Now
Wednesday, August 18
Woodstock, New York
I found a spot right in front of the rental and put the car into park. I got out, the midday sun practically blinding me. I looked back up the street. There was a black sedan, on the other side of the road, maybe a hundred yards ahead. Was someone following me?
The police? The Haywoods?
I squinted, trying to see if there was anyone in the car, if it was idling or parked, but I couldn’t tell. The sun was too bright.
“Everything okay?” Willa asked, her bags in her hands, her purse tight against her hip.
“Fine,” I said, turning back to the rental and heading up the walk.
On the porch, I found a sheet of notepaper, folded in half and wedged in the doorjamb.
Instantly I recognized the pearly finish, the monogrammed H, the heavy weight of the Haywood company letterhead.
Stop filling the cops’ heads with your wild, paranoid theories. I didn’t kill my brother. I’m starting to think maybe you did . . .
It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it was from Henry. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide it either, given that it was on the damn letterhead. But he didn’t need to hide it, did he? Morales had been uninterested in him as a suspect, and with the revelation about Willa knowing George, I almost didn’t blame her.
“What’s that?”
Willa’s voice was right in my ear, her breath practically warming my neck. I jumped, taking a step from her. “Nothing,” I said. “Just the Haywoods being the Haywoods.”
I turned back toward the road, looking once more for the black sedan, but it was gone.
Christ, maybe I was being paranoid.
I opened the door and Willa followed me inside. Shutting it behind us, I twisted the deadbolt, imagining, for a moment, Willa turning it herself.
“Well, that was horrible,” Willa said, setting her bag in the corner. “I’m sorry about Rich. And that you had to see all that with Poppy. I’m going to try and dig up some tea bags. Rentals like this usually have them.”
I took a step forward, not wanting to let her out of my sight for a moment, but then my phone rang, and I practically leapt at the name on my screen.
“Ruth,” I said, answering quickly, as Willa disappeared into the kitchen. “Ruth, I’m glad you called.”
“Hi, Mary,” Ruth said. Her voice was tired and flat. In the background, I heard the faint sound of traffic, a siren.
“Are you back in Brooklyn already?” I asked.
“I am,” she said, resigned. “But Henry is staying in Woodstock, keeping an eye on the investigation.”
“You mean intimidating me?” I asked, grasping the note in my hand. “Leaving me threatening notes?”
“He’s trying to find out who killed his brother, Mary. That’s all.”
I didn’t want to argue about Henry. She’d never go against one of her sons anyway. “Can I please talk to Alex? I just want to see my son. Frank never called me.”
“Listen, Mary, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I’m in close contact with the detective. She tells me you remain a person of interest. With that in mind, I don’t think you should be talking to Alex, not until this gets resolved.”
“What?” I asked, my stomach suddenly heavy, my biggest fear finally arriving. “You can’t do that,” I argued. “He’s my child. Not yours.”
“No, he’s not. Mine is dead,” Ruth practically spat. “And we can do it, actually. We have written permission from you to keep him this week, for one. And our lawyers say there is precedent for this sort of thing, especially when a parent is under criminal investigation.”
“I’m not—”
“You are, Mary. You very much are.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, tears filling my eyes, spilling across my cheeks. “I swear to you, I didn’t.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” Ruth said.
“But—”
Silence. Ruth had already hung up.
I tried calling her back, but it only rang and rang. I tried Frank three times, and Genevieve, too, then Ruth again, but it went immediately to voicemail—Hi, you’ve reached Ruth Haywood. She was screening me.
So this was it, then. They were going to try to keep Alex from me. It was already happening.
Willa emerged from the kitchen then, two teacups steaming in her hands.
“Are you okay?” she asked, setting the cups on the coffee table.
I stared at her, coursing with rage.
You’re the reason they’re doing this. You you you.
“Ruth doesn’t want me to see Alex,” I said. “Not as long as I’m a ‘person of interest.’ ”
“They can’t do that,” Willa said.
“They can,” I said. “And they will. They have all the money, all the power, in the world. And I have nothing.”
“Oh, Mary,” Willa said. She spread her arms wide, wrapped them around me.
“No,” I said, squirming against her embrace. “No!” I said again, and I pushed her this time, and my movements were so strong, so urgent, that she stumbled back. I watched as her feet scrambled for footing, as she fell, one hand sliding into the steaming cups of tea, knocking them over, the other trying to catch herself on the sofa. Then she was on the ground, pulling her scalded hand to her chest, holding it close, like an injured animal.
“Fuck, Mary,” she said. “You hurt me.”
I stared at her, on the ground, and in that moment, I imagined George, the hatred he must have felt toward her.
We can’t all be like Rich, I thought. Calm and collected. Still treating her with a respect she didn’t deserve.
“My hand,” she said, holding it up. “You burned my hand.”
The scene felt so surreal. In our short-lived friendship, she was the fun one, the tornado of energy and humor and margaritas. I was the nurturer, the one who directed her stroller away from potholes, insisted she balance her drinks with water. But now I wasn’t taking care of her, I was hurting her.
She pushed herself up, then rushed into the bathroom, flicking the water on, running her hand beneath it. “The tea was practically boiling. You can’t just push people.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. Suddenly, I didn’t care about the singed skin on Willa’s hand, didn’t care about Morales’s warning to let her talk to Willa first. Didn’t care about pissing Willa off, even with the dirt she had on me. The worst was already happening. I had already lost. “You can’t just kill people, either.”
“What are you talking about?” Willa asked, her hand still running beneath the water, her eyes, crystal blue and full of lies, looking right at me.
And my eyes, wide open, maybe for the first time.
“I know you texted him,” I said.
Willa looked away for a moment so brief, I almost thought I imagined it: “What are you talking about, Mary?”
“George,” I said. “My husband. You texted my husband, and the next morning he was dead.”
She flicked the water off, grabbed the hand towel, and held it against her burn. “I have to put something on this. I—”
“I don’t care about your hand,” I snapped. “Stop playing games with me. Just tell me, for god’s sake. Tell me.”
“You must be mistaken—”
“The police showed me his call logs. Your name is there. I can figure out what happened, I can put it all together. But I want to hear it from you. If you’re going to ruin me, to kill my husband, to keep me from my son, at least have the decency to tell me why.”
Willa’s eyes flitted back and forth, from her bags in the corner to the fireplace to the door, as if searching for a story, one to deliver straight to me. Then she walked from the bathroom, still clutching the towel, and sat down on a chair in the corner, took a deep breath. “I didn’t kill him, okay? I swear to you. But I did text him. After I saw you that night, after you told me what you did, I told George to stay away from you. I was trying to protect you. You were acting like you were going to take him back, and I knew that wasn’t good for you, and I was a little drunk, okay? I was feeling protective.”
She pressed her hands to her thighs, shaking her head. “I know I should have told you, right away,” Willa went on. “But then, it turns out he’s been murdered, and how am I supposed to tell you that, oh wait, I was texting your hubby the night before someone killed him? I’m sorry. I wanted to say something, I just didn’t know how.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” Willa said. “Because it’s the truth.”
“How did you even have his number, then?” I asked. “Explain that.”
Willa bit her lip, wincing in pain. “I’d met him before,” she said. “We moved in the same circles, I guess you could say.”
“When?” I asked. “Before you met me?”
“No. After,” she said. “I promise. I always try to have . . . how do I say this . . . multiple irons in the fire. I meet people. Out, you know. We exchanged numbers. I didn’t realize.”
“So it was exactly what I thought, then. He was another guy to screw, a guy who had a wife-shaped hole in his life, one you could fill . . .”
The thought struck me, right in the gut, twisted the knife, oh so deep. I was losing everything—I was losing Alex—because of her. Because of a woman I’d foolishly let into our lives.
Willa stood then, crossing the distance between us, to sit beside me on the sofa. “Listen, Mary. You have to believe me. I met George at the end of May, at a cocktail bar in the neighborhood, more than a month after I already met you. We traded numbers. He never even gave me his last name. I didn’t realize it was your George, okay? I didn’t think that the world was quite that small. But that last night we met up, the one in June where we got all those margaritas, you told me he was a Libra, and I remembered that the George I’d met had said the same. I still didn’t think it was the same guy, but after I put you in a cab that night, I googled you—I never had before—and saw your wedding announcement. The thing is, I’d already slept with him. I’m so sorry. That made me realize I couldn’t be friends with you anymore, that being in your life, after what I’d done, would hurt you too much. So I ghosted you. I know it was a shit thing to do, but I freaked out.”
I stared at her, struggling to process this new information. The moment I’d seen Willa’s name on that call log, my mind had run wild. Willa targeting George. A torrid love affair gone wrong. Spending time with Alex. Getting jealous. Getting angry. All leading to murder. All my other theories—Henry, some angry stranger mistaking George for his brother—practically flying from my mind.
Was what she was telling me actually possible? Was it all a coincidence?
“Then why didn’t you say something?” I asked hesitantly. “You could have told me, when I showed up in Woodstock. You could have told me everything.”
Willa’s eyes flicked to her bags, but then turned back, trained on mine, held my hand in hers. “I really wanted to. You have to believe me.”
“Wait,” I said, pulling my hand away and scooting away from her on the sofa. “Wait. I saw the call logs. George texted you first. That means you were still talking to him. Why? Were you still together?”
“No,” Willa said. “No, I promise you we weren’t.”
“Then why did he text you? Tell me. What did he want from you?”
Willa’s eyes dashed to the left, and I followed her gaze to the bags in the corner.
I stood. “And why do you keep looking at your bags?”
“Mary,” she said, leaping to her feet, too.
I’d struck a nerve, and now was my chance. I needed answers. I needed the truth.
“Screw your lies,” I said, lunging for her canvas weekender—I grabbed the zipper, tugged it hard.
“Mary, don’t—please.”
I turned it over, shaking it all out. And then, with a thud, it fell against the floor. A black velvet bag, one that looked familiar.
“Mary!” Willa practically yelled, lunging for it.
I side-checked her and got there first.
I snatched it, the bag heavy, the velvet secured by a drawstring at the top.
Willa pushed herself up and lunged again at me, but it was too late.
There would be no secrets between us anymore.
I pried a finger into the opening and pulled.
There it was, before I could see anything else.
Shining in its glory, practically roaring.
The emerald eyes. The onyx spots. The diamonds cascading down its powerful back.
Of course the bag had looked familiar. I’d seen it, after all, in the back of George’s safe.
I stared at Cassandra’s beloved panther bracelet.
Begging me to finally see the truth.