NOW
Gwen sits curled up, her knees pulled to her chest, across from a man in a maroon dress shirt and black tie. His thick black hair is pulled off his face, reminiscent of an old-time crooner, the kind her grandparents listened to on their record player.
According to the card he gave her, he’s Detective Jay Salazar from the Montgomery County Police Department. And she guesses that he’s dressed in a tie and jacket because he’s been tasked with breaking the bad news to her.
Anton’s body was found in an alley in downtown Bethesda. He’d been hit by a car.
“Let me ask you…” he starts, but Gwen holds up a finger to pause him while Aimee walks through the living room like the Pied Piper, followed by all five kids.
Aimee stops at the door. “I’m going to take everyone over to Lisa’s, and then I’ll be right back.”
Gwen nods, waving goodbye to George and Rafi, who are jostling each other and seem oblivious to this strange man in a suit in their living room. They haven’t noticed that Anton was not here when they woke up. But she will have to tell them what’s happened at some point. The thought seizes her, and she starts to tremble. This will crush her sweet boys. How could it not? Their lives will forever be divided into two—before their father died, and after. The enormity of it all looms in her imagination. Gwen chokes back a small sob.
“Can I get you something?” the detective asks. “Water? Tissue?”
Shaken from her thoughts, Gwen looks up at the man in front of her. His dark eyes are fixed on her, as if he can see straight into her thoughts. Discomfited, she looks away, her gaze settling on the chevron pattern of the rug under the coffee table. “No, no thank you. I just don’t want them to hear any of this. I want to tell them later. I want them to have one last morning of a normal childhood, before everything changes.”
“Of course, I think that’s smart. You’re lucky to have such good neighbors.”
“Lucky,” Gwen repeats. She feels anything but lucky right now.
“Poor choice of words. I’m sorry, Mrs. Khoury.”
Gwen hugs her knees tighter. Mrs. Khoury. She wills herself to stay focused, but she can feel her mind pulling into itself, going into protective mode. A trick she learned as a child when her parents would rage at each other, or at her. A kind of dissociation that allowed her to endure what was happening without letting any of it in. It did get in, though. And years of therapy have taught her that the coping skills of childhood can sabotage you as an adult. She blinks twice and tries to focus on the detective’s black tie, made of some kind of fabric that catches the light streaming through the living room window. “What were you saying? I’m sorry, where was Anton found?”
“In an alley next to a bar on Wisconsin Avenue. Villain & Saint. Are you familiar with that establishment?”
Gwen nods. “Sure. It’s kind of our local hangout.” The dive bar is an anomaly in Bethesda, dark and smelling of beer, complete with sticky floors and a bathroom that screams cooties. A stark contrast to the nearby rooftop bars with their twenty-dollar mixed drinks, offering Instagram-perfect views. “One of the dads at our boys’ school is in a cover band called the Trophy Husbands, and sometimes they play there. So, yeah. We’ve been. Was Anton there last night?”
“We’re not sure if he ever went inside the bar or not,” Salazar says. “Did he mention heading there?”
“No.” A vivid image of Anton stumbling down the alley between the Bethesda Farm Women’s Market and the bar springs to her mind. “So, someone hit him with their car in the alley? Was it a hit-and-run?”
The detective shifts in his seat. “It looks like he was hit deliberately.”
She tries to swallow, but her throat refuses. “How can you tell that?”
The detective shakes his head. “I’m not at liberty to go into the details, but he was struck more than once. I know this is incredibly upsetting to hear, but your husband’s death is being investigated as a homicide.”
“Homicide.” Gwen repeats the word, a numbness settling on her. “You mean he was murdered.”
Gwen grabs a throw pillow and squeezes it to her chest. This can’t be real. She rocks back and forth, trying to stay here in this room, in this moment, when every fiber of her is screaming for escape.
The detective flips open a small notebook. “Do you have any idea what he might have been doing in that alley last night? Was he headed to the bar?”
“Umm, I don’t know.” She looks up at him, wondering how he can do this, sit in people’s living rooms and talk about death so calmly. Focus, Gwen tells herself. “Maybe he went there to get a drink. I went to bed right after the kids did.”
“Did he do that often? Head out to drink after you and the kids have gone to bed?”
Gwen detects a hint of judgment in the man’s voice. She glances at his hand, at the gold band on his ring finger. He’s married. Does he cheat on his wife? Lie to her? Do they get into knock-down, drag-out fights? Or is he one of those insufferable types who calls his spouse his best friend and who never goes to bed mad?
“Sometimes,” Gwen says. “Like I said, there’s a band we like that plays there. Anton likes live music.” She’s repeating herself. And it’s not even true. Why did she say that? She was the one who dragged him out to see the Trophy Husbands last fall. A large group of parents from the school went. But Anton sulked in the corner, nursing a drink while she, Aimee, Lisa, and some other moms danced to covers of the Police and Matchbox Twenty.
“Was that band playing last night?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “But I’m not sure.”
“We can check on that. Might he have been meeting someone?”
“No. I mean, not that I know of. I didn’t even know he had gone out.” Her first real lie. She almost expects the detective’s head to pop up, as if he might be a human lie detector. But he keeps scribbling in his pad.
“Your husband taught creative writing at American University. Could he have been meeting a student? Or another faculty member?”
Gwen is startled that Salazar knows about Anton’s job. But why should she be? A quick online search of Anton Khoury brings up his book and his position at the university. It might have been the first thing the detective did when they found his body and his ID. Isn’t that what everyone does when they meet someone? Google them. Why would the police be any different? She wonders what else they could have gleaned from their online search.
“I doubt it.”
“And everything was all right at work, no run-ins? No disgruntled students?”
Gwen shakes her head. “No. His students love him. And he gets along with everyone at work.”
“What about money?” Salazar looks around the room, taking in the minimalist but expensive décor. He can’t know they are sitting on a modular sofa that costs fifteen thousand dollars. She had bought it when Anton was at the height of his fame. Gwen hadn’t been careful about money when they were flush. She never imagined that they might run out.
“What about it?”
“Writing isn’t exactly lucrative, is it, Mrs. Khoury?”
“Not for most writers, but my husband wasn’t most writers. His first book was a massive hit.” She knows she sounds defensive, and is surprised that a part of her is still invested in everyone seeing Anton as a success. She’s not willing to tell him that there had been no second massive hit, that they had run out of money and were now relying on her parents for their car and mortgage payments.
“I see.”
“It’s sold more than two million copies worldwide. The Last Cyclamen. That’s the title.”
“Never heard of it.” Salazar shakes his head. “But I’m not much of a reader, to be honest. I think the last book I read was in high school. What about you? Do you work?”
“Part-time. At Blue Dot Public Relations in Georgetown.” Gwen unfolds her legs and stretches them out. She doesn’t like this topic. When she and Anton were first dating, she worked at a public relations firm in New York City. Her parents had subsidized her; the pay was abysmal. She hoped to one day make partner, maybe even open her own shop, but marriage and motherhood derailed those plans. She continued working, doing PR in Boston, but when they moved to D.C. she had to take what she could get, part-time work, freelance. She had finally scored an entry-level position at a boutique PR firm in Georgetown, mostly writing press releases for nonfiction authors and public speakers. It had been a major step down for her.
“So, money was not an issue?”
Gwen chews the inside of her mouth, remembering all those fights about Anton’s spending. It’s how she discovered he was cheating three years ago—an unknown charge on the credit card bill during a weekend when she was out of town with the kids, visiting her parents in Virginia. When she looked into it, it turned out to be for a couple’s massage at a spa at a luxury hotel in Boston. Taking control of the finances was one of the conditions Gwen insisted on if he wanted her to stay. “No, money was not an issue.”
“Did he like to gamble?”
“Gamble?” The word comes out shrill. “Of course not. Why would you even ask that?”
The detective’s eyebrow shoots up. “These are standard questions. No offense intended.”
Aimee lets herself in the front door, looking sheepish. Gwen speaks to her, past the detective. “The boys all set?”
“They’re all at Lisa’s,” Aimee says. “It’s no problem.”
The detective stands. “Again, Mrs. Khoury, I am very sorry for your loss.” He writes something on a piece of paper. “If you call this number, you can arrange a time to view your husband’s body and collect his things. I’ll be in touch.”
He walks to the door and Aimee opens it for him. Once he is gone, Aimee shuts it and rushes over. Gwen stands and lets Aimee embrace her. “Oh my God, Gwen, this is so awful.”
Gwen pulls back. “I’m in shock.”
“What happened?”
“He was hit by a car, last night, in the alley next to Villain & Saint. They think it was intentional.”
“You mean murder? Who would want to kill Anton?”
Gwen’s mind goes blank. She can’t do this. Not right now. “I’m sorry, Aimee. I’ve got to go. I have to call people.” She holds up the piece of paper the detective gave her like some kind of morbid hall pass.
“That’s fine. I should probably make an appearance at work, anyway,” Aimee says and then pauses. “Unless you want me to cancel and stay with you?”
“No. Don’t. I appreciate it, but I have so much to do.”
“Just text me if you change your mind and want company. Lisa will watch the kids and when I come back, I’ll handle dinner.”
Together they walk toward the front door. Aimee stops and frowns. “I think I stepped on something.” She bends down and pulls something from her shoe.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gwen says. But it’s too late. Aimee straightens up, holding a ceramic shard. Gwen was so sure she had cleaned everything up last night.
“Is that blood?” Aimee asks, holding the shard up to the light.
Gwen lets out a halfhearted laugh. “I broke a coffee cup in the sink the other day. I must have cut myself. Here, give it to me, I’ll throw it away.” She holds out her hand and watches Aimee drop the jagged piece into her palm.
“Thank you for everything.” She embraces Aimee before her friend can speak, and then just as quickly opens the front door.
As she watches Aimee leave, she curses herself for that stupid lie. If she broke the cup in the sink, how did the shard get on the living room floor? She just prays Aimee didn’t notice. The last thing she needs is for her friend to start prying.