I guess I spoke too soon. I look over at the other cell when an officer approaches with a young girl wearing a Mohawk. She’s not actually a girl, she’s just petite. When I get a closer look at her face, I estimate she’s probably in her early thirties. She’s put in the cell, and she flops on the cot, looking at the ceiling. I want to say something to her, but all I can think of is the hackneyed question asked in cop shows. Before I can inquire, she speaks.

  “What you in for?”

  I almost laugh. “Murder.” It rolls off my tongue like I’m a badass.

  She sits up, her expression a mixture of terror and excitement. “No shit. Who’d you whack?”

  “I didn’t whack anyone. I’m innocent.”

  “Of course, you are. You and every perp in the joint.” She rolls her eyes.

  “What are you in for?”

  “I got a stinking DUI. It’s my third one. I’m sure I’m going to lose my license for life now.”

  “Did you hurt anyone?”

  “No. Thank god. But like the cop who arrested me said, I may not be so lucky next time. He was a real asshole. He slapped me around. I expected it. Cops hate drunk drivers because they see so many people, especially young kids, snuffed out because of it.”

  “Why don’t you join AA or enter rehab?”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’m going to have to now.” Her eyes widen. “Hey, I know you. You’re that rich guy’s wife. The guy who’s missing.”

  “That’s me.” I give her a sarcastic wave.

  “Wow, so they busted you for killing him.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t do it.”

  She walks to her cell door and peers through the bars. “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t snitch on you. I read on Twitter that he was an asshole and a batterer. He deserved whatever you did.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tiffany.” She glides her hand over her Mohawk. “I know I don’t look like a Tiffany, but it’s my real name.”

  “Well, Tiffany, I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “Good for you. Hold your ground. So, you got a lawyer?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’m hoping to hear from him soon.”

  “I hope you get bail, because it sucks in here.” She lies down on her cot.

  “I do too.” I turn my back to her. My gaze falls on a name etched onto the wall. I try to read it, but it’s in cursive and barely visible. I remember back in middle school, when we would write our initials on the restroom stall doors. JW was here. I choke up thinking about the abuse I witnessed as a child and how I repeated the cycle when I married Keith. And now I’m behind bars. I must have been a crappy person in my past life, and now I’m paying for it. Maybe I hurt children, maybe that’s why I couldn’t have any and why I suffered as a child. Payback is a bitch.

  I wipe the tears running down my face, thinking about Blythe, praying that she has a chance at life. Who knows if I’ll ever get out of here?

  “Are you crying?”

  “No.” I grab tissue off the roll on the sink.

  “It’s okay to cry. This is probably like major culture shock for you. You’ve never been in jail, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, this is Club Med compared to state and federal prisons.”

  “How do you know so much about it?”

  “My old man was a jailbird. He died in Folsom.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. He molested me from the age of seven to thirteen.”

  “That’s probably why you drink.”

  “That and a whole lot of other stuff.”

  We turn toward Officer Wilson approaching. “Mrs. Pritchard.”

  “Yes?” I stand, hoping she brings good news.

  Chapter 37

  Blythe

  I splash water on my face, trying to wake up from this nightmare. I’m in Stephen’s guest bathroom, and it’s been six hours since Julia was dragged out of the house like a common criminal for something she didn’t do. Every time I think about the terror in her eyes, I get weak in the knees and nauseous.

  “Blythe, you’ve been in there a long time.”

  “I’ll be right out, Faye.” I wish she would leave me alone, but I think she and Stephen secretly have me on suicide watch. Before I came in here, Faye inspected the medicine cabinet. I take a deep breath and step out.

  “I made more coffee,” she says, forcing a smile.

  I follow her to Stephen’s peach-colored kitchen and sit at the table. My eyes shift to the antique, white refrigerator covered in a child’s drawings. A few of them have yellowed from age. “Have you heard from Stephen?”

  “He called a few times while you were in the bathroom.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “The last time I spoke with him he was on his way to meet with Richard and Theo. They’re putting together the bail money.”

  “A million dollars is a lot.” I shake my head.

  “We should be grateful she was able to get bail. The arraignment will most likely be Wednesday. Stephen says there are going to be some stipulations.”

  “Like what?”

  “She’s going to have to wear an electronic monitoring bracelet, and she’ll be under house arrest. She’s also going to have to surrender her passport.”

  “I don’t think she’ll mind if it means getting out of jail.” I look at my phone, hoping Mrs. Tatum calls me soon. It’s almost 7:00 p.m. I want to talk to her before I make another trip to the apartment. I know Julia and Stephen checked the boxes, but I need to look for my own satisfaction.

  My phone rings, and I snatch it so fast it almost slips out of my hand onto the floor. “Excuse me, Faye. I need to take this call.” I step into Stephen’s living room, hoping and praying I can pry some info out of Mrs. Tatum.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m here, Mrs. Tatum. Thank you for returning my call.”

  “Dear, how are you? Goodness, I saw them take Julia away in a police car. How horrendous. You must be devastated,” she says, in a maudlin tone.

  “Mrs. Tatum, are you on Facebook?”

  “I see you got my message.”

  “So it was you?”

  “I’m a bit embarrassed. I shouldn’t have communicated on social media. That’s why I deactivated my account, but I hate to see people misled.”

  “Who were you talking about in your email? Who’s pretending?”

  “Blythe, darling, I really don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. Why don’t you meet me at the club for an after-dinner cocktail?”

  I glance at the time on my phone. “I can be there in thirty minutes, but I can’t stay long.”

  “I won’t keep you, my dear. See you soon.” She hangs up.

  I return to the kitchen, thinking about what I’m going to tell Faye. Stephen admonished her not to let me out of her sight, but I can’t sit here doing nothing.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I need to make a run.”

  “A run where?” she asks with knitted brows.

  “Remember my housekeeper’s daughter I told you about?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was her calling. She needs me. Her father’s acting out again, and she’s worried.”

  “It may not be a good idea to get involved in that, Blythe.”

  “I’ll text you her number. I’ll be fine.” I bolt before she can try to stop me. I run to my car and drive to the country club. This false person Mrs. Tatum knows might be the “she” in the note.

  ~~~

  I park in the member lot, looking around at the other cars, wondering if Mrs. Tatum has arrived. Traffic wasn’t too bad, so I got here sooner than I’d anticipated. I decide to solidify my alibi and put in a call to Carla.

  “Hola, Miss Blythe.”

  “Martha, how are you?”

  “Bien,” she whispers.

  “Is Pedro there? Can you talk?”

  “He no aquí.”

  “Is Carla there? Can I speak to her?”

  “Sí.”

  I hear voices speaking in Spanish, and after a couple of beats, Carla comes to the phone. “Blythe, I’m so sorry. On the news, we saw the police taking Julia. OMG, I’m so scared for her. I wanted to call you, but my father was here, and I couldn’t use the phone. How are you?”

  “I’m hanging in there. Carla, if anybody calls there looking for me, tell them I was there and that I just left.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to find out who really killed my father.”

  I sit in the deafening silence.

  “Carla, are you there?”

  “Yeah. I might be able to help you. I’ve been thinking about it too. I watch a lot of detective shows with my mother, and I usually figure out who did it.”

  “That’s nice, but I’m meeting with someone in a minute,” I say, my eyes locking on Mrs. Tatum getting out of her car. “I’ll check with you later.”

  “Please call me back, so we can talk about it.”

  “Okay, Carla.” I hang up, get out of the car, and catch up to Mrs. Tatum. She walks fast for a woman who appears to be over seventy.

  “Hello, Mrs. Tatum,” I say when I reach her. She eyes my outfit.

  “Blythe, they’re not going to let you in the club with cut-off jeans. I think I may have something in the car for you to wear.”

  We walk back to her car, and she opens the trunk. Noticing she has a Buick like Sherry’s, I flash back to Sherry’s taillight that I thought a reporter might have broken. I remember seeing her car on Monday, and nothing was wrong with it then. If she’d been in an accident, she would have told Julia and Julia would have told me.

  “Blythe, did you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tatum.”

  “This might not fit perfectly, but it’ll get you in.”

  “Sure.” I slip the green dress over my head, still thinking about Sherry’s taillight.

  I follow Mrs. Tatum into the club, and we sit at her reserved table. She orders bourbon, and I have a soft drink. I need to keep a clear head.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” I say.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Who were you talking about in your email?”

  “How well do you know Shelbie Moore?” She looks at me askance.

  “Since middle school. She’s my best friend.”

  “You have a bright future ahead of you and…uh…well. You have to be careful with whom you associate.”

  “Are you telling me I shouldn’t be friends with Shelbie because she’s half black?”

  “I know she’s very light skinned, but she’s still black.”

  “Mrs. Tatum, I thought you were going to shed some light on who killed my father.”

  “I wanted to warn you about Shelbie. I have it on good authority she’s in that Black Lives Matter organization. As for giving you information about who killed your father, I don’t think I need to do that, because the police already have the killer in jail.”

  Images of Julia with her hands cuffed, crying out that she’s innocent, flicker through my brain. Without thinking, I get up from the table and throw my drink in Mrs. Tatum’s face.

  “How dare you?” She dabs at the soda running down her face and dress. “I will have your membership revoked.”

  “Kiss my ass.” I pull the dress over my head and throw it at her.

  I flee to the parking lot and get in my car, fuming. I can’t believe I wasted good time on that woman. I look over at her car and again flash back to Sherry’s taillight. I remember this safety expert at school telling us to kick out the taillight if we were ever stuck in the car trunk. Thoughts tumble around in my head, things I paid no attention to at the time, but now are crystalizing—like Sherry wanting to unpack our boxes.

  I want to do something for you and Blythe. I’m going to start unpacking all those boxes you have at your apartment.

  She was obsessed with our apartment.

  I’m sitting next to Sherry. We’ve been talking about decorating your new apartment.

  Is it because she needed access to the box she stashed the knife in? Now I’m acting like Julia. Sherry is Julia’s agent and best friend. She couldn’t have killed my father. What would be her motive? Was she involved with my father? After all, she was the first person to agree with me when I said my father was fooling around. Okay, I’m going off on the deep end. But am I? I need to bounce these ideas off Shelbie.

  “Blythe, OMG, are you okay? I left you a bunch of messages. I got yours about the knife.”

  “I know. I couldn’t talk then. Can you meet me at the apartment? I need to brainstorm about the case, and I want to look for the knife again. I have an idea, and I need to make sure I’m not being crazy.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “I’m at the country club. I can be there in thirty minutes. And Shelbie, thank you for being available. I know you have a life.”

  “Blythe, when my grandmother died, you dropped everything to be there for me, day and night. I’ll never forget that. I’ll meet you at the apartment. And I love you.”

  “I love you too. Gotta go—call coming in.” I answer the incoming call.

  “Blythe, this is Carla again. I really need to talk to you.”

  “Sweetie, I’m on my way to my apartment. I’ll try to call you when I get there. My battery is low. I’m going to turn off my phone for a bit.”

  “Okay, hurry.”

  Chapter 38

  Julia

  In Stephen’s Escalade, I caress my gold necklace then rub my pinkie ring. I look down at my new jewelry—an electronic ankle bracelet—thinking about how long I’ll have to wear it and how long I’ll be under house arrest. Blythe and I will be staying at Stephen’s house. The mansion is an official crime scene, so we can’t stay there, and we all agreed the apartment has neither adequate security nor parking. When Officer Wilson came to my cell and told me I’d made bail, I almost ran for the exit, but she told me to slow my roll, because it would take a while for all the paperwork to be processed. Even with that, my initial feeling of peace and isolation was replaced with a visceral desire to be free. The first thing I did when I got out was hug Stephen, and then I called Blythe, but my call went to voicemail.

  “It’s good to be free, isn’t it?” Stephen says. He pulls out of the visitor parking lot at the police station, bobbing his head to the reggae tune resonating throughout his car. “Is the music okay? I hope I’m not coming off as unprofessional, but I’m in a really great mood.”

  “It’s fine, and you have no idea how wonderful it feels to not be behind bars. The short time I spent in there made me see how much I take for granted. Who knew it would be a luxury to pee in private? I am worried about Blythe though. She’s not answering her phone.”

  “I’ll connect with Faye.” He looks toward his car Bluetooth. “Call Faye.”

  The beats from the music are replaced with ringing. “Stephen, did you get her?”

  “She’s sitting right next to me.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Can you tell Blythe that Julia is trying to reach her?”

  “I would, but she’s not here. She left a couple of hours ago to check on that little girl.”

  “Carla.” I interject. “Hi, Faye—it’s Julia.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Julia. Like I said, she’s not here.”

  “If you hear from her, please tell her to call me,” I say.

  “Faye, we’re on our way there.”

  “Okay, Stephen.” She hangs up.

  “Stephen, can we stop by the apartment first? I need to pick up a few things, and I really should clean up that mess.”

  “No problem.”

  “By the way, thank you for bringing my phone.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I appreciate you being proactive and contacting Richard and Theo.”

  “They saw the news footage and called me.” He stops at a traffic light. “They’re really good guys. Between the two of them, we got what we needed for bail. Richard said he and Karen were ready to participate in today’s search, but when they got to my office, Vanessa told them it had been canceled.”

  “I’ve underestimated Richard. He and Keith have had serious disagreements in the past, and I used to think Richard was the troublemaker. I should’ve known better.”

  “Theo has somebody in mind to help me with your defense.”

  I nearly get whiplash turning to see if Stephen has a straight face. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. He was sincere. I had a long talk with them, and from what I gather they feel guilty about not intervening. They said over the past few years Keith's drinking had escalated, and they suspected he was abusive. Theo believes that without a body and a murder weapon, the case won’t go to trial. The shirt is circumstantial evidence. He plans to attend the arraignment.”

  “That’s good news,” I say wistfully, afraid of raising my hopes.

  “Actually, before we go to the apartment, do you mind if I stop by the office? I’d also like to take you to dinner.”

  “That’s fine, and dinner sounds great. I couldn’t bring myself to eat the food in there. Right after I was told I’d made bail and was waiting to be released, a guard brought in a plate of pork and beans, potatoes, and meatloaf. I gave mine to my new roommate, Tiffany.”

  ~~~

  I tilt my head, looking at the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Stephen’s conference room. Still thinking about Blythe, I call Martha’s house.

  “Hola, Miss Julia.”

  “Martha, I’m sorry to call so—”

  “Who the fuck are you talkin’ to this late? Hang that phone up, and help me find Carla and Jorge. Where did they go, dammit?”

  “Miss, Julia I have to—”

  “Have you seen, Blythe?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to hang up that phone, woman?”

 

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