As we cross the café’s parking lot, Dana stumbles. She fumbles through her bag for her keys. Is she drunk, on pills, or just in shock? A DUI would be the last straw.
“You’re in no state to drive,” I say. “Leave your car. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” Moments later, she drops her keys, then her sunglasses. I pick them up and hand them over. She’s visibly trembling.
“Come on,” I say. I’m in no mood for resistance. “I’m driving.”
Her shoulders sink. “Fine.”
We retrace our steps back to my sorry Toyota.
I fish my keys from my tote bag. As usual, it’s heavy with books and papers. The handles dig deep into my shoulder.
Some cretin has drawn a dick and an arc of spunk on my car’s dirty back window. I consider rubbing it out but don’t bother. There are more pressing matters.
Beside my car sits Angie’s white BMW. Its front window is open, and the keys are in the ignition. Even in this neighborhood, that seems careless. I guess you don’t worry about your car getting stolen when your husband’s a luxury-car dealer.
I unlock my car, which no one in their right mind would steal, and toss in my heavy bag. I reach across the seats to open the door for Dana.
She crumples in like an old grannie. I turn on the radio as she buckles up, then reverse slowly.
I’m straightening the car when Angie Costin exits the café. Her cell phone’s pressed to her ear. No doubt she’s busy telling everyone she knows about her coffee with Dana.
I push up my glasses and steer us out of the lot.
We pass the Village Market, where all the Stanton House moms shop for pine nuts, organic arugula, and wild-caught salmon. We pass the Groom Room, where their pedigreed dogs get ninety-five-dollar haircuts. Next comes Core Values, the Pilates studio, where sleek women in yoga gear stand outside guzzling green smoothies.
As I drive, I debate whether to quiz Dana or wait for later. She’s facing one of the worst things a parent could deal with. I should let her tell her kids first, then confront her.
Might Stan have been stabbed? For all I know, Angie made it up just to cause trouble. I’d put nothing past her.
The radio’s been playing soft rock, the official soundtrack of Glebes Bay. This gives way to a local news bulletin. “This is KRAX breaking news,” says the cheesy-voiced deejay. He was a year below us in high school and madly in love with Dana. He gave her a long-stemmed rose one Valentine’s Day. She fed it to her pet rabbit.
I hold my breath, listening.
The deejay lowers his voice to sound solemn: “Early this morning, police recovered the remains of missing hedge fund manager Stanley McFarlane in Garibaldi Cove, approximately two kilometers from his home in the Oaks. Police spokesperson Glenda Heath confirmed foul play and stated that Mr. McFarlane suffered multiple stab wounds.”
The music resumes: Air Supply’s “All Out of Love.” Heat blasts through my head. Multiple? Angie wasn’t lying.
I veer to the curb without indicating. A horn shrills behind me, and a shiny Town Car honks past. Its driver shakes his fist as he snarls through the window. I know what he’s saying: Fucking women drivers.
I give him the finger. Sexist moron. There’s zero reaction from Dana.
I slam the car into park and cut the engine.
We’ve stopped outside a beautiful two-story Victorian, painted robin’s-egg blue. I admire it briefly. Ruby would love a house like that. Maybe someday. My attention snaps back to Dana.
Beside me, she sits rigid. My neck feels hot. I want to scream. I stare at the dashboard. That vase we dumped. Was it all a charade? I’m gripping the wheel so hard my fingers ache. I don’t trust myself to let go.
Dana turns my way. “Jo?”
I can’t look at her. Have I ever been this angry? Maybe at Trevor, the first time I caught him cheating. I’d only just had Ruby. I should have bundled her up and left.
Against the vinyl seat, Dana’s Burberry coat rustles. Her voice is soft but clear. “Jo? That night . . . It didn’t happen like I said. That wasn’t true. I’m sorry.”
I clench the wheel and stay quiet. She’s sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m facing jail here. My child sent to live with her deadbeat dad. Or put in foster care. What the fuck happened?
“Stan didn’t hit me. He never hit me.” Her voice breaks.
I can’t help but look at her. What does that mean? Did I help her hide his murder? I let go of the wheel.
She raises a hand to her eye, as if it still hurts, then drops it in her lap. Her voice sounds raw. “He hit Owen.”
That shocks me. “What?”
She nods.
I study her face, so familiar, that perfect porcelain oval. Unlike me, she hasn’t changed much over the years. She’s stayed smooth and glossy. If she’s had work done, it doesn’t show. She’s not like Angie with her overstuffed lips and stretched-leather forehead. Dana’s ageless and as poreless as an oil painting. She’s lovely. Her eyes meet mine, wide and transparent. Has she finally told the truth about Stan’s death? Or is this another story?
“I didn’t know Stan was hitting Owen.” Her voice thins. “If I’d known, I’d have left! I swear!” Of everything she’s said, this is the most emphatic. She repeats it: “I’d have left!”
Her head bows. I don’t believe her.
When she next speaks, her voice is softer: “He’d get so frustrated with Owen. And mad.”
I can’t breathe. Jesus. Owen. Stan’s murder was all about Owen. Did the boy see everything that night, his mother covering up her crimes? If so, it couldn’t be much worse. My life is in the hands of an unstable teenager.
I try to keep my voice steady: “Was Owen there when it happened?”
Her eyes pop open. She looks through me, glaring at the memory. “No. I saw Stan hit him and ran over. I slapped Stan. Owen ran away, and Stan started yelling at me. He said I was spoiling Owen, that he needed discipline. He started threatening me, saying we’d get a divorce and he’d get full custody of the kids. Stan said he was going to send Owen to one of those teen boot camps—you know the kind? Out in the wilds? I—” Her voice splinters.
“What happened, Dana?”
“I . . . I saw red. I grabbed a knife off my workbench and stabbed him in the chest.” She twists her cream silk scarf. “He tried to grab me. I stabbed him again, in the side of the neck.” She clears her throat, like something’s stuck in it. “He just collapsed. It happened so fast!”
I watch her, unsure. I’ve known her most of my life. She’s my best friend. I trusted her. Is this all or even part of the truth? Did she use me?
My voice shakes. “Where was Owen?”
“I don’t know. He’d run off. He didn’t see, Jo!”
How could she know? I recall the thick Turkish towel covering Stan’s head and shoulders. The inky pool on the floor. A dark smear on the marble bench.
My head swirls with too many questions to catch. “Why was there blood on your workbench?”
She shudders. “He hit his head going down.”
I consider her, those clear blue eyes and her pale, blinking lashes. I recall the horror in her studio, the air rose-sweet, a cold draft rushing in. My head throbs. Did I help my best friend murder her husband?
“Why were Owen and Stan in the studio?”
Dana shrugs. “Owen goes in there sometimes. He likes the cool air and the smell of the flowers.”
I don’t respond. I imagine Owen getting stoned and going in there to sniff his mom’s flowers. Perhaps he’s drawn to the coolers’ blue light. The room has a far-away space station feeling.
I shut my eyes and try to conjure up all the details of that night. I got everything wrong. What other facts am I missing?
Dana lays a hand on my arm. I flinch. Her gaze is imploring. “Please.” She grips my arm. “Please, Jo, it’s the truth. Please believe me!”
I want to shake her off. I stay quiet.
“Stan was hitting my son! He beat Owen!”
“And your face?”
She looks freshly startled, then guilty. “I did it myself. After . . .” She swallows.
“Why?”
Her eyes sink to her lap.
“Why?” I say louder. Did she injure her face just to trick me? She did. I want her to admit it.
“I was going to call 911 and say Stan hit me. I planned to say it was self-defense.” She gulps. “But I’d made our marriage look perfect.” She studies her hands, that big shiny ring. “I was scared no one would believe me.”
“Except me,” I say flatly.
A man peddles past on a bike, dressed in neon spandex and a bullet helmet. Another MAMIL. The Oaks is full of them: middle-aged men in Lycra. Stan’s tribe. Dana’s watching him too. “I couldn’t have asked anyone but you,” she says softly.
I sit thinking. I’m too far in. There’s no backing out. If she goes down, we go down together. “Okay.” I try to smile. “Don’t worry.”
Dana chokes out a laugh, half relieved, half despairing. “Good old Jo,” she says. “What would I do without you?” She peers into the street before turning back. “I owe you so much. Don’t think I don’t know that.” Her voice shakes with emotion.
I shake my head. “That’s what friends do. You’d do the same for me.” Would she? I hope so.
Dana’s still gripping my arm. There are tears in her eyes. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
I look toward the pretty blue house. I believe she’ll try. But what if she can’t? What if the cops work it out? That’s more likely now that they’ve found Stan’s body.
The enormity of what I’ve done hits. How rash I was, rushing to help without thinking things through! I acted on instinct, out of old childhood habit. That lifelong sense of loyalty and obligation. Dana gave me a sense of belonging. I was conditioned to help her. And it happened so fast. I didn’t think. I just reacted.
The blue house has a red door. It looks warm and festive. Or is that shade of scarlet macabre, too rich and glossy?
Fatigue fills me. I rub my palms on my old evening dress. The zipper’s digging into my back. It’s too tight to breathe deeply. The fabric’s itchy.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Jo. I swear, I didn’t plan it.”
My voice is flat: “I know, Dana.” I want to believe her, but it feels like wishful thinking.