This never would have occurred to Violet before he’d disappeared. He and Bear together were her life—weren’t they? Her ambivalence about her husband—her fairy-tale-ending husband—frightened her. It made her question all that had come before, made her question herself. At a time when she seemed to be at the center of everyone else’s questioning, that was the last thing she needed.
As she pulled up to the house, she saw Agent Martin’s car parked out front. He was leaning against it, waiting, sunglasses obstructing his expression, and as he raised his hand in a silent wave, Violet realized that Gram’s questions might be the least of her worries.
*
Violet had been proud of herself this morning for pulling it together. She had taken a long, steamy shower, the water washing over days’ worth of grief and grime. She had blow-dried her hair, trying not to think of the way Bear liked to drive his Tonka trucks up and down the hallway just outside the door while she got ready, the way he’d giggle when he peeked around the doorframe and she teasingly aimed the warm air in his direction, tousling his curly locks. She had put on clothes suitable for wearing in public. She had made an actual meal, an omelet and toast, and then forced herself to eat it, swallowing bite by bite over the permanent lump in her throat, before heading out to run the most ordinary of errands. Milk and juice. She had let herself believe that maybe acting normal would make a difference. That maybe she just had to force herself through the motions on her own terms, without Gram hovering over her.
But now that she was sitting here across the kitchen table from Agent Martin, who had declined her offer of coffee or tea, she worried that she looked too together, that he might mistakenly think she was handling things just fine—maybe even too fine.
“I appreciate you being open to me dropping by,” Agent Martin said, his voice devoid of appreciation. He was not altogether unlike the FBI agents in those dime-a-dozen prime-time dramas. He wasn’t as clever or as ridiculous with his dialogue, of course—no one was. But he did have the persona down, which was to say he had no bedside manner. In the many times they’d spoken over the last week, whether in a formal interview, a routine update, or a chance encounter in the agency’s parking lot, never once had he expressed empathy for what Violet was going through. She didn’t know if that was because he suspected her of something, or because that was just his way, but she hoped she wouldn’t be needing his services long enough to find out. “I’ll get right to the point.”
Violet nodded.
“Ever heard the name Maribel Branson?”
Maribel. A pretty name. She would have remembered it. “No. Should I have?”
“Your husband never mentioned her?”
In spite of his brusque fa?ade, the tone of the question seemed to betray its intention. Oh, she thought. Oh. She looked at him despondently. “Is he having an affair with her?”
The agent eyed her strangely, letting a few beats of silence fall between them. Violet held very, very still. Finally, he spoke. “She’s the woman who died when he fell asleep at the wheel of his car.”
Violet was conscious of the fact that her breathing had stopped, literally caught in her throat. “When he—what? When? He killed a woman?” She felt dizzy. Little bright spots of color floated into the corners of her vision. She blinked them away.
Agent Martin leaned back in his chair. He looked around the kitchen and nodded to the empty room, as if letting someone there know that her surprise was satisfactory to him.
“He was responsible for the accident that caused her death,” he corrected her. “Five years ago this month. But he was never charged. Her family was adamant about that. Just a tragic accident.”
“She was a pedestrian? Or driving in the oncoming lane?”
“She was in his passenger seat.”
Violet blinked harder.
“She was his fiancée,” Agent Martin said.
15
A FEW BLURRY MONTHS AFTER AUGUST 2011
Finn did not want to go to Caitlin and George’s for dinner. He knew everything about it would be perfect—the artisanal cheeses and bread Caitlin would have expertly selected from the international market, the elegant wine pairings, the elevated comfort food she was sure to serve as a main course, the decadent desserts, the married-couple banter between her and George, delicately choreographed to put guests at ease, to make them laugh, but not to raise eyebrows with any jabs that had too much truth to them. The perfection of it all was what he dreaded most. It would make him envy them, which would make him hate himself even more than he already did, which hardly seemed possible these days. But he had to go. He’d declined too many of their invitations at this point. Plus he didn’t want to seem ungrateful now that they were his landlords. At least he could drink his way through the evening—the trip home was no longer a drive across town. Now it was a mere walk next door.
Fresh out of the shower, he wiped the steam from the mirror with the palm of his hand and slathered shaving cream on his face. Behind him, water dripped from the faucet into the antique tub, a constant sound that had become like a clock ticking down his moments alone in this ancient, empty house. He’d considered getting a dog to fill the space, to fill the silence, but it seemed decidedly unfair to the dog. He didn’t trust himself to care for another living thing. He could barely drag himself out of bed these days. The credit for that went to Caitlin.
It was during the year he hadn’t seen much of George and Caitlin—the year of Maribel—that they had bought their crumbling mansion in East Walnut Hills, restoring it top to bottom. Caitlin had fallen instantly in love with its stately fa?ade, the semicircle of marble columns fronting the grand entrance, the brick and stone walls and arches that had withstood the years remarkably well, the fireplaces and the dumbwaiter and the gate to the storybook secret garden out back. Her only hang-up in putting an offer on the place had been the house next door—a three-story Victorian that had been converted into a multifamily years before and fallen into such disrepair that it was in danger of being condemned.