So on the one hand, being raped was as traumatic, painful, messy and soul wrenching as Carol had ever imagined. She did not recommend it. Women really should shoot first, and question later.
On the other hand . . .
On the other hand, for lack of a better word, being raped did have its advantages. Take the Survivors Club. Carol now spent the majority of her time with two women whom before this, she probably wouldn’t have given the time of day. Meg, after all, was too young for Carol to have ever considered seriously as a friend. And, if Carol was being truly honest, too working class. Assuming their paths ever did cross, it probably would’ve been in some swanky restaurant where Carol was the patron and Meg the waitress. Neither would have thought of it again.
Jillian was a more interesting case. She was closer to Carol’s age and economic status. The type of woman Carol might have met naturally at some society event or charity fund-raiser. They would’ve exchanged polite chitchat, the normal cocktail party pleasantries. Most likely, Carol would’ve found Jillian to be too much of a career woman. And most likely, Jillian would’ve found Carol to be too 1950s, the socialite wife who stayed at home while her husband did the real work.
But now here they all were. Pissy sometimes, mean sometimes, awkward sometimes. Telling each other all the things normal people couldn’t understand. Rallying one moment, crying the next. Holding back more confidences still. Carol was sure of this. God knows she had her own things that even a year later she could not bring herself to put into words. And as for Jillian—well, Carol and Meg were certain they hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface there. So they had their secrets. But they also had this bond, one that shouldn’t exist, and it was sad that it did exist, but here they were. And in all honesty, their weekly meetings were about the only thing that kept Carol going.
Normal people could not understand these things. Normal people, if they were at all lucky, would never have to understand these things.
Carol finished her glass of wine. Then, duly fortified, she finally headed home.
No reporters in sight. That was a welcome relief. They’d probably been camped out most of the day, another reason for her not to hurry home. It was after 6:00 now, however, too late to make the 5:00 news crunch. Or maybe the police were holding a briefing across town. Jillian, Carol and Meg had learned to love police briefings, when the reporters would scurry from their front lawns to police headquarters, leaving the women at least fifteen minutes to breathe. Until the police briefing ended, of course, and the hordes once more came trooping down the street, rows and rows of white news vans carrying legions of question-wielding combatants. On her good days, Carol pictured having a machine gun battened to her roof, which she would use to mow them all down. On her bad days, she cowered in the upstairs bathroom, the only room in the house with no windows, and gobbled pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream while curled up in the empty bathtub.
Dan’s car was parked in the driveway. The hood was cold to the touch; he’d been home for a bit. Not a good sign.
Five minutes later, she found Dan sitting in the family room with only the constantly chattering TV as a source of light. He started when she entered the room, and she would’ve sworn he made some kind of furtive motion. When she walked around for a better look, however, he was merely picking up a large, round cognac glass for one last sip. She stared at him, waiting to see who would talk first. Then she realized that he still wore a suit and his short, dark brown hair was horribly rumpled—he always ran his fingers through his hair when he was anxious.
On the TV, some blond newswoman was standing in front of the courthouse, talking into her microphone as a barrage of red and blue police lights relentlessly swirled around her head.
“Police have now confirmed that alleged rape suspect, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, was shot and killed here earlier this morning. Sources close to the investigation say that twenty-eight-year-old Como was shot once in the head as he was being unloaded from the ACI van at the Licht Judicial Complex around eight-thirty. According to a fellow prisoner—”
“I came home as soon as I heard the news,” Dan finally spoke up.
Carol didn’t say anything.
“I thought you might want to see me.”
Carol still didn’t say anything.
“You could’ve at least called,” he said quietly. His eyes rose to meet hers. “I do worry, you know.”
“You’re dressed for work.”
“Dammit, Carol, I canceled three meetings today—”
“You’re going back to the office.”
“I don’t have a choice! Clients pay me to be available at the snap of their fingers. Lawyering isn’t a nine-to-five job. You know that.”
She said simply, “It will be dark.”
Dan’s eyes fell. He opened his mouth, then closed it into a grim line and focused instead on rotating the now empty cognac glass between his fingers. He was angry. She read his tension in the tight, bunched line of his shoulders. But he didn’t say another word. And the silence went on and on and on.
“I went shopping,” she said at last, chin held up defiantly.
“I can see that.”
“I bought three suits. Nice ones.”
“All right, Carol.”
“I spent two thousand dollars,” she pushed.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He spun the fine crystal goblet with even greater concentration. She decided on a new tack. The sun was going down. Dusk descending on their too big, too empty house. And he was leaving her again, proof that no matter what punishment she inflicted upon him, he was more than capable of inflicting it right back.
“The police came to see us today,” she announced. “Detective Fitzpatrick crashed our meeting.”
“He wanted to be the first to give you the big news?”
“No, he wanted to be the first to ask us if we killed him.”
“And what did Jillian say to that?”
“She told him to fuck off. Using bigger words, of course.”
“Detective Fitzpatrick should’ve known better.” Dan finally set his glass down on the coffee table. He rose off the sofa. His movements were restless and agitated.
“It wasn’t just Fitzpatrick. A state guy came as well.”
“The state?” Dan’s head jerked around.
“Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin. Big guy. Smart. He claims they’ll subpoena our bank records next. You know, to see if they can find any mysterious cash withdrawals or money transfers, anything that might be construed as a payment to a hired gun. He seems very determined about it.”
Dan walked away from her, finally halting in front of the mantel around the fireplace. He ran one finger down the scrolling woodwork. Dan had long, lean fingers. He could’ve been a sculptor or a musician. Or a father teaching his son how to tie his first bowknot.
“Why are they bothering with an investigation?” he asked curtly. “Eddie Como has caused enough damage. He’s dead. Let it be.”
“I don’t care,” Carol said fiercely. “Whoever shot him. I don’t care.”
She was holding her breath, willing her husband to turn around and look her in the eye. She had started this conversation to goad him, but now . . . Now she heard the ache in her voice. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Meg or Jillian, but Carol half hoped her husband had shot or paid someone to shoot Eddie Como. It would be the first sign she had that he still loved her.
I know where you were that night. I’ve never told anyone, but I know where you were that night, and it was not working late.
Dan turned around. Dan looked her in the eye with his deep brown gaze. Ten years of marriage later, his face held new lines, darker shadows, grayer hair. The years had been rough on both of them. So many things that had not turned out quite the way they’d planned. And yet she still thought he was handsome. She still wished he would cross the room right now and take her in his arms.
If you would promise to try to touch me, I would promise to try not to pull aw
ay. If you would promise to try to reach out to me, I would promise to try not to see you as another Eddie Como. If you would promise to try to love me again, I would promise to try to forgive you. And maybe, if you did try and I did try . . .
He said, “I have to go. The meeting starts at seven and I still need to prepare.”
“Dan—” She caught the rest of the sentence. Bit it back. Swallowed it down.
“You’ll lock the door behind me?”
“Of course.”
“And turn on the alarm?”
“I know, Dan.”
“Think of it this way, Carol—the press are bound to be back soon. Then you won’t be alone, after all.”
He came around the sofa, glanced at her shopping bags and grimaced on his way out of the room. The next sound she heard was the front door opening, then closing behind him. A moment later, his car started up in their driveway.
Carol’s gaze went outside, where the sun sank low on the horizon. Dusk falling. Night approaching. The dark coming, coming, coming to find her.
The silence, on the other hand, was already here.
On TV, the perky blond reporter said, “Eddie Como’s family announced this afternoon that they will seek to claim his body from the medical examiner’s office no later than tomorrow night, in order to prepare for a Catholic funeral service first thing Wednesday morning. The family, still claiming his innocence, has also said that they would like to start a memorial fund to help other wrongfully accused men . . .”
Carol locked the front door, armed the security system. Then she went upstairs to the main hallway. She walked down its long, shadowed length to the tightly shut door at one end. She opened the door. And she looked inside the room, the room she had once shared with her husband, the room where she had once made love to her husband, and what she saw now was merely a collection of dusty furniture held captive behind wrought-iron bars.
No open windows. No wet, blood-spattered cotton sheets. No piles of latex strips still littered with pieces of long, blond hair.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Her hands started to shake. Her heart picked up its pace. He’s dead, she tried to tell herself. He’s dead, it’s over, you’re finally safe.
No good. No good, no good, no good.
Carol slammed the door shut, recoiling down the hallway, grabbing blindly at the walls with her bare hands. She had to get away. The TV was still on. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. The house was too big, the silence too powerful, and God knows Dan would come home much too late. On her own. Always alone. Run, Carol, run.
She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom. She slammed the door. And then she leaned over the white porcelain sink, where she vomited until she dry-heaved.
Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead.
It’s over, Carol. You’re finally, finally safe.
But her whole body was shivering, trembling, quaking. And she couldn’t stop thinking about her empty bedroom. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one bedroom window. She couldn’t stop thinking that she would swear, she would swear, she would swear that Dead Eddie had been standing right there.
CHAPTER 16
Meg
“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, ARE YOU DRUNK?”
“I just . . . it was champagne. Only a glass. Maybe two. I swear.”
“Mr. Pesaturo, if you would just calm down for a moment—”
“And you!” Mr. Pesaturo swung around on Jillian, beefy face bright red, thick finger stabbing the air. His blue electrician’s uniform strained over his gut, two of the white buttons literally quaking with the force of his rage. The effect was rather comical, and now that he was safely yelling at Jillian, Meg started to giggle again. Jillian tried shooting her a warning glance. Meg had had nearly six glasses of champagne. It was hopeless.
“How dare you serve my underaged daughter alcohol!” Tom Pesaturo boomed. “For God’s sake, haven’t you done enough already?”
Jillian blinked. “Done enough?”
“Daddy—”
“Tom, calm down, have a seat. Meg is home now and that’s what’s important.” Meg’s mother, Laurie, intervened, placing her hand on her husband’s bulging forearm. She was clearly the voice of reason in the family, thank God. Mr. Pesaturo glowered at Jillian again, but finally, reluctantly, sat.
Meg chose that moment to exclaim, “Holy Lord, I have got to pee!” and go racing from the room.
Mr. Pesaturo renewed his growl of disapproval. Jillian sighed, took her own seat on a threadbare blue recliner and realized she had a raging headache.
“Mr. Pesaturo—”
“Have you seen the news? Do you understand what happened this morning? Our phone has been ringing off the hook since nine A.M. The first news van was here by nine-fifteen. And we didn’t even know where Meg was.”
“We knew exactly where Meg was,” Laurie interjected again, her voice firm. “I told you she was having breakfast with Jillian and Carol.”
“That’s what Meg said,” Tom asserted, with just the right tone of doubt.
Jillian looked at him. “Mr. Pesaturo, do you think we were running around shooting Eddie Como this morning? Is that what you thought we were doing?”
“Hey, I’m not saying I disapprove . . .”
“We were at the restaurant, Mr. Pesaturo. All day, as a matter of fact. With witnesses. Though you should know that the police stopped by. Detective Fitzpatrick and a man from the state, Sergeant Griffin, definitely have us on their radar screen.”
“What did you tell them?”
“We didn’t tell them anything, of course. We don’t have to give them a statement, and personally, I don’t want to give them a statement. As far as I’m concerned, they’ll have my cooperation the day they bring my sister back from the dead.”
Mr. Pesaturo finally stopped scowling. After another moment, he grunted and settled deeper into the loveseat, probably as close as she’d get to praise. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly. Sitting beside him, his wife smiled.
“They will start looking into all of us,” Jillian said levelly. She’d been thinking of nothing but that for the last half hour. The state police were on the case. The state police were going to get serious. She wondered what that really meant. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin, who probably could’ve ripped off that pedophile’s head. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin with those penetrating blue eyes. She felt herself getting angry again, then confused. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin . . . She cut off the thought, focused again on the matters at hand. “I’m told that every detective in the state is now working this case. The next order of business will be examining our financial records for any unexplained withdrawals.”
Mr. Pesaturo rolled his eyes. “Good luck. I don’t have any unexplained withdrawals. I got a mortgage and I got two kids. That pretty much covers it.”
“I imagine they’ll also want to talk to your brother,” Jillian said. “You know, Uncle Vinnie.”
The smile vanished from Mrs. Pesaturo’s face. She jerked back, looking at her husband sharply. “Tom?”
“Oh come on. Let ’em talk to Vinnie. He don’t care.”
Mr. Pesaturo was looking at Jillian now. From the hallway, Jillian could hear Meg’s voice, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Meg was talking to her little sister, Molly. More laughter floated down the hall.
“You care?” Tom asked Jillian abruptly. Jillian was not an idiot. She understood the nuances of the question.
“I’m all right.”
“’Cause you know, if you needed anything . . .”
Jillian smiled. In his own way, Mr. Pesaturo was a very sweet man. It made it almost tempting, but the problems she had were nothing he could help her with. Now that she’d had more time to contemplate the impact of Eddie Como’s death, she figured she had twenty-four to forty-eight hours before she saw Sergeant Griffin again. Life would get tricky. Then again, had it ever been simple?
“I’m all right,” she repeated. Mr. Pesaturo was smarter t
han she’d given him credit for, however, and she could see the open doubt on his face.
“Vinnie . . . he’s got a lotta friends.”
“I know. In fact, I’m not sure if you know, but I believe Vinnie and my mother have some of the same friends.”
“No kiddin’?”
“Do you follow music? My mother used to literally sing the blues—”
“Wait a minute. Hayes. Olivia Hayes. That’s your mom?”
“She’ll be pleased you remember.”
Tom Pesaturo was clearly impressed. He rocked back, turning to his wife. “No kidding, Olivia Hayes. You ever hear of her? Pretty little thing about a hundred pounds soaking wet. Then she’d open her mouth and blow the place away. My father used to listen to her records all the time. I probably got a vinyl or two stashed in the attic. Fine, beautiful lady.” He turned back to Jillian. “What happened to her anyway? I haven’t heard her name in years.”
“She retired.” Said she was going to finally spend time with her daughters. Had a stroke. Lost her legs. Lost her voice. At least they’d never had to worry about money.
“You tell her I said hi.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Vinnie’s gonna flip.” Mr. Pesaturo suddenly smiled and sat up straighter. “My daughter is friends with Olivia Hayes’s daughter. Vinnie’s gonna have a fucking cow!”
“Tom . . .” His wife rolled her eyes at his profanity, then glanced at Jillian apologetically. Jillian smiled. She was genuinely pleased that Mr. Pesaturo was pleased. Her mother’s time, Jillian’s own childhood, was a bygone era not many people remembered anymore. When Trish had been little, stories from the nightclubs had been her favorite ones. The night their mother had sung for Sinatra. How later Frank had let eight-year-old Jillian sit on his knee. Jillian had done her best to tell the tales, though even for her they’d taken on a hazy quality, a life lived so long ago it now seemed more like a distant dream.