She was turning emotional again. The alcohol brought it out in her.
“Of course it’s a good idea,” I said. “The best idea I’ve ever had. We’re protecting your future self. Ten years from now, do you really want to stumble on those glasses and lose a night of your life to nostalgia or guilt or whatever you happen to be feeling just then? All triggers have to go. Otherwise, we’ll never be free.”
She gave me a reluctant nod. I let the match fall. With no accelerant, the burn was slow, but once the flames took hold they shot up a good three feet above the basket. Someone on the street yelled something about a Thelma and Louise weenie roast. I saw myself as the independent and tough-minded Louise, even if it hadn’t been me who wielded the knife.
Sarah leaned forward until the fire’s glow reflected on her skin. She wasn’t crying, but her face was somber as hell. I put a hand on her back.
“Believe me,” I said, “I wish it was different.”
And I really did. I could have ripped my hair out thinking about all the ways I wished things were different. I could have collapsed on the floor and screeched in tongues. But Sarah had been so strong—it was my turn to be strong for her. Later, I knew, I’d have all the time I needed to be weak. I had my own hard moments ahead.
Chapter 38Detective Sean Walsh
AT LEAST they cared enough for my well-being to stick me in solitary, though even then I wound up next door to someone I’d put away: Marty the Mute. At least he made the place a little quieter. Sometimes we’d play hangman by passing a slip of paper back and forth through an air vent. I lost every round. It made me wonder who else Marty might have been if he’d made the effort.
Otherwise, there wasn’t much to do in my cell besides sit and steam. Sarah’s betrayal was like a gut punch. The best memories were the hardest to cope with. Walks on the beach. Airboat rides through the Everglades. Trips to Niagara Falls, New York City, Yellowstone Park. All tainted now. We’d started in love and wound up strangers. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
I was deep into a set of prison cell push-ups when a flabby corrections officer with bad skin announced I had a visitor. My first thought: Sarah had come around, wanted to talk things through with me before she set the official record straight. I saw in a flash how willing I was to forgive her, even if she never forgave me. And yes, I’d done plenty that needed forgiving.
I worked out a short speech in my head as the CO led me to the visiting area. I’d let her know that she had my attention now. I understood who I’d been, and I wouldn’t be that person anymore. I was done playing fast and loose with our wedding vows, with the policeman’s oath of honor, with every promise I’d ever made. Whether we stayed together or split, I’d love and cherish her, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, until the end of my days.
But it wasn’t Sarah I found waiting for me: it was Defoe, Vincent’s right-hand goon. One look at him and I forgot all about my little mea culpa. I was spitting mad again—angrier at Sarah than I’d ever been before. Like we’d set up this rendezvous and she’d sent Defoe in her place. Defoe, the ugliest man on two feet. All pockmarks and scars, oil and dandruff. I’ve seen bodies in every state of decomp, but I always had a hard time looking Defoe in the face.
He gave me a little nod as I took my seat. I nodded back. The thick prison glass between us seemed to magnify his deformities. We reached for our handsets at the same time. Defoe got right down to business.
“Our mutual friend is very displeased with your current situation,” he said.
He had an unnerving way of talking through his thin smile, almost without moving his lips.
“He couldn’t come here and tell me himself?” I said.
“I assume you’re joking. It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor. You’ll need it in the days ahead. Of course, how many days you have left depends to a large extent on what you say now.”
“How many days I have left?”
“I mean behind bars.”
Defoe wasn’t the brightest, but he had too many years’ experience to threaten me outright in a state-run facility where any and all conversations might be recorded.
“You’re a lawyer now?” I asked.
“A liaison.”
The way I felt just then, I could have plowed my fist through the glass and squeezed his neck until his nasty head popped.
“What is it you want?” I asked.
“I want to look you in the eyes and know the truth.”
“About what?”
“Are you guilty as charged?”
“How do you think I’m going to answer?”
“How you answer doesn’t matter: your eyes will tell me what I need to know.”
I sucked it up, leaned forward until my nose was touching the glass, and let him have a good long look.
“No,” I said.
His smile got a little fatter.
“So far, so good,” he said. “But I’m going to need more.”
“Like what?”
“An alternative theory. More importantly, a name.”
I didn’t have to think it over—I knew what I was going to say as soon as I saw him sitting on the wrong side of the glass.
“The cook,” I said.
“The cook? That’s a bit close to home.”
“Doesn’t change the facts.”
“Acting on her own, or at your behest?”
“On her own.”
“See, now that’s interesting. I heard that she was employed as the cook at your insistence, and that cooking was only half of her job. The other half involved reporting to you.”
“That’s a story,” I said. “Nothing more than a story.”
He pushed back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his top knee.
“Convince me,”
