The Girl From Home: A Thriller (29 page)

She looks to see whether the camera is on. No red light, but that doesn't mean anything. Do the police have to tell her whether they're taping? Is that a question an innocent person would ask? Even if they are taping, it's not as if she's going to leave or change her story.
Just act as if it's on
, she tells herself.

The officer leaves her alone, shutting the door behind her. A moment later, Jackie's solitude is broken by a loud succession of knocks on the door. Before she can say “Come in,” the door swings opens. That must be the police's way of saying that she's in their house, and they don't need her permission to enter.

The man who enters first introduces himself as Detective Quincy Martin. Jackie remembers the name as belonging to the cop who told her on the phone that Rick was dead.

Her initial impression is that Detective Martin is a former jock, a conclusion she reaches simply by the swagger with which he approaches her, and yet she's nearly certain of its validity. Former high school gods now in their forties is something of a specialty of hers. It gives Jackie a feeling that she might have a slight advantage over him, until she realizes that he's probably equally well versed in the psyches of fortysomething former homecoming queens.

She further assumes Detective Martin's sport was basketball. He has a tall, lanky frame that wouldn't lend itself to success on the gridiron; dark, round eyes that leave no doubt he sees things that others don't; and a thoughtful mouth, which is surrounded by a beard flecked with gray. His scalp is shaved smooth. He must have gotten tired of going bald and just decided to be done with it.

Beside Detective Martin is a younger man wearing the policeman blues. His face is so innocent that Jackie can imagine him blushing if he heard an off-color joke. The name tag beside his shield says
Officer Romatowski
.

The detective sits closer to Jackie, and his more junior colleague across from her. Romatowski takes out a pad. It's one of those big leather-covered ones, like the police use to write tickets.

“Mrs. Williams, I'm very sorry for your loss,” Detective Martin says.

“Thank you,” Jackie says.

She wishes she could will herself to cry, but she's not that talented an actor. Instead she rubs her eyes, hoping the gesture conveys the same sense of grief as actual tears.

“We really don't know very much about what happened,” Detective Martin says. “Your husband was struck by what witnesses identified as a black SUV. There's some discrepancy about the model. None of the witnesses could recall any of the numbers in the license plate, although one of them told us they thought it had New Jersey tags.”

Jackie nods, considering what the proper reaction to this news would be if she was actually in mourning. She decides that a loving wife would accept this explanation at face value and not inquire any further.

“Is there any way I can help?” she asks. “With the investigation, I mean.”

In her head, this sounded better. To her ear it's a non sequitur. What could she possibly do to help with the investigation of a hit-and-run accident?

Detective Martin either didn't pick up on anything being amiss or he has a world-class poker face, because his expression shows no negative reaction to Jackie's offer. Instead he gives her a warm smile and says, “Thank you. That's a very kind offer. And we may need your help down the road. But right now, what we need for you to do, unfortunately, is to make an identification of your husband.”

A moment of panic overtakes Jackie. Could it be possible Rick isn't dead? That it's some type of mistaken identity?

As if he can read her thoughts, Detective Martin says, “The identification is something of a formality because we know it's him. His employees identified him at the scene, and he was carrying his driver's license. But we need a family member to do it officially. Before I do that, however, I need to ask you a few questions. Standard inquiries, but it's a box I need to check, I'm afraid.”

Jackie hadn't expected the police to question her about a hit-and-run accident that occurred when Jackie was close to two hundred miles away. She plays out in her head an attempt to decline.
I'm so sorry, but I can't answer any questions now . . .
No, that won't work.
Focus
, Jackie commands herself.
You'
re supposed to be a grieving spouse in shock
.
Just play that part.

Jackie rubs her eyes again. “Okay.”

Detective Martin asks a flurry of basic background questions: date of birth, address, marriage date, names and ages of her children. Jackie provides short answers to each, seemingly to Detective Martin's satisfaction, because after the preliminaries are completed, he says, “Okay, then. Why don't we head on over to the morgue.”

*  *  *

Jackie had expected that the morgue would be downstairs in the basement of the East Carlisle Police Department, but Detective Martin tells her that the facility is actually a ten-minute ride away. She turns down his offer of a ride, telling him that she'd prefer to follow him in her car so she can go straight home afterward to break the news to her children.

The identification is just like the ones she's seen on television. Detective Martin leads her into a sterile-looking room with cement floors and a drain in the center. There's a single gurney in it, with a body—Rick's body—in a blue bag lying on top.

Jackie rubs her biceps, more out of nervousness than because she's chilly, although the morgue is at least ten degrees cooler than normal room temperature. The air smells like some type of disinfectant, but the odor isn't as unpleasant or as strong as she'd imagined it would be.

“Ready?” Detective Martin asks.

Jackie nods, all the while thinking that this is her star turn. Should she break down? Turn away? Play the stoic?

He unzips the bag down to the base of Rick's throat. Rick doesn't look like he's sleeping, which is how she had imagined this scene unfolding. He's bluer than she had anticipated, the color of a vein almost. He must have been bleeding from the scalp, because his hair looks matted. Rick was nothing if not meticulous about his hair.

She looks at Detective Martin as she tries to will herself to cry. No dice. The tears aren't coming, so she falls back to the eye rub again, while turning away from Rick's corpse for effect.

“Yes, that's Rick,” she says. “That's my husband.”

*  *  *

Jackie considers picking her kids up at school to break the news, but decides to allow them to finish their day so she can tell them in the comfort of their home. She texts them that she's back from their grandmother's house, and asks them to come straight home after school.

As soon as Robert and Emma arrive home, Jackie asks them to sit down in the living room. “I have something I need to talk to you both about,” she says.

From the looks on their faces, they appear to be expecting bad news. It occurs to her that they likely think the news is about their grandmother. After all, that was Jackie's pretense for shipping them off to their friends—that her mother had taken ill.

“Your father was killed today,” she says softly. “A hit-and-run traffic accident near his office.”

She leans over to hug Emma, and out of the corner of her eye spies Robert. He doesn't seem the least bit distressed. Even Emma, who still cries over animated movies, hasn't been moved to tears and pulls away from her mother after a few seconds. Her eyes are bone dry.

“I'm going to hold the wake at the church, and then the funeral will be the day after tomorrow,” Jackie explains. “You should tell your friends so you have your own support network. You'll stay home from school the rest of the week, but next week I think you should go back. When my father died, I wasn't all that much older than you two, and I found it really helpful to get back to my regular routine as soon as possible.”

Neither Robert nor Emma says anything. Jackie can't discern whether that's because they are trying to hold it together or because they feel no sense of grief over their father's passing. She strongly suspects it's the latter—Robert and Emma knew full well the horrors of living under the same roof as Rick Williams.

“Are you guys okay?” Jackie finally asks.

Robert speaks first. “Yes,” he says in a strong voice.

Jackie turns to Emma.

“I don't think it's going to be for us like it was for you when your father died,” Emma says. “And not because it's going to be worse because we're younger. I mean, you and your father were really close, and . . . I don't know.”

Jackie pulls her daughter back in to her. “The three of us, we're going to be better now. I promise.”

Robert leans in to participate in the group hug. Jackie can hardly believe it, but her main emotion is disappointment. She's sorry she didn't murder the son of a bitch years ago.

*  *  *

Jonathan hasn't left the house since Jackie called that morning to tell him that Rick was dead. He's spent the day watching television and eating Domino's Pizza—and waiting for Jackie to report on her visit with East Carlisle's finest. That call—from Jackie's burner phone—finally comes at ten that evening.

“I was starting to worry,” he says.

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to call until the kids were in bed.”

“So . . . how did it all go today?”

“Fine.” She lets slip out a small laugh. “That sounds so awful, right? It went fine. Identifying Rick's dead body went fine. Telling my kids that their father was dead went fine. But it did. I actually think that they were as relieved as I was. Christ, can you imagine? That's what I should put on that asshole's tombstone. His wife and kids were relieved that he was finally dead.”

Jonathan weighs his next words, hearing them in his head before committing to them. “Jackie . . . did you kill him?”

She doesn't hesitate. “Yes. Not directly, of course. But I hired a guy who did it, so . . . yes, I killed him.”

Even though Jonathan knew that was what had happened, hearing Jackie say it still rocks him. In his wildest dreams, Jonathan hadn't imagined Jackie capable of murder.

“I'm not going to say I did it for us,” she continues, “but now we can finally be together. If you'll still have me, I mean.”

He's slow to answer, grappling to get his mind around the change of circumstances. It's a question he never thought he'd ponder: Can he love a murderer?

“Jonathan, I'm scared. And not just about the police. But about you too. For the next . . . I don't know how long . . . we won't be able to see each other, and I . . . I know it's a lot for me to ask, but I need to know that you're with me.”

Jonathan exhales loudly. It is a lot to ask. Then again, not so much when it's being asked by someone you love.

“Yes. Yes. I'm with you,” he says.

J
ackie attributes the large turnout at the funeral more to the fact that Rick never lived anywhere other than East Carlisle than that he was actually liked by any of the attendees. Rick didn't have much family. He was an only child. His mother died before Emma was born, and he hadn't spoken to his father since long before that, despite the fact that the elder Mr. Williams lived only one town over. Rick always claimed their estrangement was because his old man was an abusive alcoholic asshole, and Jackie believed him; something in the gene pool, she figured. Rick's father didn't attend the mother's funeral, so Jackie had no reason to think that he'd appear to say his final good-bye to his son, either.

Most of the people she recognizes, although every time she sees a halfway attractive woman, she assumes it's one of Rick's mistresses. Brittney's there, in a middle pew wearing a too-tight little black dress. The whore.

During the service, Jackie sits between her children, holding their hands, as the priest talks about a man she never knew. A kind man. A loving husband and father.

She told Jonathan to stay away, explaining that it was too risky for him to come. He agreed, and when he did she felt a pang of disappointment. She had hoped he'd put up a fight, arguing with her that many people from their high school graduating class would be there, so his attendance would not give rise to any suspicion. When he so quickly accepted the logic of her position, it occurred to Jackie that Jonathan may have his own reasons for keeping his distance. Perhaps he'd reconsidered a life with her. After all, it wasn't the smartest move to marry someone who had committed mariticide.

After the service, there's a procession to the cemetery. It's only twenty minutes away, but someone had the idea that it would be a fitting tribute to Rick if the hearse passed by the East Carlisle football field, and Jackie was in no position to disagree, even though it means extending this charade another ten minutes.

The ceremony at the grave site is mercifully short. Finally, the priest utters the closing benediction, and Rick's casket is lowered into the ground.

It is all Jackie can do not to smile.

*  *  *

Detective Martin wasn't at the service. Jackie's almost certain of it. Rick didn't have any African American friends, and she feels confident she would have noticed him among the sea of white faces. He must have been waiting until after it was over to corner her, because there he was standing in front of the cemetery's business office, blocking the only way to the parking lot from the grave site.

“Mrs. Williams, I'm very sorry for this intrusion,” Detective Martin says as she approaches.

Jackie is flanked by her children, with her mother a step behind. Although Jackie would prefer not to, she has no choice but to engage Detective Martin.

“How are you?” she says, careful not to call him by title.

“I'm fine, thank you. I realize that today is a difficult day for you, but I was hoping that you could give me just a few minutes. I've spoken to Mr. Graham, and he said that we could use his office.”