“You look like absolute shit.”
“Thanks, roomie. Missed you too.” Camarin walked past Annalise, ignoring her jibes as well as the hall mirror, and headed right for the Keurig. One cup, maybe two of Death Wish coffee, topped by a splash of skim milk, might revitalize her sufficiently to make it through the day. She grabbed her NYU Grad mug, placed it under the spout, and waited for black liquid salvation to come pouring out.
Annalise wandered into the kitchen and moved a pile of unpaid bills from one of their mismatched chairs onto the floor so she had a place to sit. Wearing a cutoff tee that barely covered her breasts, along with low-waisted, flannel pajama bottoms, navel ring exposed, she reminded Camarin of an edgier version of I Dream of Jeannie.
“You want to tell me how the weekend went?”
As Cam stood hypnotized by the sight of coffee filling her mug, she realized she no longer felt the need to confide in anyone regarding the Mangel fiasco. “It went, I guess. The Perri Evans thing fell flat. I wrote something, but Lyle thought it was a little too caustic.”
“Ah. So, that’s where you’ve been all night? Editing?”
Camarin twisted her mouth to the side. “Cute. Though I do believe I managed to erase a few question marks and replace them with an exclamation point or two.” She blew the rising steam from the brew as she took a seat beside her prosecutor.
“Ooh, grammar porn. I love it. The way you look this morning, you must have proofread the hell out of each other.”
Cam smiled and said nothing.
“Just keep him away from your colon, baby.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” she said as she took a swig of coffee. “I’m not too concerned. But there was one thing…”
“Ooh, intrigue. Tell me more.” Annalise leaned forward.
“I was in his wallet—”
“His wallet? I thought you were just interested in getting into his pants, but you really go the extra mile.”
She set her mug down and shot her roommate a reprimanding glance. “You wanna listen, or you want to write a comedy routine? I was getting money to tip room service. And I saw this picture. It was of his wedding.”
Her mouth dropped. “The fucker’s married?”
“No, he’s widowed. I’ve known that since the day I met him. It wasn’t the picture that bothered me. It was his wife’s face. She looked so familiar.”
“What did Google say?”
Camarin blinked. Some journalist. She’d fantasized about the guy for over a month, and she’d never thought to google him. Or maybe she’d subconsciously feared what she might find.
“What’s his name again? Lyle Fletcher?” Annalise typed the name into her cellphone, clicked on a link, and handed her the results.
Cam grabbed the Samsung away so quickly she even surprised herself. The headline, dating back sixteen years, read Margaret Waldman Weds Criminal Defense Attorney Lyle Fletcher. Of course, she thought, Margaret Waldman. No wonder the face looked so familiar. She’d watched her a thousand times on television years back.
She scanned the article quickly, picking out the key points, such as clues to Fletcher’s pedigree. Wealthy New England family. Yale undergrad, Juris Doctorate from Harvard. Law Review. She studied his photo. Though younger men weren’t her thing, she definitely would have done him.
Curiosity piqued, she searched under Margaret’s name. Thousands of results described her firing by the Lehming Brothers, owners of WRTX, and the ensuing lawsuit over age discrimination. Newspaper editorials discussing whether five pounds and five years should disqualify a crack journalist from reporting the nightly news. Oh my God, she and I were fighting the same fight. No wonder Fletcher reached out.
Camarin kept reading, heart pounding, unable to look away. The ultimate ruling against Waldman. Despite rival network execs condemning the decision, the former wunderkind unable to find work elsewhere. Reports of seclusion. Deep depression. And then—
Camarin gasped.
“What, what is it?”
“His wife. She hanged herself. Right in their apartment. He found her there. Oh, that poor, poor man.”
She laid down the phone, engulfed by grief for her lover as well as for a woman she’d never known. Having a loved one commit suicide was something she understood too well. How she longed to reach out to Fletcher, clasp him in her arms, make him whole again.
Annalise snatched up the phone and read the article herself. “You can’t tell him you know about this.”
“Why not?”
“You want to admit that first you looked through his wallet, and then you stalked him online?”
“Well, he does know I’m a journalist.”
“This is like an open wound for him. I really don’t think you want to go rubbing salt in it. He’ll tell you when he thinks it’s appropriate, I’m sure.”
She hung her head. “I’m sure you’re right. It makes me wonder though...why do you think he left law for journalism? I mean, after all his wife went through. He was fighting for right, defending the unjustly accused, and then he leaves that for an industry he must despise?”
“Well, maybe if you two keep ‘editing’ together, you’ll unravel that mystery too, Nancy Drew. Speaking of which, what happened with the big revival investigation? You get what you were after?”
“I never even got to speak to him,” said Camarin, determined to keep her story consistent. “I guess I’ll have to find some other clues to pursue.” She downed the last of her coffee.
It occurred to her that the right thing to do would be to let the police know that an active murderer was still out there, knocking people off, the latest target being Mangel, whether or not the mission had been successful. But how to let on without placing herself at the revival and risking that the information could somehow reach Fletcher and Wynan?
Annalise reached for a piece of bread and, pinching her thumb and forefinger together, proceeded to turn it into a pile of crumbs. “I’m going to sprinkle these from here to the bedroom. Give you something to follow. If you don’t get changed soon, you’ll never make it to work. Even if banging the boss does buy you a free pass, you don’t want everyone else, AKA Rachel, to get wise and start resenting you.”
Realizing that her roommate was right, Cam rose from the table. “I’m sure she already knows,” she said before disappearing into the bedroom to search for alternate apparel. “Rachel was at the club last night. She may be many things, but one of them definitely isn’t blind.”