Mat opens his arms, the wine bobbing in the glass and almostspilling on the carpet. “You want me to tell her you’re guilty? You want me totell her you confessed to me?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
“Won’t play, Allison. She’ll need more than that.”
“Tell her I used that trophy to kill him.”
“Ah.” Mat says it like a negative, like a grunt.
The police have believed, almost from the outset, that theinstrument that delivered the fatal blows to Sam Dillon’s head was an awardgiven to him two years earlier by the Midwest Manufacturers’ Association forexcellency in advocacy. They saw the spot on the mantel of Sam’s fireplace,from the pattern of dust, where it had rested for the last two years. Theaward, they quickly learned, had a solid marble base that would serve nicely asthe head of a hammer. On the base, in gold, was a miniaturized version of anold industrial machine with a gear and sprocket. It was determined by lookingat other such awards given out by the MMA that this trophy was sufficientlysturdy- indeed, it would be ironic if it were not-to be used as a weapon, bringingthe marble base down on someone’s head. Assault with a deadly statuette.
Anyone who has followed the suffocating account of this casein the papers, on television, and online would know of this trophy, currentlymissing and the subject of a rather feverish manhunt by police. Thus, Mat’sobjection.
“She wouldn’t accept that as proof,” Mat says.
“No.” Allison wets her lips. “I suppose she wouldn’t.” Shegoes to the window next to the side table, looks out at the backyard and herneighbors’ as well. They built a fence, about four feet high, around theproperty when Jessica got old enough to wander. She once tried to clear it,like an Olympic high-jumper, using the old Western-roll technique and requiringfive stitches on her lip for her trouble.
“Y’know,” Mat starts.
She turns to him.
“Never mind.” He waves his hand. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me,” Allison says.
“I was just thinking.” Mat averts his eyes, strollsaimlessly through the living room. “There is probably something I could tellJessica. There is proof.”
“What?”
Mat takes a drink of his wine, sets his jaw. “The murderweapon,” he says. “You could tell me where it is. I could tell Jessica. If itcame to that.”
“I haven’t even told my lawyer that. Nobody knows that.”
But that, clearly, is Mat’s point. It would be irrefutableproof to Jessica, a fact unknown to everyone.
“There’s no spousal privilege,” Allison says. “We’re notmarried. You could be forced to divulge this.”
Mat makes a face. The prosecution has already rested itscase, and no one is looking at Mateo Pagone to help convict his ex-wife.
“You think so little of me?” he asks.
This again. Always falling back on self-pity. But he has apoint. If she can’t trust Mat, there is no one left.
She takes a breath as the adrenaline kicks in, her heart races,the memories of that night flood back. She turns again and places her hand onthe window. It is colder than she expected.
“The Countryside Grocery Store,” she says. “The one on Appleand Riordan?”
“Okay.”
“When Jess was five,” she continues. “She got away from meat the store. I was beside myself. I was looking everywhere for her. I had thestore manager ready to call the police.”
She can faintly see Mat in the reflection of the glass. Heis captivated, listening intently, but she detects a frown. It only underscoresthe distance that has always been between them, even then. He doesn’t rememberthis incident. She probably never even told him. He was at the capital, as thishappened during the legislative session; this was back when Mat was a legislativeaide, before he traded up to lobbying his former employers. It was one ofcountless episodes in their lives that passed right by him unnoticed.
She returns her eyes to the window. “I found Jessica outback,” she continues. “She had wandered through the delivery area in the backof the store. She had gone down that little ramp they have for deliveries andshe was standing outside by the fence. She was pointing at this post that wassupporting the fence. It was yellow. This was during that ‘lemon’ thing shehad.”
Mat, she assumes, again does not get the reference. WhenJessica was very young, she had great difficulty pronouncing the word yellow,so she used the word lemon instead. Even a banana was the color lemon. Evenafter she matured a bit and was able to say the word, she continued for manyyears to qualify it with the phrase-
“Yellow like lemon,” Mat says.
Allison squeezes her eyes shut. It is these little thingsthat always move her. She takes a moment, swallows hard, before continuing.
“That’s where I put it.” She raises her chin and keeps hervoice strong, as she faces the window. “It’s still there, that post. The painthas chipped away some but it’s still the only yellow post out there. I–I can’tsay why I went there. I-we hadn’t shopped there for years. I didn’t thinkanyone would ever connect me to it.”
She takes a deep breath and faces him. His eyes retreatagain.
“You buried the trophy from the manufacturers’ associationnext to a yellow post behind the Countryside?” Mat asks. “The one on Apple andRiordan?”
“I did. So if I’m convicted, you tell this to Jessica. Butonly then.”
Mat’s gaze moves about the room, anywhere but at her. He islost in thought for a long moment, blinking rapidly, eyes narrowing. “Okay. Ifit ever comes to it, I can tell her about that. I’m-let’s find something toeat.”
Allison takes a step toward him. “You’re the only person whoknows this,” she says. “I haven’t even told my lawyer. If this got out-ifanyone found out-”
“Allison.” He stops on his way to the kitchen but does notlook at her. She senses a tightening in his posture.
“I won’t tell a soul,” he assures her.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Allison stares at the ghost in the mirror. She wants thejudge to see her as she used to be, before the stress started doing its damagethree months ago. She wants him to know her as a person, to know her life andbackground, to understand what she is capable of and what she is not.
But Judge Wilderburth will not know these things. Will notcare to know. The facts of the case are the only things of relevance to him. Itis a tainted filter, she realizes now more than ever. He will never know thefull story. No jury, no judge ever has.
She looks at her watch, expecting Mat to walk in the doorany minute to drive her to court, when the phone rings. It’s seven-thirty inthe morning and the phone is ringing.
She walks out of the master bathroom and finds her phone bythe bed. The caller ID is noncommittal; the call is coming from an office.
“Allison, Paul Riley here.”
Paul Riley is the first lawyer Allison retained on the case.“How are you, Paul?”
“Great, Allison. I’ve been following the trial. It looksgood.”
“Nice of you to say.” Allison is sure the comment isinsincere.
“The evidence is circumstantial,” Paul adds, the classictake from a defense attorney. “They still don’t have the murder weapon, dothey?”
Allison catches her breath. She grips the phone until ithurts. “The, uh-”
“The murder weapon,” Paul repeats. “They don’t know for surewhat it is, and they surely don’t have it, as far
