Elizabeth made a guttural noise. “Yes,QueenCassandra. You know you’re not actually the only person who cares about this situation.”
“Oh, fuck off, Elizabeth,” Cassandra snapped back. “Why don’t you go back to the mud people?”
“Can you both shut up?” Becks grumbled. “I already have a headache.”
At least their focus was on one another now, and not her texts. She went to check the time on her nonexistent watch, then glanced at the oven clock. “I need to run up and get changed,” she said casually.
“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” Becks asked, motioning to Gretchen’s Lululemon yoga pants and zip-up sweatshirt.
“Meeting with Dad’s lawyers warrants something more than athleisure. I’ll be right back. Can the three of you clean up from breakfast?”
Cassandra held up her hands. “Wait, I didn’t even eat any—”
“Cassandra, please!” Gretchen barked, then smiled. It wasn’t just Elizabeth who was gawking at her now—all three children were staring at her. “I’m just asking for a little help so that I can take a minute and focus on gathering myself for this meeting about a murder case against your father. Is that too much to expect from my own children?”
“No, Mom,” Cassandra said, chastened. “Of course not.”
—
Gretchen dug her phone out of her purse. Did they want more money? She would gladly pay if they’d really go away. But would they? This was why she should never have gotten involved with people like this. Where would it end? How would she comeup with more cash? She didn’t want to sell more jewelry. The watch—she felt a fresh pop of anger. This wasallRichard’s fault. Whatever regrettable choices Gretchen had made, he was the one who’d invited all this drama into their lives.
Gretchen sat down on the bed, pulled up the text chain, and quickly typed out a response.
I paid you. This is over.
The reply was immediate.There’s something you need to know.
I don’t need to know anything more. We’re finished here.
We’re finished when I say we are. I’ll be in touch.
—
Mikey Pearce wore expensive jeans, a pricey-looking T-shirt, a hoodie, and designer slip-on sneakers. Combined with his salt-and-pepper hair and heavy black eyeglasses, he looked this time more like a Tribeca movie producer than a lawyer. Seated next to Scotty on Gretchen’s living room sofa, he also looked incongruous. “No court today,” he’d offered by way of explanation when Gretchen had not-so-subtly eyeballed his outfit on arrival. She did like Mikey Pearce, but she had a hard time with inscrutable people.
“So what’s this other evidence they have?” Cassandra asked, crossing her arms tightly.
Mikey Pearce nodded somberly. “Well, just to backtrack for a second, they have the eyewitness who supposedly puts your dad near the scene. We still don’t know any specifics, but unfortunately the prosecution seems pretty confident that witness will hold up at trial—and I’m inclined to believe them.” He held up a finger. “As for the evidence they found here: They have a pair of your dad’s pants with Frankie Callahan’s bloodtypeon them. No DNA match yet. That will take at least another week.”
“What pants?” Gretchen asked. This still made no sense whatsoever.
“We haven’t seen them,” Mikey Pearce said. “But apparently they found them in the garbage downstairs. In the basement.”
The children all turned to look at Gretchen, but when sheopened her mouth to say something calm and sensible, nothing came out.
“Butallthe garbage in the whole building goes down the chute,” Cassandra said, stepping in to fill the void. “Those pants could belong to anyone.”
“Unfortunately,” Mikey went on, “it seems they were in a plastic bag with a Pâtisserie Vanessa receipt that had your mom’s name and credit card information. The theory is that your dad removed them in your home, put them in the bag, then tossed them down the chute, not realizing the receipt was in there.”
The rustling sound, followed by Richard going back out into the hallway. He could have been throwing something down the garbage chute. In fact, it made perfect sense. Gretchen felt sweat bead on her lip.
They were all silent then for a long time. No one made eye contact, and Gretchen sat stock-still, resisting the urge to wipe her damp palms on her pants.
“We’ve also gotten more details on the condition of the body,” Mikey Pearce said. “Apparently, the real issue is that there are no full fingerprints—not surprising given that Frankie was a painter working with chemicals. But again, it’s only a matter of time.”
“There is something else,” Scotty said. “That’s also not great.”
“Can you please—just out with all of it already?” Gretchen pleaded. “This is like death by a thousand cuts.”
