I’m rage-cleaning the remains of our dinner. Dana and I are in her kitchen. She’s sitting on a stool at the counter, a glass of red wine in hand.
I followed her back here after the football game. I had to get to the bottom of the Ryan Reeve story. Not only was Dana cheating on Stan but Angie knew before I did.
The Frozen soundtrack leaks out of the den, where Ruby and Zoe are watching the movie. Dana’s housekeeper, Gloria, collected the girls from school. Dana’s twins are still out, Chad at a postgame party and Owen at chess club. “Let it go,” trills the song. I wish I could. A lack of sleep, too much stress, and my fury at Dana have resulted in a brain-splitting headache.
I grab a dirty plate off the stack in the sink. Being here at Winderlea is not helping my mood. My mind keeps returning to my last visit: the pair of us dragging Stan’s lifeless body. I scrape bits of lasagna into the trash compactor. While dinner was tasty, I could barely swallow it. Tomato sauce on white porcelain kept reminding me of blood on marble.
Dana takes a long swig of wine. She’s had enough. Her gaze is vacant.
Catching the light, the wine in her glass is the color of blood: Stan’s blood and Alma’s. I shudder. What are the chances of two pools of blood spilling in one night? Stan’s death freed some nightmarish genie from a bottle.
I look away. I’m being maudlin.
I jam the plate into Dana’s supersized dishwasher and reach for another. Everything in this house seems inflated. Her espresso machine belongs in Starbucks. Her fridge could house a walrus carcass.
Dana waves a hand. “You don’t have to do that,” she says. “Just leave everything in the sink. Gloria will be in in the morning.”
I reach for the next plate and scrape it. It’s something to do, besides scream at Dana. When I do speak, it’s through clenched teeth: “How does Angie know about you and this guy Ryan?”
Dana shrugs. “You know her, Jo! She probably saw me talking to him and sussed it out. And she doesn’t know! She was fishing!”
I ignore this. Dana must have told her something. And if Angie wasn’t sure before, based on Dana’s reaction in the bleachers, she is now. “Who else could know?” My voice cracks. “Did Stan know? Is that why he wanted to divorce you?”
Dana looks away. “Of course not.”
I knock the plate against a mug. Damn. I’ve chipped it. I’m not sure I believe her.
I run the tap and try to calm down. “You haven’t seen Ryan since, have you? I mean, since . . . ?”
“No! I said no!” she says, nostrils flaring.
I inhale. “When did you last see him?” “See” is a euphemism, as I suspect “know” was for Angie when she said, “So you do know him.” God, I hate Angie. Have the cops talked to her? Will she tell them about Ryan?
Dana crosses her legs, ladylike. She should have kept them shut. Her eyes skate left. “The day before Stan . . .” A hard swallow. “Saturday. Stan was in Seattle.”
The plate I was scraping slides from my grasp. It clatters into the sink against the others.
Dana jumps and gasps. “Jesus! Would you stop cleaning?”
I can’t help but sneer. “Well, someone will have to!” It would never occur to Dana that Gloria might prefer to start her day without a sink full of crusty dishes.
My mother, long since dead, worked as a cleaner at the Oaktree Mall. Whenever I went there with friends as a teenager, I was mortified to see her. I often think of her when I’m cleaning, like right now, or when I mopped Stan’s blood off Dana’s studio floor.
People like Dana never think of the dirty work. They don’t realize that garbagemen and janitors are the cornerstones of our civilization. They don’t care about people like Alma Reyes, now on life support, an ocean away from her loved ones. These folk don’t exist for Dana. They’re machinery. A background hum. Is that how she sees me? Here to clean up her shit but not trusted with the details of her love life. I can’t believe she told Angie!
Dana touches her forehead. She sags against the counter. “I’m sorry.” Her voice shakes, contrite and exhausted. “Jesus, Jo. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry too.” Getting angry won’t help. “Just . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive. It’s not like I’m asking for the thrill of it. I’m not judging you for fucking your neighbor. I only care about what the cops know! And what Angie might tell them.”
She nods manically, tears in her eyes. “I know.” She hides her face in her hands. “I’m just . . .” She gulps. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Because you had an affair?”
“Because I had an affair with him.” There are two bright spots on her pale cheeks. They make her look doll-like.
“Why?”
“He’s . . .” She takes a swig, followed by a big breath. “He’s gorgeous. I mean, seriously—” Her face flushes. “You should see him.”
I hold my breath. Shit. Is she in love with this guy?
Dana shakes her head as if I’d asked out loud. “Physically, he’s stunning. But he’s twenty-eight and kind of a . . .” She swallows hard. “A bit of a loser, I guess. He doesn’t have a real job. And he lives at home, like Angie said, with his parents.”
“How long has it been going on?” I ask.
Dana stares into her wine glass. “Two months?”
Damn. I stay quiet.
Tears fill her eyes. “It looks awful.”
I think back to that night, to Dana’s claim that Stan was having an affair and that’s why they fought. That’s why Stan hit her.
Everything Dana told me could be a lie. Maybe she planned to kill Stan for the money. Dana wanted to keep her infinite riches and shack up with her hot young lover.
As soon as these thoughts bubble up, I shoot them down. I’ve known Dana for thirty years. So she didn’t tell me about her affair with the young stud next door. If I were her, I might have hidden that too. It’s too much of a stereotype, turning her into a cougar: a rich, fortysomething lady preying on the bad boy next door. She was silly to get involved with a guy like that: part-time tennis coach, part-time dope dealer. But she’s not a cold-blooded killer.
I stick another plate in the washer. “Look, if Angie knows about you and Ryan, so will everyone else in town. She lives to gossip. Sooner or later, the cops will ask you about him.”
Dana studies her wine. “What should I tell them?”
I adjust the tap. The water’s getting too hot. “The truth. Having an affair isn’t illegal.”
She drains what’s left in her glass. “I don’t want to tell them. It’s humiliating.”
I fight a fresh urge to snap at her. There’s more than her pride at stake here. There’s the possibility of life in prison. Life without our children. “You have no choice. The police will interview all your neighbors. Do you really think this Ryan guy will lie about your relationship? He has no reason to! And if the cops know you’re trying to hide an affair, they’ll see that as another motive for killing Stanley.”
“They’ll see it as a motive anyway.” Her voice is soft but clear. “I was cheating on my husband.”
“Well, own up and act contrite. Say you only did it because you knew he was cheating on you first. That you hoped he’d notice and get jealous.” I attempt a smile. “You know, all that good old high school stuff. Play the desperate, neglected little woman.”
Dana doesn’t smile. I study her. “You did think that, right?” I say. “I mean, that he was cheating?”
She frowns, perhaps hearing the doubt in my voice. “Yes! I know he was having an affair!”
“How?”
“I looked at his credit card bills,” she says. “Coco de Mer lingerie. He wasn’t buying it for me. And jewelry too.” Her lip quivers. “She has expensive tastes, whoever she is. Like really expensive.”
I rinse off the last plate. “You don’t know who it is?”
“No clue.” She looks glum.
I imagine the cops will find Dana’s romantic rival. That could be a good thing. At least they’ll have another suspect. It’s lucky that Dana admitted her marriage wasn’t perfect. Maybe that battered face was a blessing in disguise. It forced her to admit things weren’t rosy. He was cheating. She was cheating. Maybe hot Ryan Reeve won’t be too big of an issue.