Keep Them Close(64)

I’d hoped he would come home for spring break so Finley and I could have broken the news to him. God am I glad now that he stayed with his college friends on the East Coast.

Do I answer? Will he be able to hear it in my voice?

“Hi, honey!” I sing into the phone.

I hear no words at first, only panicked sobbing. A chill runs through me.

“Grayson, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“He…” His voice thin and high and hollow. “He’s…he’s dead, Mom,” he says. “Dad’s dead.”





55


Allison

—6:53 p.m.—

The room around me falls silent. I go still. Lose my breath.

“I just…I just walked in and found him—”

“You’re at the condo, Grayson?” My voice kicking in, autopilot. “You’re in Chicago?”

“Yeah…” His breaths ragged, his voice a falsetto. “Someone stabbed him, Mom.”

Oh, God. Oh, no—

“I’ll…I’ll come to you, Gray.”

“What do I do, Mom? God, I’m freaking out—Mom, tell me what to do!”

Those words snap me out of my funk. I draw a sharp breath. He needs my head on straight. Panic will not help him. “Grayson, did you call 911?”

“No, I called you.”

“Okay, listen to me. Do you have blood on you?”

“Uh, yeah, some…”

Shit. Deep breath. “Did you tell your dad you were coming?”

“Yeah.”

“How? By text or phone call?”

“Umm…I, I don’t—”

“This is important, Grayson. Focus for me. Did you communicate by text or phone call?”

“Text,” he says. “Text.”

“Read me the text message, Gray. Can you read it to me?”

“Umm…” His voice still shaking. “I said, ‘I’m in the city. I hope you had a nice dinner last night. Your girlfriend seemed to be enjoying herself. Maybe next time you cheat on Mom, don’t sit near a window. I’m coming over tonight. Seven o’clock. Don’t tell Mom.’ He wrote back, ‘Okay, we need to talk. You need to hear my side.’ That’s it.”

I close my eyes. He saw Finley with another woman last night?

And said so in a text message?

And now his father is dead, and he has his blood all over him.

“I’m coming, Gray. Don’t do anything, okay? It will take me some time to get there. Can you do that for me, honey? Can you be still, maybe look out at the lake? Not touch anything?”



* * *





I dial Luke. We’re on terrible terms. He’ll likely not answer, but I need him— “Yeah?” His voice is neither warm nor cold.

“Where are you?”

“Where am I? What kind of—”

“Can you come over? Grayson’s in trouble,” I say.

“Grayson? Oh—oh, shit, I—what happened?”

“Finley—” My throat closes; I can’t say it aloud.

“Finley what? What happened, Allison?”

I have no time for emotion. “Finley is dead,” I say. “I need your help.”

“Oh, God—I’ll, yeah, I’ll come right over.”

“No,” I say. “Listen carefully. Do exactly as I say.”





56


Allison

—7:01 p.m.—

Gather the facts, favorable and unfavorable. Then create a story, a narrative.

From the bedroom closet, I pull out an old gym bag of Finley’s and dump out the contents. I open his old shoeshine kit that he hasn’t used for over a decade.

I don’t have the facts yet. I need to be flexible, ready for whatever the evidence shows.

And I may need to create some facts of my own.

I grab a couple beach towels from the linen closet and throw them in the gym bag. Carry the bag down to the kitchen.

From the pantry, I remove a box of rubber gloves and add them to the bag. Two bottles of spray cleaner. A full roll of paper towels. A tube of antibacterial wipes.

From under the sink, I take the box of tall kitchen garbage bags. I doubt I’ll need all of them, but I’d rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them.

Pause and think. You’ll only get one chance at this— Duct tape. Don’t forget duct tape. It’s in the cabinet above our kitchen workspace.

And, of course, the screwdriver.

I walk into the garage. Bend down by the front fender and insert the screwdriver into the top screw of my front license plate. The last time I pulled this stunt, things didn’t go so well.

This time, there’s no room for error.





57


Luke

—7:11 p.m.—

I pull my bike into Allison’s driveway and skid to a halt, sweaty and out of breath. I open her garage door with the key code and bring my bike inside. I’m heading for the door to the house when she startles me.

“I’m here,” she says, on her knees in the garage, holding her SUV’s front license plate.