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I don’t say anything else.
“You don’t remember the name of the U.S. marshal who showed up at your doorstep this morning. That’s what you are telling me?”
“I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night, so things are a little foggy.”
“Do you remember if this U.S. marshal showed you a badge?” O’Mackey says.
“He did.”
“Do you know what a United States marshal badge looks like?” Naomi says.
“Am I supposed to?” I say. “I also don’t know what an FBI badge looks like, now that you’re mentioning things I don’t know. I probably should confirm that you are who you say you are. Then we can continue this conversation.”
“We’re just a little confused because this case isn’t in the jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshals’ office,” she says. “So we need to ascertain who exactly was speaking with you this morning. They shouldn’t have been here without our approval. Did they threaten Owen in some way? Because you should know that if Owen’s involvement is minimal, he may be able to help himself by testifying against Avett.”
“That’s true,” O’Mackey says. “He isn’t even a suspect yet.”
“Yet?” I say.
“He didn’t mean yet,” Naomi says.
“I didn’t mean yet,” O’Mackey says. “I meant that there is no reason for you to be talking to a U.S. marshal.”
“Funny thing is, Agent O’Mackey, he said the same thing about you guys.”
“Did he?”
Naomi pulls herself together, smiles. “Let’s just start over, okay?” she says. “We’re all on the same team here. But, in the future, you might want your lawyer present before you talk to anyone who just shows up at your door.”
I match her smile. “That’s a great idea, Naomi. I’m going to start with that right now,” I say.
Then I point toward the gate and wait for them to walk through it.
Don’t Hold This Against Me
After I’m certain that the FBI agents are gone, I leave my workshop.
I walk back toward the docks, Owen’s computer tightly clasped to my chest. I pass the elementary school just as the kids are getting out for the day.
I look up, feeling eyes on me. Several mothers (and fathers) are staring in my direction. Not exactly with anger—not like Carl and Patty—more like with concern, with pity. These people love Owen, after all. They’ve always loved him. They’ve embraced him. It’s going to take more than seeing his firm’s name in their newsfeed to make them doubt him. That’s the thing about a small town, people protect their own. It takes a lot for them to turn on someone they love.
It also takes a lot to let anyone new in. Like me. They’re still not sure about letting me in. And when I first moved to Sausalito, it was worse. Those curious eyes were scrutinizing me, but for a different reason. They were asking questions loudly enough that Bailey heard them, came home, and relayed them. They wanted to know who was this out-of-towner who Owen had decided to marry. They didn’t understand how Sausalito’s most eligible bachelor was off the market because of a woodturner, though they didn’t call me that. They called me a carpenter—a carpenter who didn’t wear makeup or trendy shoes. They said how strange for Owen to choose a woman like that—a fresh-faced woman, pushing forty, who probably wasn’t going to give him more kids. A woman who apparently didn’t stop playing with wood long enough to figure out how to have a family of her own.
They didn’t seem to understand about me what Owen understood from the beginning. I had no problem being on my own. My grandfather had raised me to depend on myself. My problems came when I tried to fit myself into someone else’s life, especially when that meant giving up a part of myself in the process. So I waited until I didn’t have to—until it felt like someone fit effortlessly. Or maybe that’s too easy. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that what was required to be with Owen didn’t feel like effort. It felt like details.
At the house, I lock the door behind me and take out my phone and look up a name in my contacts. JAKE. It’s the last phone call I want to make at this moment, but I do it anyway. I call the other lawyer I know.
“This is Anderson…” he says when he picks up.
The sound of his voice takes me back to Greene Street, to onion soup and Bloody Marys at The Mercer Kitchen on Sundays, to a different life. It takes me back because this is how my former fiancé has always answered the phone. Jake Bradley Anderson—University of Michigan JD/MBA, triathlete, excellent cook.
In the two years since we’ve last spoken, he hasn’t made a change to his greeting, even though it comes off as smug. He likes that it comes off as smug. That is why he does it. He thinks it’s a good thing—smugness, intimidation—considering what he does for a living. He is a litigator at a Wall Street law firm, on track to being one of their youngest senior partners. He isn’t a criminal lawyer, but he is a great lawyer, as he would be the first to tell you. I’m just hoping that Jake’s type of hubris will help me now.
“Hi there,” I say.
He doesn’t ask who it is. He knows who it is, even after all this time. He also knows something is really wrong for me to be calling him.
“Where are you?” he says. “Are you in New York?”
