club?
I continue to stare out at the lake. Dark today, slate gray, with angles of choppy waves. I think of the love I witnessed between Michael and Joni. No doubt, Michael did some acting. But there were things he couldn’t fake. Like getting his own full picture of the truth.
And his love for my daughter. He truly fell for Joni, even if he never intended it. I am convinced of that.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think Michael will speak against me.”
Blakely is dubious. “How can you be sure?”
“You’re the one that just said you were sure.”
“Well, I know she’s not going to seek a new trial for a number of reasons. Michael’s unwillingness to testify is possibly one of them. But it’s the one I’m least sure of.”
“You can be sure of it.” My words convince even my own ears. I don’t have to explain to Blakely how I’m so certain; I don’t even know if I could explain. No one knows, but Michael and I, what it was like the three times we tracked into his past. Those feelings belong to us.
“All right,” Blakely says. “Listen, you just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ve got things under control down here. The way this civil thing plays out — you’re never even going to have to see a courtroom. I’ll make sure of—”
“How much is she asking? What’s she suing me for?”
Blakely is quiet. I can hear the muffled honk of White Plains traffic. “Fifteen million,” he says.
I laugh, just a sound that escapes me, almost a bark. “What makes her think we have fifteen million dollars?”
“It’s just the opening bid. One million for every year spent in prison. But what they’re aiming for is ten. And I’ll get them even lower.”
“How much lower? Paul’s an architect and I’m a therapist. We’re not the Waltons.” I look around, imagining having to sell the lake house. Well, if so, it’s only the beginning of what I deserve.
Blakely asks, “What about Paul’s life insurance?”
I’ve actually thought about it. “He’s got to be missing for longer, or found. But if it kicks in, it’s two-point-five.”
And if that’s the case, it’s going right to my children.
“Okay,” Blakely says, sounding relieved. “Then we’ve got something to work with.”
No, we don’t.
We talk a little more. He gives me the same advice he’s given me twice already about staying quiet in the press. Looking solemn and remorseful if caught on camera, but not to engage. A judge can be swayed by public opinion, Blakely says, just like a jury.
“Laura Bishop still has to prove this thing,” Blakely reminds me. “Even if it’s not a new criminal case, she’s got to — well, her lawyers have to — convince a judge that she was wrongfully convicted. She’s got to do it without her son being involved, if it’s true that he’s going to stay on our side. The first thing they’re going to go after, probably, is—”
“John?”
He clears his throat; I’ve derailed him. “Yes?”
“Can we pick this up later?”
“Sure. Of course.” He asks, “You doing all right?”
“I’m going to lie down for a little bit.”
“All right. Listen . . . all right. Take it easy. We can talk again whenever.”
I thank him and hang up and toss my phone onto the kitchen island. I sip from the glass of red wine there and carry it to the window and look out, watch the lake for a little while.
The couch feels especially soft when I lie down. For a moment, I think I might weep, but then nothing comes. I’m empty.
After a while, I drift off to sleep. I dream of the Bishop home and the blood on the kitchen floor.
Only it’s Michael with his head bashed in. It’s Joni who sits at the table where his mother sat, drinking her wine. And it’s my reflection in the door window, fresh snowflakes coming down behind the glass, hammer in my hand.
*
Something wakes me.
The first thing I notice is the light has changed. Evening is coming on. The lake has turned silvery to match the sky.
I hear a noise. A high-pitched whining. Coming from outside the house.
I know that sound.
Moving slowly, quietly, I get up from the couch. I take my phone from the kitchen and walk to the side door. From here, I can see the garage.
A light is on. Something or someone moves in front of it, casting a long shadow over the gravel driveway. In the next instant, the high-pitched whine resumes.
Paul’s sander. Someone is working on the boat.
I get my sweater down off the peg and open the door, drawing the garment around me. I walk to the garage with the sound of the sander going.
When it stops, I’m standing just two yards away from the open garage bay. Wood dust floats like pollen. The man standing there waves at the dust. His back is to me; he’s hunched over. He runs his hand along the smoothed wood. Then he sets the sander down, brushes his hands together, and straightens up. Finally, he turns around and looks at me.
“Hi, honey,” Paul says.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
He’s unshaven. His hair is oily. He looks malnourished, cheek bones stretched against too-thin skin. When he smiles, his teeth are darker. He’s wearing different clothes since the last time I saw him — jeans, a gray T-shirt promoting the Syracuse Orangemen football team — but the boat shoes are the same. Everything is filthy, pants stained and shirt torn. The last thing I notice are his hands, dark with mud. Or dried blood.
He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He looks from me to the boat, as if it’s obvious. “Gonna finish it up. It’s overdue.”
“Work has been calling for you.” I try to keep from trembling. “When they couldn’t get you, they tried me. But by now . . .”
His eyes narrow. “I plan to go back as soon as I can. Maybe the end of the week. But I figured, as long as I’m here, I should put the final coat of varnish on her.” He nods at the boat. “Just needed to give it a light once-over with the sander first.”
We stare at Paul’s project for a few moments.
“It looks good,” I say.
I can hear a slight wheeze in his breath.
Still watching the boat, he asks me, “Did Sean wake up?”
“No. Not yet.”
“And Jo? Where’s she?” Paul’s head slowly turns. “She still with him?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“What about her? Are they with her?”
He means Laura. “I think they went to Long Island. To the Bleekers. It’s possible she’s there.”