Page 37

TWENTY-SEVEN

SAMANTHA

My hope that staying in our vacation home together would create an opportunity for Patrick to more fully experience the deep connection between Emily and Keith was dead.

We were firmly headed in the opposite direction, and I wasn’t sure we’d be able to turn back. Emily and Keith were the same as they’d always been—loving and kind to each other, touching every chance they got, always on the same page, even without speaking to each other. I wanted Patrick to long for that kind of connection, to notice what was missing in our relationship, to rethink how we were shaping our lives. More than anything, I wanted to know I was first in his heart, like he was in mine, like Emily knew she was for Keith. She’d talked about him enough that I had no doubt Keith put her at the center of his life. Not out of a sense of obligation, but because he saw her as his closest friend, the person he went to first. Always. The person for whom he dropped everything, turning away from others.

Now, Patrick had begun to view them as monsters. I could see it in the downward twist of his lower lip—a mixture of condemnation and horror. It was the horror that troubled me most. I wasn’t even sure he would want to keep our share of the house. If they let him, and he could find a buyer, he’d push to get rid of it, and our friends.

For the past year or so, I’d thought that maybe Patrick was starting to think of Keith as a close friend, independent of our foursome. Now, he looked like he wanted to punch Keith in the face! I’d never seen my husband get violent. He rarely even raised his voice. I’d never even seen him tense up with that aggressive, bottled-up, male energy that clearly wants to explode when someone they love is hurt. He’d started looking at Keith as if this might be the first situation in his life that called for violence. I saw the fury in his brow before he even opened his mouth.

“The problem was not taken out of our hands,” he said. “You’re a fool if you find that idea comforting. We’re covering up a murder.”

“We didn’t cover up a murder,” Keith said.

“For a lawyer, you have a strange view of the law,” Patrick said.

“I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

“I know that. But I was under the mistaken impression that attorneys followed the law, no matter what their area of expertise.”

“I do.”

Patrick laughed. “Someone moved that body. And that’s on us. There would have been an investigation. We thwarted that.”

My skin felt damp despite the quickly cooling night air. Listening to them, a hard knot formed in my stomach. It sounded like a full-on fight was about to break out. There had to be something I could say. Something to smooth the fur on the back of both men’s necks. They were verbally circling each other like growling wolves, teeth bared, searching for the other’s weak spot so they could attack.

“The body was moved. That means there’s zero evidence of a murder,” Keith said. “If you’d had the experience with the police that I’ve had, you wouldn’t be so sure of yourself in believing they’ll respectfully listen to you tell your story and take you at your word. The first thing they do is form an opinion based on their so-called gut instinct. Then, the plane takes off, and you have to hang on for dear life while they assume the worst about you and launch an attack on your integrity.”

“What makes you such an expert on police behavior?” Patrick asked.

“There was a girl at the park where I hung out with my friends, riding skateboards and stuff. One day, she was being harassed by some guys I’d never seen before. They started with saying rude shit to her, then moved in on her and started grabbing at her. No matter what she said, even when she started crying, they wouldn’t leave her alone. They started trying to tear off her shirt. Things got worse. I told them to back off, but they shoved me down. One of them kicked me in the stomach.

“Finally, I called 911. The minute the cops got there, the three guys who’d been attacking her changed into completely different people. They were respectful and compliant. They said I was the one who’d done everything they’d done to her. They claimed they were scared for her safety. I guess the girl was afraid of them, maybe of what would happen later. Maybe she already knew them. For whatever reason, she backed up their story. She got all weepy and smiley at the three guys. She acted like they were her best friends, her protectors.” Keith clasped his hands behind his head, elbows out, as if he was relaxing into the story.

“The cops lectured me, then debated about whether to charge me. I kept pointing out how scared she looked, how her voice sounded weak and her story was vague. As experienced cops, they should have known she was too scared to tell the truth. It was obvious. But no, they took me to the police station. They threatened to arrest me if I didn’t confess. They wouldn’t listen to the truth, no matter what I said. When I raised my voice, they told me to watch out, or I’d really be in trouble. Finally, they called my parents. And they lectured them about my bad behavior. They said I was a bully and possibly a predator.”

“But you weren’t arrested?” Patrick asked.

“That’s not important. Don’t you get what that felt like? As a kid? I don’t trust them because I know how they think.”

“So do I,” Patrick said. “Some of my friends are cops.”

“I know that. And your friends feel like you’re on the same team—as first responders. They’re never going to show you their bullying side.”

“How can you be so disrespectful of the people who keep us safe?” Patrick asked.

“They don’t keep us safe when they get their heads stuck on one opinion, one storyline about how things must have happened. They’re stubborn as hell.”

“Not in my⁠—”

“Shh.” Emily put her finger to her lips. She stood and walked to the edge of the deck, peering into the row of trees that appeared black in the shadowy darkness.

“What’s wrong?” I got up and went to where she was standing.

Emily put her hand on my wrist, restraining my arm.

“Don’t point,” she whispered. “Jordan’s over there.”