Joyce stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping open. Any conflict in her life usually consisted of heated negotiations and thinly veiled threats made across a polished conference table or martinis at the club. A veiled threat didn’t count for much at Coastal State Prison.
John guessed, “Quarter of a million dollars? Haifa million?”
Joyce shook her head, too shocked to respond.
“You!” Lydia said, her voice shrill with anger. “You have exactly one minute to get out of this house before I call the police and have you arrested.”
“A million bucks?” John prodded. “Come on, Joycey. You handle real estate closings all day. You know how much a house is worth.”
Joyce shook her head like she couldn’t understand. But then she did something that surprised him. She glanced nervously around the room, took in the two-story cathedral ceiling, the large windows looking onto the graciously manicured back lawn. When she looked back at John, he could tell that she was still confused. But she trusted him. She trusted him enough to say, “Three.”
“Three million,” John echoed, incredulous. He’d thought he was rich when he cleaned out the thirty-eight hundred dollars Michael had left in the fake John’s banking account.
He said, “Divide that by twenty years, you get-what-about a hundred fifty thousand bucks a year?”
Joyce was slowly getting it. “Yeah, Johnny. That’s about right.” “Doesn’t seem like nearly enough, does it?” His sister’s eyes sparkled. She smiled. “No.”
“What do you think she has in the bank?” He turned back to Lydia. “Maybe I should be directing these questions to you?”
“You should be walking out of that door if you know what’s good for you.”
“What kind of car do you drive? Mercedes? BMW?” He felt like a lawyer on a television program. Maybe he could have been a lawyer. If Michael Ormewood had never entered his life, maybe John Shelley could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a… what? What could he have been? He would never know. No one would ever know. “John?” Joyce sounded concerned. He had gone too quiet. His voice was not as strong when he asked Lydia, “How about that ring on your finger? What’s that worth?” “Get out of my house.”
“You’re a lawyer,” John told her. “You’ve obviously made a very good living by suing people for everything they’ve got.” He indicated the-house, her useless things.
“I want you out of here,” Lydia commanded. “I want you out of here right now.”
“I want this house,” he told her, walking around the room, wondering what would make her break. He pulled a monochromatic canvas off the wall. “I want this,” he said, dropping it to the floor as he continued his stroll. “I want that piano.”
He walked over to Joyce’s side, thinking that no matter what happened, nothing would be more valuable to him than knowing she believed in him. Michael had tried to destroy him, but he was gone now. Nothing could change the past. All they could focus on now was their future.
He asked his sister, “How many times did Mom yell at us about practicing our scales?” “All the time.” John trailed his hand along the keys. “She’d like this,” he said, playing a couple of notes he remembered from a million years ago. “She’d like the idea of me taking up the piano again.”
“Yeah,” Joyce agreed, a sad smile on her face. “I think she would.”
“You can stop right there,” Lydia barked.
John warned, “I think you should be careful how you talk to me.”
Lydia tucked a hand onto her hip. “You don’t have nearly the grounds you need for a criminal conviction. Even with this recent… innuendo… you have leveled against my son, you don’t have proof of anything.”
“The burden of proof is lower in a civil suit. You know that.”
“Have you any idea how many years I can hold up depositions and hearings?” She gave a crocodile grin that showed pearly white teeth. She made her voice softer, frail. “I’m an old woman. This has been a terrible shock. I have my good days and my bad…”
“I can freeze your assets,” John told her. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of bad days living in a one-room condo on Buford Highway.”
“You can’t threaten me.”
“What about the press?” he asked. “Joyce found you. I’m sure the reporters can, too. Especially if she gives them a little help.”
“I am calling the police,” Lydia warned him, walking stiffly to the phone.
“All I’m asking for is a sworn statement. Just tell them Michael framed me, that he killed Mary Alice, and you’ll never see me again.”
“I’m calling the police right now to remove you from my house.”
“How would you like a bunch of reporters camped out on your doorstep? How would you like to explain to them how you knew your son was a killer and you didn’t do anything to stop him?”
She took off one of her chunky gold earrings and put the receiver to her ear. “I knew nothing of the sort.”
“Michael told me a funny thing in that cellar, Aunt Lydia.” Her fingers hovered over the keypad but she did not dial. “He knew he was going to die. He was absolutely certain that he was going to die and he wanted to tell me something.”
The cord slapped against the metal table as Lydia let the receiver slide to her shoulder.
“Michael told me that he killed Mary Alice and that you knew all about it. He said it was your idea to frame me. He said that you planned the whole thing from the very beginning.” He gave her a wink. “Deathbed confessions aren’t considered hearsay, right? Not if the person knows for sure he’s going to die.”
She clutched the receiver in her bony hand. “No one will believe you.”
“You know that cop he took-the one he kidnapped, nearly beat to death and was about to rape and kill?” He lowered his voice as if he was telling her in confidence. “I think she heard him say it, too.”
The table banged against the wall as she sagged against it. Her eyes blazed with outrage.
John asked, “Who do you think the prosecutor is going to listen to when he’s trying to make the decision about whether or not to file charges against you for obstruction of justice, false imprisonment and conspiracy after the fact?”
A noise came from the receiver, a recorded voice advising her that if she would like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again.
“The prosecutor will come to us,” John continued. “He’ll ask me and he’ll ask Joyce whether we want to pursue criminal charges against you or just drop it.” The phone started to make a loud busy signal that echoed in the cavernous room. “Let me tell you one thing I’ve figured out, Lydia: Michael was a predator, but you were his gatekeeper. You were the one who knew what he was and still let him out in the world.” No…
“Go ahead,” he dared her. “Dial the number. Make the call.”
Lydia stared at him, nostrils flared,
“All right,” she finally agreed. “All right.”
John knew what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to be the one who
Her hand trembled so badly that she could barely replace the phone in the cradle. She could not look at him. Her voice was choked with humiliation. “Tell me what I have to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Will was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s
