Mine again.
The cushions had been tugged off the couch or clumsily replaced, no doubt by the cops when they'd searched the house. Papers and bills lay scattered on the carpet. The kitchen cupboards stood open, the drawers pulled out and upended. She'd been through hell, and it was my fault.
By my shoe was one of the many bills from my lawyer, reviewed and tossed aside by the cops. I'd require a criminal attorney now on top of that, which meant, barring a miracle, we'd have to sell the house.
What had I done to us?
Ariana said, 'I woke up. And you were gone.'
'I didn't want you to be scared.'
'How'd that work out?'
'Not good.'
She started to say something, then swore sharply, rooted through her purse, turned on the jammer, and threw it on the cushion between us. It sat there, silent and innocuous-looking, withstanding her glare. She took a moment to steady her breathing. 'The bed was still warm. And I had to sit with it. Knowing you'd gone to the hotel.'
'I couldn't resist,' I said. 'I had to go.'
'I knew in my gut it was bad. I thought you'd get killed. I almost called the cops. But then they called me. I thought--' She shoved a fist against her mouth until her ragged breathing evened out. 'Well, let's just say I'd never have thought that hearing you got arrested would be a relief.'
The phones bleated out their reveille again, and when the home line paused to catch its breath, Ari rose and swatted the receiver off the wall mount. She came back and took up my hand again, and we sat, staring ahead at nothing. 'They went through everything. My fucking Tampax carton. They emptied the trash. I came into the bedroom, a cop was reading my journal. He didn't apologize. He just turned the page.'
My mouth was dry. I said, 'You knew. And I didn't listen.'
'There's plenty I haven't listened to.'
I looked down at the legal bill at the tip of my sneaker, my face hot, burning. 'What I've done to us . . . if I could take it back--'
'I forgive you.'
'You shouldn't.'
'But I do.'
I blinked, felt wet on my cheeks. 'Just like that?'
Her grip was so firm that my fingers hurt. The helicopters beat at the night air overhead. She said, 'It's gotta start somewhere.'
Every action seemed freighted with considerations. Changing channels on the TV. Walking past a gap in the curtains. Deleting cell-phone messages. My Sanyo, at capacity, held twenty-seven. Julianne, supportive. A neighbor, crying. A friend from high school, his excitement hidden beneath a veneer of concern. My civil attorney, confirming that he'd never received the studio's settlement offer and now, understandably, could get not a peep out of them; there did remain, however, the issue of his depleted retainer. My department chair, Dr. Peterson, bemoaning 'a full day of missed lectures. I understand there are extenuating circumstances, but unfortunately we still have students we are responsible for. I need to see you. I'll expect you tomorrow morning at ten.'
Her brusque hang-up punctuated my dismay. I'd be there, even if it killed me. Especially in the midst of everything I was up against, I had a desperate need to hold on to something normal. All I had was an adjunct faculty position, but I realized now what that job meant to me. It's what had gotten me up all those mornings when I'd wanted to curl up in defeat, and I owed it back more than I'd yet repaid. Plus, it was grounding. A desk and a function. The last piece of my identity as I used to know it. If I lost that now, who would I be?
I turned off my cell phone and set it on my desk in the place my computer used to occupy before the cops had seized it. The media had thinned out a bit once the photographers grabbed the homecoming shots and the reporters did their stand-up reports, but quite a few unmarked vans remained, idling hopefully at the curbs, and the news copters maintained their tireless loops. The clock showed 3:11 A.M. I was a kind of exhausted I hadn't known was possible.
I'd used Ariana's laptop earlier to look up Ridgeline, Inc., and had found nothing worthwhile. Shell within a shell. Rolling up the window shade, I stared across the rooftops, wondered who was staring back at me. Who the hell had done this to me? Were they out there gloating? Were they planning their next move or just waiting for LAPD to swing back and roll me up?
I walked down the hall. Ariana was lying under the covers, balled in the fetal position, the fake Marlboros on the nightstand. Someone was shouting outside, and a dog barked, but then it was quiet except for the white noise of the helicopters.
'When I tried to write,' I said, 'my characters were always levelheaded. They thought on their feet. Grace under pressure. It's such bullshit. It's not like that at all. I was so fucking scared.'
She said, 'You did okay. You got yourself out.'
'For now.' I got into bed--our new bed--and stroked her head. 'I mean, murder? Prison? We live in a death- penalty state. Jesus, the fact that's even relevant . . .'
'If we sit in this, we won't make it. It's too bleak. So let's make each other a promise. The last time we were up against it, after Don, the movie, we shut down. We drifted.' Her dark eyes shone. 'Whatever happens now, we stay in it together. And we fight like hell. If we go down, we go down swinging.'
Gratitude welled in my chest. My wife, reiterating the vows we'd made to each other on a cloth-draped altar, when everything was simple and the road ahead clear. I didn't realize back then, standing on weak knees as the priest droned on, what those vows meant. I didn't realize that they mattered most when they were hardest to uphold.
'No matter what'--my voice was low, hoarse with emotion--'we stay in it together.'
Her arm tightened over my chest, and that sense of protectiveness rose in me again, even stronger.
'They weren't expecting me to get out of jail,' I said. 'I should get us each a gun.'
'You know how to fire a gun?' Her head rustled against me as she looked up. 'Me neither. And I doubt a firearm license would clear for the Davis family anytime soon. Plus, I don't think we want an unregistered gun floating around, not this week.'
'They're still out there,' I said. 'And no one's looking for them. But you can bet they're watching us.'
'Yes,' she said. 'But so is everyone else.' Beyond our dark ceiling, a helicopter carved an arc, the whirring rising to a whine and then fading. 'That makes us safe, at least for tonight. No one's gonna sneak in here past the klieg lights and threaten us. There are advantages to being watched. Everything that's thrown at us, we have to figure out how to use to our advantage. That's the only way out of this.'
'Play the hand you're dealt.'
'Detective Richards told you as much,' she said. 'There are questions we need to answer before a jury writes your name in the blank space with permanent ink.'
'Who wanted Keith Conner dead. Who stood to benefit from his death. Who's standing behind a left-handed guy wearing size-eleven-and-a-half Danner boots with a pebble stuck in the tread.'
'Tomorrow I'll look into criminal lawyers.'
'And I'll keep digging,' I said. 'If I get something tangible, Sally and Valentine will have to listen.'
'Or we'll find someone who will.'
I slid down next to her. Moonlight, even through the cinched blinds, bathed our sheets in a pale glow. Ariana lay on her stomach, facing me as I was facing her. The line where her skin met the mattress perfectly halved her face. My hand was out, palm flat, before my cheek. Hers beside mine. We stared at each other, two parts of a whole. I could feel her breath on my face. I took her in. Right here, in front of me. The nearest beating heart this night and nearly every other for the past eleven years. Those dark curls, climbing the pillow she'd shoved up against the headboard. Etched at the edge of her eye, premonitions of crow's-feet. I'd watched them creep into existence these past few years, and I owned them as much as she did, owned the hurt and laughter and life that had gone into them. I wanted to be with her to see them deepen, and now I could no longer take for granted that I'd get to. She blinked long, and then again, and her eyes stayed shut.
I cleared my throat. 'In good times and in bad.'
She put her hand over mine, mumbled, 'For better or worse.'
