Keep Them Close(69)
Luke chuckles. “Okay. ‘OSB.’ Ohio Street Beach. What next?”
“Do three question marks. Then type, ‘Must be thirty degrees outside, period. Why would you be at beach, question mark.’?”
“Got it.” I receive the message on Finley’s phone a moment later.
I reply: You know I like it here and hard to face grayson I’m not proud of what’s happened sometimes I think its better I disappear from all your lives.
“That’s dark,” says Luke after he receives the text. “Are you—are you gonna try to make it look like he committed suicide?”
“No, not suicide,” I say. “But his night is about to get a lot worse.”
* * *
“All done,” I say to Luke after multiple rounds of text exchanges. “Grayson will be leaving soon. He’ll probably call you from his phone.”
“The cops are gonna think he was talking to his mom an awful lot tonight.”
“I know, but in this context? He’s pissed at his dad, he’s discovering we split up, his dad ghosted him when they were supposed to meet? A long talk with Mom wouldn’t seem odd. Take care of him when he gets home, okay?”
“Will do. And then I’ll see you later tonight? About what time?”
“I don’t know. Eleven? Not sure. Remember, you’ll get one last text on my phone from Finley’s phone. From that point, count thirty minutes and meet me.”
“Got it. And hey—are you gonna move him all by yourself?”
“I am.”
“Use Grayson. He’s right there. How are you gonna do it by yourself?”
“I have a wardrobe cart and drop cloths.”
“How are you gonna wrap him up like a mummy by yourself? He’s a big guy.”
“Very slowly,” I say.
“And lift him onto the wardrobe cart? He’s like two-thirty, maybe two hundred forty.”
“A little at a time.”
“And then what?”
“Then I take the luggage cart down the elevator, and over to the ramp in the underground parking lot. I’ll back Fin’s car up to the ramp and slide him into the rear hatch.”
“Without anyone seeing you?”
“Luke, the median age of people in this building is about seventy years old. We’re the exception. By nine or ten, nobody will be in that parking garage. And there aren’t cameras down there. If I see anyone, I won’t do it. But I won’t see anyone.”
“Gray’s right there—”
“I’m not using Grayson,” I say. “He’s been through enough.”
Which reminds me. I send one last text message from Grayson’s phone to Finley’s phone: OK I’m leaving, going to Mom’s, thanks for ghosting me!
* * *
“Okay, mister.” I put my hands on Gray’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll be home later. We have a lot to talk about. I’d give you a hug, but…” I look down at my shirt, which has some blood from when I hugged Grayson when first arriving.
Gray’s handsome face is washed out from tears and everything he’s endured tonight. “Are you gonna be okay, Mom?”
“I’ll be fine. Call the Uber. And zip up your hoodie, okay?”
He looks down. We replaced his football jersey with a golf shirt of Finley’s.
“When you get down to the lobby, you’ll be on camera again,” I remind him. “Anyone looking at the videos will notice that you’re wearing a different shirt from when you came in. So zip the hoodie all the way up so you can’t see what’s underneath. And call my phone, which Luke still has. Be on the phone when you walk out.”
“Why be on the phone?”
“For one, talking to him will occupy you. You can focus on whatever topic you pick, maybe the Cubs or some girl at NYU you like. And if you’re on the phone, nobody at the security desk will try to chat you up.”
Gray works his phone. “Uber will be here in four minutes. I better go.”
I take his face in my hands and kiss his forehead. “We’ll get through this, Gray, I promise.”
61
Allison
—9:01 p.m.—
I stand in the bedroom, with Grayson now gone. I replace the lamp on the nightstand and look over the scene. If I can successfully move Finley, the narrative will hold: Finley did not die in this condo.
Before I move his body, I have to deal with one problem. I can’t wrap him up in paint drop cloths with that letter opener sticking out of his chest. And I can’t have that letter opener found, either; theoretically, it could be tied to my family, to this place. So I have to remove that knife.
As he reported it to me, Grayson actually tried to remove the knife, which accounts for the blood on his hands and the smears on Finley’s blue button-down shirt. He then lay on his father’s chest sobbing, thus the blood on his jersey.
Meaning that, along with the letter opener, Finley’s shirt will have to go, too, as it might contain Grayson’s DNA. The shirt will be easy, nothing a pair of scissors can’t remedy. The knife will not.
* * *