I stare at the unopened box of spaghetti on the counter. “That would be fine,” I say.
“Excellent. Shall I text the address to this number?”
“Perfect.”
“Tomorrow at three, then. Good evening.”
I hang up and stand in my kitchen, looking blankly at my sink, until the water finally starts to boil.
THE HOUSE ON Habersham Road is a brick mansion that would look right at home in Gatsby’s neighborhood, set on a hill of manicured lawn with rosebushes that I have no doubt are tended by a host of gardeners. I roll up the cobblestone drive in my Corolla and park out front, conscious that my car needs a wash. I am wearing a blazer and slacks but decided in the end to forgo a tie.
Steven answers the door, an ageless butler-secretary type in a light-gray suit and salmon-pink tie. He ushers me inside to a foyer with a marble floor wide enough for dancing, leads me through the foyer and past a sitting room or two, turns left, and stops outside an oak door. He knocks and cracks the door enough to insert his head and murmur my name, then opens the door wide and gestures for me to enter. Behind the door is an oak-paneled office with leather furniture and a desk that is far neater than my uncle’s. A man stands from his chair behind the desk, silvering hair brushed into place, a strong jaw, broad chest and trim waist fitted into a navy-blue suit, no tie, the white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. “Mr. Faulkner,” the man says. He moves around the desk and shakes my hand. “Jackson Devereaux. Thank you for coming. Can Steven get you anything? Water, juice, coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Devereaux looks over my shoulder. “Thank you, Steven,” he says, and I hear the door shut behind me with a discreet click. Devereaux returns behind his desk and sits, and I lower myself into a leather club chair.
“Mr. Devereaux, please let me say first that I am so very sorry for your loss,” I say.
He nods in acceptance. “Thank you,” he says. “Marisa’s mother and I have been devastated.” He claps his hands together and leans forward onto his desk. “I wanted to apologize to you as well, Mr. Faulkner. I understand you and Marisa were … involved.”
I feel my face redden, although I’m not surprised. At this point the police have found Marisa’s website in addition to her phone records and have no doubt shared them with her parents. “We were coworkers at Archer,” I say carefully. “And we did date, for a time.”
“I’ll be frank, Mr. Faulkner,” Devereaux says. “Marisa was disturbed. She’s always been rather sensitive.” He unclasps his hands and sits back in his chair. “There was an incident at her previous school, in Connecticut. She began a relationship with another teacher, a young man named Todd. She became infatuated. Her mother and I thought it was just first love, but … it did not end well. She thought Todd was flirting with another teacher and stole his phone to check his texts. The school’s HR and legal departments got involved. Todd contacted me directly, complained that Marisa was harassing him, prying into his private life, his family.” He gazes intently at me. “Todd demanded that I pay him to not press charges.”
Poor dumb Todd, I think. “That’s unfortunate,” I say.
Devereaux nods as if I have hit the nail on the head. “Yes,” he says. “Marisa called us, frantic. The school was considering terminating her contract for unprofessional behavior. She wanted us to help, hire a lawyer, sue the school. It was ridiculous, of course. Her mother and I told her we would do no such thing. We argued; she said hurtful things to her mother.” He pauses, then sits up a bit straighter in his chair, forging ahead. “Her mother was distraught, got behind the wheel when she shouldn’t have. There was a terrible accident, another driver died, and my wife suffered a traumatic brain injury. She has recovered, thank God, at least somewhat. But in those first weeks after the accident …” He pauses again, his eyes for the first time becoming a bit unfocused. After a moment he sighs and shakes his head. “It was horrible. Marisa came home, to help.”
And to leave Todd and her previous school behind. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
Devereaux dismisses that with a short wave of his hand. “I thought we could help her if she came home, get her back on the right path. And for a time, things were … not fine, but manageable. She was going to therapy.” He glances at his desk, then back at me. “And then she met you.”
Neither of us says anything for a minute. Several possible responses come to mind, and one by one I dismiss them. I don’t much like Jackson Devereaux, his calculated businesslike response to his family’s tragedy. I remember what my mother used to say about parents, that when parents are upset or angry they are mostly just reacting to their own fears about their children’s struggles. But I find myself wishing Devereaux would react differently.
“Mr. Devereaux,” I begin. “Your daughter and I … for a short time, at the beginning of our relationship, it was good. I cared for her.”
Devereaux considers me across his desk. “My daughter was very good at getting people to do that,” he says. He says it in a way that makes me feel like a sucker. “She was ill, Mr. Faulkner. I don’t expect you to have realized that, not at first. She was good at hiding it.” He opens a drawer and takes out a calfskin notebook and places it on his desk. “I know from the police that she ferreted around in your life, tried to find some problem she could solve for you.” He closes the drawer with a quiet thunk. “I apologize for that.” He
