Good Behavior, page 4
“Yeah.”
“So why not stay out of the affairs of the spoiled rich? Why do you care so much to interfere? To put yourself at risk, which you’ve done?”
“Late at night, when you’re alone, do you ever feel like somewhere along the way, you crossed this line you didn’t see? Actually sold yourself out?”
Arnold just stared at her as the shower beat down on the stone.
“I thought I was completely lost, Arnie. And then I found myself hiding in that closet in your room, and I saw a chance to go back to the other side of the line.”
Letty heard the closet door swing open. Daphne came and stood beside her.
“My husband paid you to kill me?”
Arnold made no response. Daphne walked over to the sinks, bent down, picked up his gun.
“You shouldn’t touch that, Daphne. The police are coming.”
“Not yet they aren’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re an ex-con. I don’t want you taking any flak, considering you were stealing from the guests of the Grove Park Inn when you got involved. Take his car and his money. I’ll call the police after you’re gone.”
“That’s your money, Daphne.”
“No, it’s Chase’s.” She aimed Arnold’s gun at him. “Keys.”
He tossed them to Letty.
“I don’t want to leave you here alone with him, Daphne.”
“I’ll be all right.” She took the shotgun.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You saved my life, Letty. I’ll never forget it. Now go.”
— 8 —
Five days later, at 6:01 p.m., Chase Rochefort stepped off the elevator, dressed to the nines in a light-gray Coppley and a cobalt oxford, engaged with his iPhone as he breezed through the lobby of the neo-Gothic Jackson Building, whose twelfth floor housed his law practice—Rochefort, Bloodsworth & Sax, LLC. The stunning redhead followed him out onto the street, sprouting her umbrella against the drizzly Friday evening. Trailed him along South Pack Square to North Market, and then several blocks to the intersection with Woodfin, where Rochefort entered the Sheraton Hotel.
He sat at the corner of the chophouse bar, letting his Chilean sea bass turn cold and drinking double Powers on the rocks with twists of lemon like his life depended on it. Halfway through his sixth, the barstool beside him opened up and Letty claimed it and ordered a glass of merlot.
While the barkeep poured her wine, Letty reached over, patted Chase’s hand, and asked with faux empathy, “How you holding up?” Searched his face for some tell of the preceding week’s stress, but no indication presented aside from a darkness under his eyes that had mostly been erased with concealer and the blush of Irish whiskey.
He worked up a glassy-eyed smile, slurred, “We know each other?”
“Well, I certainly know you.”
The barkeep returned with her wine. “That’s ten dollars. Would you like to start a—”
Chase tapped his chest. “My tab.”
“Of course, Mr. Rochefort.”
Chase banged his rocks glass against Letty’s wineglass and threw back the rest of his whiskey. “Have I sued you before?” he asked, excavating the lemon from the melting cubes of ice, crunching the rind between his back molars.
“No, you haven’t sued me.”
“Good.” He grinned. “I’ve sued half the people in this town.”
The barkeep arrived with a fresh double Powers on the rocks and swapped it out for Chase’s empty glass.
“But I was curious about something,” Letty asked, letting her left knee brush against his leg.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve read the Citizen-Times cover to cover for the last five days and there’s been no mention of it.” He sipped his new drink, Letty wondering about the depth of his intoxication, how much of this was sliding past him. “I’ve called your home. Never got an answer. You and Skyler have been living out of this hotel all week, and you come down here and drink yourself into a stupor every night.”
His face paled slightly through the Powers glow. “Who are you?”
“I was there, Chase.”
“Where? What are you talking about?”
She leaned over, whispered in his ear: “Room 5212 at the Grove Park Inn when you met with Arnold LeBreck and hired him to murder your wife. I was in the closet. I heard everything.”
He drew back, the noise of the chophouse swelling—thirty separate conversations intermingled with the clink of glassware and china.
She said, “Last Sunday morning, I went to your house in Montford. I told your wife everything—”
“Oh Jesus.”
“—and when I left, she was holding a shotgun on Mr. LeBreck and on the verge of calling the police. I should never have left her . . .
“But as I just mentioned, nothing in the papers. No sign of Daphne. So I’m sitting here wondering what happened, but before you answer, let me tell you that I’ve written a letter to the Asheville Police Department providing a firsthand account, and it will be delivered tomorrow by a friend of mine should I become scarce.”
This last part was a lie. She’d only just thought of it.
Chase drained his whiskey in one shot and slammed the glass down on the bar.
“Why won’t you go back to your house, Chase? What did you do there on Sunday morning after I left? What did you do to your wife?”
Chase grabbed the side of the bar to steady his hands. He closed his eyes, opened them again. The barkeep set another Powers in front of him and took away his cold, untouched dinner plate.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said.
“I’m going back to your house,” Letty said. “Tonight. Am I going to find her dead? Why won’t you tell me, instead of sitting here in denial, pretending none of this has happened?”
Chase stared down the length of the bar for a full minute, then rubbed his palms into his eyes, smearing a bit of eyeliner.
Another greedy sip of Powers and he said, “I met Daphne after my first wife died. Skyler was two, and my parents kept him for a week, made me take a trip. We met in Oranjestad. You know Aruba? She could be so engaging when she wanted to be.
“We’d been married a year when I caught the first glimpse of what she really was. Friend of ours had gotten divorced and Daphne was consoling her on the telephone. It was a small thing, but I suddenly realized what she was doing. My wife had this way of talking to you so you’d think she was comforting you when she was actually salting your wounds. I saw her do it again and again. Even with me. With my son. It was like the pain of others attracted her. Filled her up with this black joy. Please,” he slurred. “Don’t go back there. Just leave it alone.”
“So it turns out your wife’s a bitch after all, and you want her dead. That’s so original.” Letty had a strong desire to take the Beretta 84 pistol out of her purse and jam it into Chase’s ribs, make him come along with her, rub his face in whatever he’d done. Instead, she climbed down from the barstool, said, “Have a wonderful night of freedom, Chase. It may be your last.”
— 9 —
Letty parked her 4Runner in the cul-de-sac and walked up the driveway toward the Rochefort residence. The rain had further dissolved into a cold, fine mist, and all she could see of the Victorian was the lamplight that pushed through a row of tall, arched windows on the second floor. At the front door, she peered through a panel of stained glass, saw a sliver of the low-lit hallway—empty.
She knocked on the door and waited, but no one came.
She slid the third window open. She lifted the shade, saw the living room illuminated by a sole piano lamp on the baby grand. Climbed over the back of the upholstered sofa and closed the window behind her.
“Daphne?”
The hardwood groaned under her footsteps as she moved through the living room and up the stairs. The bed in the master suite looked slept in, covers thrown back, sheets wrinkled, clothes hanging off the sides.
Letty went downstairs into the kitchen and, as she stared into a sinkful of dirty dishes, noticed the music—some soothing adagio—drifting up from a remote corner of the house.
She walked around the island to a closed door near the breakfast nook.
Opened it. The music strengthening.
Steps descended into a subterranean level of the residence, and she followed them down until she reached a checkerboard floor made of limestone composite. To the left, a washing machine and dryer stood in the utility alcove surrounded by hampers of unwashed laundry that reeked of mildew.
Letty went right, the music getting louder.
Rounded a corner and stopped.
The brick room was twenty feet by twenty and lined with metal wine racks, the top rows of bottles glazed with dust.
Beside an easel lay a Bose CD player, a set of Wüsthof kitchen knives, and boxes of gauze and bandages. Hanging from the ceiling of the wine cellar by a chain under her arms—Letty’s eyes welled up—Daphne.
Then the lifeless body shifted and released a baritone wail.
This wasn’t Daphne.
Letty recognized the tattoo of the strangling hands as Arnold LeBreck painfully lifted his head and fixed his eyes upon Letty, and then something behind her.
Letty’s stomach fell.
She spun around.
Daphne stood five feet away, wearing a black rubber apron streaked with paint or blood and a white surgical mask, her black hair pinned up except for a few loose strands that splayed across her shoulders.
She pointed a shotgun at Letty’s face, and something in that black hole suggested the flawed philosophical underpinnings that had landed Letty in this moment. No more hating herself, no avoiding the mirror, letting her father whisper her to sleep, no books on learning to love yourself or striving to become something her DNA could not support. She was facing down a shotgun, on the verge of an awful death, not because she was an evil person, but because she wasn’t evil enough.
Letty thought fast. “Oh, thank God. You’re not hurt.”
Daphne said through the mask, “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re okay. I ran into Chase—”
“What’d he tell you? I warned him to let me have a week with Arnold, and then I’d be out of his life.”
“He didn’t tell me anything, Daphne. That’s why I came over. To check on you.”
Arnold moaned and twitched, managed to get himself swinging back and forth over the wide drain in the floor like a pendulum.
“That man was going to kill me,” Daphne said.
“I know, honey. I saved you. Remember?” The smell was staggering, Letty’s eyes beginning to water, her stomach to churn. “Well, I see you’re okay, so I’ll slip out, let you—”
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I didn’t see anything in the papers about your husband or Arnold. I thought something had happened to you after I left last Sunday.”
Daphne just stared at her. The face mask sucking in and out. At last she said, “You think what I’m doing is—”
“No, no, no. I’m not here to . . . That man was going to kill you. He deserves whatever happens to him. Think of all the other people he’s murdered for money.”
“You saw my painting?”
“Um, yeah.”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think?”
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes. It’s . . . thought-provoking and—”
“Some parts of Arnold’s portrait are actually painted with Arnold.”
Daphne’s arms sagged with the weight of the shotgun, the barrel now aligned with Letty’s throat.
“I saved your life,” Letty said.
“And I meant what I said. I won’t ever forget it. Now go on into the wine cellar. Just push Arnold back and stand over the drain.”
“Daphne—”
“You’d be a lovely subject.”
Letty’s right hand grazed the zipper of her all-time favorite score—a Chanel quilted-leather handbag she’d stolen out of the Grand Hyatt in New York City. Thirty-five hundred at Saks Fifth Avenue.
“Get your hand away from there.”
“My phone’s vibrating.”
“Give it to me.”
Letty unzipped the bag, pulled out the phone with her left hand, let her right slip inside. Any number of ways to fumble in front of a gaping shotgun barrel.
She said, “Here,” tossed the phone to Daphne, and as the device arced through the air, Letty’s right hand grasped the Beretta and thumbed off the safety.
She squeezed the trigger as Daphne caught the phone.
The shotgun blasted into the ceiling, shards of blond brick raining down and Daphne stumbling back into the wall as blood ran in a thin black line out of a hole in her throat.
Letty pulled out the pistol—no sense in doing further damage to her handbag—and shot her three times in the chest.
The shotgun and the phone hit the limestone, and Daphne slid down into a sitting position against the wall. Out from under her rubber apron, blood expanded through little impulse ripples whose wavelengths increased with the fading pump of her heart. Within ten seconds, she’d lost the strength or will to clutch her throat, her eyes already beginning to empty. Letty kicked the shotgun toward the washing machine and walked to the edge of the wine cellar, breathing through her mouth; she could taste the rotten air, now tinged with cordite.
She looked at Arnold. “I’m going to call an ambulance for you.”
He nodded frantically at the pistol in Letty’s hand.
“You want me to . . . ?”
He let out a long, low moan—sad and desperate and inhuman.
“Arnie,” she said, raising the Beretta, “I’m not sure even you deserve this.”
— 10 —
Letty walked down the long driveway toward the 4Runner. The rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up, a few meager stars shining in the southern sky, a night bird singing to a piece of the moon. For a fleeting moment, she felt the heart-tug of having witnessed a beautiful thing, but a crushing thought replaced the joy—there was so much beauty in the world, and in her thirty-six years, she’d brushed up against so little of it.
At the bottom of the driveway, she took her phone out of the ruined handbag, but, five seconds into the search for Chase Rochefort’s number, powered off her phone. She’d done enough. So very much more than enough.
The alarm squeaked and the 4Runner’s headlights shot two brief cylinders of light through what mist still lingered in the cul-de-sac. Letty climbed in behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Sped away from that house, from lives that were no longer her problem. Felt a familiar swelling in her chest, that core of inner strength she always seemed to locate on the first night of a long bit when the loneliness in the cell was a living thing.
And she promised herself that she’d never try to be good again.
Only harder, stronger, truer, and at peace, once and forever at peace, with her beautiful, lawless self.
A NOTE FROM BLAKE CROUCH ON
THE PAIN OF OTHERS
“The Pain of Others” is the Letty Dobesh story that most closely follows the television show. The pilot episode of Good Behavior is based largely on what you just read, with the exception of a few key changes.
First: Arnold in the short story becomes Javier in the TV show.
The short story and the pilot episode run pretty close to parallel until the beginning of chapter 8. In both the show and the story, Letty leaves Daphne’s house with Daphne armed, angry, and in total control of her would-be assassin.
In the story, Arnold suffers an unimaginably awful fate. He’s essentially tortured for days in Daphne’s basement. The twist in the story is that Daphne turns out to be a monster and Letty comes to a stark realization: maybe she shouldn’t have interfered with Chase and Arnold’s deal.
But in thinking about the show, Chad Hodge and I realized that this ending wouldn’t work. First, it leaned too heavily into horror territory, which wasn’t the tone we wanted to strike. But more critically, what intrigued us most about the Letty-Arnold (soon to be Letty-Javier) dynamic was the intensity of their connection. When we meet Letty, she’s just out of prison, struggling with addiction, stealing, self-hating, basically on the brink of a massive implosion. The idea that this fucked-up relationship with a contract killer might actually save her from herself felt like a big idea to us. It felt like the kind of show we wanted to make. “Bonnie and Clyde from Bonnie’s perspective” is how we pitched it to networks.
Of course, there were other additions to the pilot episode, since we wanted to establish all of Letty’s world and the people who populated it, right out of the gate. So we meet her mother, Estelle, a character who is original to the show. Letty’s son, Jacob. And finally, her parole officer, Christian.
I’m often asked how Chad and I approach the process of cowriting a script. We figured out an egalitarian method (well, to be fair, it was Chad’s idea).
A television script is approximately fifty to sixty pages. Chad would write the first ten pages. I would then read and edit what he’d written, write the next ten pages, and send it back to him. Then we’d rinse, wash, repeat, sending pages back and forth in this manner until the first episode was finished. It took us about a month to write the first draft.
