Love You More: A Novel (36 page)

Juliana forgot her math homework. What are friends for, she’d announce at our lockers, and I’d hastily share my answers. My father was being an asshole about letting me stay after school for track. What are friends for, I’d say, and Juliana would have her mother notify my father that she’d bring me home, because my father would never argue with Juliana’s mom. Juliana developed a crush on the cute boy in our biology class. What are friends for? I’d sidle up to him during lunch and find out if my friend stood a chance.

Get arrested for murdering your husband. What are friends for?

I looked up Juliana’s number Saturday afternoon, as my world was imploding and it occurred to me that I needed help. Ten years later, there was still only one person I could trust. So after the man in black finally departed, leaving my husband’s body down in the garage,
buried in snow, I looked up the married name, address, and phone number of my former best friend. I committed the information to memory, in order to eliminate the paper trail.

Shortly thereafter I built two small explosive devices, then loaded up the Denali and went for a drive.

My last acts as a free woman. I knew it even then. Brian had done something bad, but Sophie and I were going to be the ones punished. So I paid my own husband’s murderer fifty thousand dollars in order to gain twenty-four hours’ lead time. Then I used that time to desperately get two steps ahead.

Sunday morning, Shane had arrived and the games had begun. One hour later, beat within an inch of my life, head concussed, cheek fractured, I went from brilliant strategist to genuinely battered woman, dazed, confused, and somewhere in the back of my scrambled head, still dimly hoping that I’d been wrong about everything. Maybe Brian hadn’t died in front of my eyes. Maybe Sophie hadn’t been snatched out of her bed. Maybe next time I woke up, my world would be magically whole again and my husband and daughter would be by my side, holding my hands.

I never got that lucky.

Instead, I was confined to a hospital bed until Monday morning, when the police arrested me, and plan B kicked into gear.

All prison calls start with a recorded message to the receiver that the collect call has originated from a correctional institute. Would the other party accept the charges?

Million dollar question, I thought Monday night, as I stood in the commons area of the detainee unit and dialed Juliana’s number with shaking fingers. I was as surprised as anyone when Juliana said yes. Bet she surprised herself, too. And bet she wished, within thirty seconds, that she’d said no instead.

Given that all outgoing calls are recorded, I kept the conversation simple.

“What are friends for?” I stated, heart hammering. I heard Juliana suck in her breath.

“Tessa?”

“I could use a friend,” I continued, quickly now, before Juliana did something sensible, such as hang up. “Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call again. What are friends for.”

Then I hung up, because the sound of Juliana’s voice had brought tears to my eyes, and you can’t afford to cry in prison.

Now, having just taken out Officer Fiske, I snatched his cellphone. Then I sprinted one hundred yards down the hardpacked snow of the rural road until I came to an enormous fir tree. Ducking underneath its canopy of green branches I quickly dialed Juliana’s number while withdrawing a small waterproof bag I’d previously tucked beneath the branches.

“Hello?”

I talked fast. Directions, GPS coordinates, and a list of supplies. I’d had twenty-four hours in prison to plan my breakout, and I’d put it to good use.

On the other end of the cellphone, Juliana didn’t argue. What are friends for?

Maybe she would call the cops the second she hung up. But I didn’t think so. Because the last time that phrase was spoken between us, Juliana had uttered the words, while handing me the gun that had just taken her brother’s life.

I put down Officer Fiske’s cellphone and opened up the waterproof bag. Inside was Brian’s Glock .40, which I’d removed from our gun safe.

He didn’t need it anymore. But I did.

B
y the time the silver SUV slowed to a halt on the main road, my confidence had fled and I was jumpy with nerves. Gun tucked into the pocket of my black coat, arms wrapped tight around me, I kept to the fringes of the bordering woods, feeling conspicuous. Any second now, a police car would roar by. If I didn’t duck for cover in time, the alert officer would spot me, execute a tight one-eighty and that would be that.

Had to pay attention. Gotta run. Gotta hide.

Then, another vehicle looming in the distance, headlights bright against the thickening gloom. Vehicle was moving slower, more uncertainly, as if the driver was looking for something. No roof rack bearing sirens, meaning a pedestrian vehicle versus a cop car. Now or never.

I took a deep breath, stepped toward the asphalt. The headlights swept across my face, then the SUV braked hard.

Juliana had arrived.

I clambered quickly into the backseat. Second I closed the door, she was off like a shot. I hit the floor and stayed there.

Car seat. Empty, but half-covered in a baby blanket, so recently occupied. Don’t know why that surprised me. I had a child. Why not Juliana?

When we were girls we planned to marry twin brothers. We would live in houses side by side and raise our kids together. Juliana wanted three children, two boys and one girl. I planned on having one of each. She was going to stay home with her kids, like her mom. I was going to own a toy store, where of course her kids would receive a family discount.

Next to the car seat was a dark green duffel bag. I got on my knees, keeping out of sight of the windows, and unzipped the bag. Inside I found everything I’d requested—a change of clothes, all black. Fresh pair of underwear, two additional tops. Scissors, makeup, black cap and gloves.

Hundred and fifty in cash, small bills. Probably the best she could scrounge up on short notice.

I wondered if that was a lot of money for Juliana these days. I only knew the girl she’d been, not the wife and mother she’d become.

I started by taking out all items in black and laying them on the backseat. It took a bit of wiggling, but I finally managed to shed the orange jumpsuit and redress in the black jeans and a black turtleneck. I twisted my hair up onto the top of my head and covered it with the dark baseball cap.

Then I turned around to study myself in the rearview mirror.

Juliana was staring at me. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Newborn
, I thought immediately. She had that look about her—the frazzled new mom, still not sleeping at night and frayed around the edges. Knowing the first year would be difficult, surprised to discover it was even harder than that. She glanced away, eyes on the road.

I sat down on the rear bench seat.

“Thank you,” I said at last.

She never answered.

W
e drove in silence for another forty minutes. The snow had finally started, lightly at first, then falling heavily enough that Juliana had to reduce her speed.

At my request, she turned the radio to the news. No word of any officers involved in a situation, so apparently D. D. Warren and her team had survived my little surprise, and had chosen to keep a lid on things.

Made sense. No cop wanted to admit she’d lost a prisoner, especially if she believed she would recapture the inmate shortly. Last Detective Warren knew, I was alone and on foot, meaning D.D. probably had believed she’d round me up within an hour.

Not sorry to disappoint her, but relieved everyone was okay. I’d done my best to rig the twin pressure-sensitive devices to blow back, away from the recovery team and into the relative shelter of the fallen tree. But given that it was a rookie effort, I had no way of knowing how successful I’d be.

I’d sat behind Officer Fiske, both hoping and dreading what would happen next.

SUV slowed again. Juliana had her blinker on, was preparing to exit the highway for Route 9. She’d driven under the speed limit the entire way, eyes straight ahead, two hands on the wheel. The conscientious getaway driver.

Now our adventure was almost over, and I could see her lower lip trembling. She was scared.

I wondered if she thought I’d killed my husband. I wondered if she thought I’d murdered my own daughter. I should protest my innocence, but I didn’t.

I thought she of all people should know better.

Twelve more minutes. All it took to travel back in time, to return to the old neighborhood. Past her old house, past my parents’ shabby home.

Juliana didn’t look at any of the buildings. Didn’t sigh, wax nostalgic, say a single word.

Two final turns and we were there, at my father’s garage.

She pulled over, killed the lights.

Snow was falling heavily now, blanketing the dark world in white.

I gathered up the last of my things, tucked them into the duffel bag, which I would take with me. Leave no evidence behind.

“When you get home,” I said now, my voice surprisingly loud in the silence, “mix ammonia with warm water, and use it to wipe down the car. That will erase any fingerprints.”

Juliana looked at me in the review mirror again, but remained silent.

“The police are going to find you,” I continued. “They’ll hone in on the call I placed to you last night from jail. It’s one of the only leads they have, so they’re going to follow up on it. Just tell the truth. What I said, what you said. The whole conversation was recorded, so you’re not telling them anything they don’t already know, and it’s not like we said anything incriminating.”

Juliana looked at me, remained silent.

“They shouldn’t be able to trace today’s call,” I told her. “Our only point of contact has been someone else’s cellphone, and I’m about to take an acetylene torch to it. Once I’ve melted its circuits, there’s nothing it can give away. So you went for a drive this afternoon. I deliberately chose a location that didn’t involve any toll roads, meaning there’s no way for them to trace where you went. You could’ve gone anywhere and done anything. Make them work for it.”

It went without saying that she would hold up under police questioning. She had before.

“We’re even.” She spoke up suddenly, her voice flat. “Don’t call again. We’re even.”

I smiled, sadly, with genuine regret. For ten years, we’d kept our
distance. And would’ve continued if not for Saturday morning and my stupid husband dying on our stupid kitchen floor.

Blood is thicker than water. Actually, friendship was, and so I had honored what I’d known Juliana had needed. Even when it hurt me.

“I would do it again,” I murmured, my eyes locking on hers in the rearview mirror. “You were my best friend, and I loved you and I would do it again.”

“Did you really name her Sophie?”

“Yeah.”

Juliana Sophia MacDougall nee Howe covered her mouth. She started to cry.

I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the snowy night. Another moment, the engine started up. Then the headlights flicked on and Juliana drove away.

I headed toward my father’s shop. I could tell from the light burning inside that he was already waiting.

33

B
obby and D.D. headed back to HQ in silence. Bobby drove. D.D. sat in the passenger’s seat. She had her hands fisted on her lap, trying not to think, her mind racing anyway.

She hadn’t eaten all day and last night her sleep had been marginal at best. Combine that with the all-time shittiest day of her career and she was entitled to go a little nuts and kiss a married man while carrying another man’s baby. Made total sense.

She leaned her forehead against the cool window, stared at the snow. The frozen flakes were falling heavily now. Obliterating Tessa Leoni’s trail. Snarling traffic. Complicating an already complicated investigative operation.

She’d contacted her boss before leaving the crime scene. Better Horgan hear the news from her than the latest media report, where it was bound to break at any time. D.D. had lost a suspected double-murderer. Taken her out to middle-of-nowhere Mass., where her entire team had fallen victim to a rookie booby trap.

The BPD looked like a bunch of idiots. Not to mention, the violent fugitive apprehension unit—a state operation—was most likely going
to take the entire case from them, given the steadily growing size of the search operation. So the BPD would appear incompetent and be denied any chance to redeem themselves. Talk about a one-way ticket to Asshole Avenue. Let alone a punch line in all future media reports—
suspected double-murderer Tessa Leoni, who escaped while in the custody of the Boston police …

She’d better hope she was pregnant, D.D. thought. Then, instead of getting fired, she could take maternity leave.

She ached.

She did. Her head hurt. Her chest, as well. She mourned for Sophie Leoni, a sweet-faced child who’d deserved better. Had she looked forward to her mommy coming home from work each morning? Hugs and kisses, while snuggling close for stories or showing off her latest homework? D.D. would think so. That’s what children did. They loved and loved and loved. With their entire hearts. With every fiber of their being.