He laughs. “Yes, obviously, it seems significant now. I don’t have it here. The evidence was shipped off until trial. But I can get it, probably by tomorrow, and share it.”
“Please do. Whatever it was, Allison seemed pretty desperate that Finley not see it.”
“Know what I find just as interesting?” says Bruce. “Luke Rankin.”
“How so?”
“Well, he won’t talk to you, right? He cut off questioning almost immediately.”
“Correct.”
“Yet he freely hands over his phone. Doesn’t demand a warrant. Just hands it over.”
Louise nods. Cutty does, too. “You think he wants us to see this.”
“I do, Louise. I think our friendly neighborhood baseball coach, the one whose hair we think was found in the Brices’ condo bedroom—I think he might be trying to deflect attention away from himself.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe he truly believes Allison killed Finley. These two don’t seem to have much of a relationship anymore.”
“Let’s just see what the video shows,” says Cutty. “We’ll take it fromthere.”
Two Days Before April Fools’Day
48
Allison
The restaurant is alive at six o’clock, voices overlapping, the scrape of chairs against the polished floor, servers weaving between tables with trays of salads and cuts and glasses of wine. Through the tall front windows, Michigan Avenue hums with traffic, the blur of cars and shoppers and suits reminding me how close I am to my office.
“Thanks for agreeing to this.” Finley, dressed in a sport coat and dress shirt, open collar, stands as I find him in the restaurant. “I know you’re busy. I picked a place close to your office.”
Twelve days into our separation, Fin looks good, better than he’s sounded by text or over the phone in boozy late-night calls to me. The formality shakes me a bit; we’ve been together forever, and now he’s grateful I’ll meet with him. But such is one of the many challenges, I am discovering, of breaking apart a marriage.
The air smells of roasted garlic and seared fish, the kind of careful, curated menu that Finley has always favored. The booths are leather, the tables crowded closer together than I’d like, forcing us into proximity not just with each other but with the strangers sitting three feet away. The neighboring tables are animated. Lawyers talking too quickly, sales reps pitching ideas, friends sipping white wine as if time is not an issue.
Then there’s us. Awkward, uncomfortable. And he’s right, I’m busy. Swamped. But I’m the one who couldn’t wait until the end of theChildresstrial to split up.
“Remember when this place was Jeremiah’s?” he says. “You burned the roof of your mouth?” His expression changes when he sees mine, though I’m not sure what my face reveals.
Yes, I remember. Of course I remember. It was cheese fondue. A romantic dinner that turned comical. Finley was so kind, so sweet, so attentive.
He orders red wine. I’m good with water. When the waiter leaves, Finley clears his throat. “I’ll get right to it, I guess.” He puts his hands together. “I’ve been doing some thinking. I realize you’ve made up your mind. I won’t fight you. I won’t fight the divorce.”
It wouldn’t matter if he did. He can’t stop me from divorcing him. That’s no concession.
“I was thinking that, if we’re gonna break up, we should make it a clean break. Instead of us being entangled financially forever, maybe it’s best we handle this with just a one-off.”
A one-off? A onetime, lump-sum payment?
“Makes more sense just to, y’know, have separate money,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “I already told you, I’m willing to split everything down the middle. Including my salary, year-end bonus, whatever. We can split up our assets, each of us takes one of the homes. I assume you want the condo downtown, but I’m open to whatever.”
“Okay, but I like the idea of separate,” he says. “Separate seems better.”
“My salary, half my salary would automatically divert to your account,” I say. “It’s not like I’d walk over a check every month. It’s all electronic. Routine.”
He allows for that, chews on his lip.
