“Thanks. Yeah, I’m planning on taking over the whole block if I can. Create my own department-slash-lifestyle store.”
As I looked around, Hannah took a step away from me, rather than giving me her usual big hug and “Try this on” greeting. I decided to peruse the racks, casually. But this was an act, because I barely looked at the clothes as they passed through my hands. Hannah kept her distance and folded distressed tees. She said, “So, I was thinking. Remembering, really. And, like, that night. You know. That night my dad died. Did you wake up at all? Or hear anything? Or, like, see my father after we got back?”
Oh, fuck.
I casually took my hand off the clothes and faced her. This conversation deserved attention and respect, even if she couldn’t look me in the face.
“No. I just got you and Erika up the stairs and we all sort of passed out.”
“Well, you didn’t pass out. Exactly. ’Cause you were sober.”
“Yeah, but I mean, I fell asleep. I was exhausted. A lot of dancing. And then sugar crash from all the candy. You know.”
I could feel the new tension between us growing. So I asked, “What’s going on? You okay? You haven’t mentioned that night in a long time.”
Hannah finished folding the shirts into an expensive little pile. “I guess I’m not okay. ’Cause Detective Jackson came in here to talk to me.”
I could now feel myself sinking into the trendy deep-red-stained cement floor. And decided honesty was going to be the best policy. “He thinks I killed Jason. Because Jason’s mother went to the police and accused me. You know how he was estranged from her. And she always blamed me for it. But the detective thinks she is credible. So now I’m a suspect in the detective’s mind.”
Hannah looked miffed. “Oh. I remember my mom had to deal with people thinking she killed my dad. I guess the spouse is always suspected.”
“Yeah. It’s been really rough.”
I waited for some words of comfort. But Hannah didn’t give me a peep or expression of sympathy. She moved over to another pile. This time buttery soft leggings. And began refolding.
She said, “Well, the detective guy didn’t say a word to me about Jason.” She looked up at me. Her blunt bangs framed her eyeliner perfectly. “He wanted to know about the night my father died. He kept asking for details. Like when we got home that night, how drunk I was, and specifically how you acted the next day.”
I knew why. But I had to pretend. “Why?”
She had to pretend too. She shrugged. Then said, “I barely remembered this, but I guess my dad had a wound on his head, or something, when he died. The detective kept asking if anything from our kitchen was missing. Like a small knife. Or something that could have made that wound. He even showed me a photo of my dad. Dead. All zoomed in on that head area.”
I was truly angry at Detective Jackson for doing this to my friend. “That’s horrible!” I said. “What a dick for showing you that.”
“He wasn’t a dick. He’s just trying to get to the truth.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Hannah continued, “I told him I couldn’t remember. It was such a crazy time. But that he could talk to my mom. That she might remember more.”
“That’s smart.”
“I guess I’m smart, sometimes.”
“Hannah, you’ve always been smart.”
We stood there. At an impasse of friendship, choices, and lies.
Then she said, “Wanna know what’s really weird, Ruby?”
I nodded. No longer able to predict where any of this was going.
“The detective didn’t ask me anything about Erika that night. Only about you.”
I had to keep it together, and said, with the right amount of anger, “Yeah, well, he has it out for me.” I knew that neither Hannah nor her mom would ever remember the missing keychain charm at this point. And even if they did, Detective Jackson would never be able to find it. Not in my house, or my car, or my parents’ house, or my office. He could get all the warrants he wanted and look and look and look. A few days after Richard Vale died, during my usual scheduled volunteering hours, I buried it with all five bloody flamingo feathers deep in the bird sanctuary. Under trees, among hundreds of other feathers, hidden in damp soil and decaying natural debris.
Hannah looked at me, like she was seeing me clearly for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. She curtly said, “No loitering in the shop, please.” I knew that meant I was to leave and never come back. But I felt compelled to show her an act of continuing support. I pulled a black pencil skirt from her own clothing line off a rack, and bought it without trying it on. At this point in my life, fit no longer mattered.
CHAPTER 39
AMMONIA
Jason dying was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Then being suspected of killing him added insult to unimaginable injury. It was like Gertrude started a conga line of people who suspected me of murder, and the line kept getting longer. First the well-respected Detective Jackson. Then the faceless judge who issued him those warrants to search my house and cell phone records. Then Hannah Vale. And I knew next in line would be some go-getter prosecutor, excited to sink his teeth into this marital murder and wage a war against me. His job being to get even more people up and dancing, and prove without a reasonable doubt that I was guilty of first-degree murder.
I was sure the detective was using his folder-of-photos game show trick on everyone in the justice system, to rile them up, and showcase that I was some sort of very lazy serial killer. Four deaths in thirty years? Please. If I were a serial killer, I would be way more productive than that. But surprisingly, my being present when Duncan and Richard and Evelyn W. died was not even the most damning thing against me. It was the seemingly meaningless minutiae of my life that would add up to total that I murdered my husband. While I forced myself out of bed every morning and went to work to help other people live their best lives, the police were weaving a web of motives and circumstantial evidence to conclude that I was a cold-blooded killer.
Although all this was technically confidential, Roman had ways of hearing courthouse whispers. He explained to me that what would happen next was the assistant district attorney who took on the case would be discussing my crime in front of a grand jury. This was not a trial to prove I was guilty, but a song and dance to get an indictment, so then Detective Jackson could officially arrest me. And then, a trial. And then life in a maximum security prison. When I was alone, and quiet, and really thought about that possible outcome, I couldn’t help but weep into Mr. Cat’s fur. Apologizing to him over and over for inevitably having to abandon him.
Roman was telling me about the assistant district attorney and the grand jury while in my kitchen. I sipped a second cup of morning coffee and watched him doing push-ups on the cool Mediterranean-tiled floor as he laid out my future. I was used to him exercising while he spoke. It was a sign he was both revved up and nervous. It also showed how strong his core was, that he could have full legal conversations, breathing deeply, while exerting every muscle in his body. He warned me that the grand jury was the first in what would be a long line of steps.
I was a little miffed. Especially knowing what an amazing lawyer he was. And said, “But maybe they won’t indict me? And this will be over?”
He hopped up, his face flush with rushing blood, and walked over to me. He wanted to make sure what he said next wasn’t getting lost in his impeccable pecs.
“A grand jury almost always indicts. It’s completely one-sided. The prosecutor calls witnesses, anyone he chooses, and if they refuse, they’re in contempt. Then he unfolds his case, manipulating the facts however he wants. And he has a very low burden of proof. There is no defense attorney there to protect you, and no judge to keep the proceedings in order.”
“Wait. You mean you won’t be there?”