Keep Them Close(70)

It’s only out of sheer necessity that I risk everything by pulling the blade out of Fin’s chest. What if I yank it out and blood spatters? I don’t know if there’s any pressure left in his body. But the heart sits just behind the breastbone. If the blade pierced it—if it had sealed the wound like a cork—I might break the seal. And the white carpet would betray everything.

I walk into the closet near the bathroom to grab towels to protect the carpet. I pull off the top of the wicker clothes hamper, looking for dirty ones, but find nothing of the kind.

Instead, I find a pile of cash.



* * *





By a quick count, it totals somewhere around $20,000. I can only assume Fin wanted cash so I couldn’t track his spending, either online or later in a divorce case. Regardless, I now have a new fact to employ. Every fact alters the narrative.

Mine just got better.

But now I need another bag that zips closed. I’m already using Finley’s old, ratty gym bag. Where is his new one? I’m sure he got a new one—

I find it easily enough. A red leather duffel from Divonti Appagante. Leave it to my husband to pick a bag made by the most expensive, trendiest Italian designer.

But it will do.



* * *





I take deep breaths and try to settle myself as I stand over Fin’s body.

Still wearing my rubber gloves, I reach out, slowly, and grip the hilt of the letter opener with both hands, thumbs at the base, fingers steadying the stem.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper for some reason.

But I can’t watch myself pull a six-inch blade out of his body. I squint, like I did when Gray made me go with him on the Goliath at Six Flags ten years ago, the cars on the roller coaster cranking upward jolt by clunky jolt, so high I thought we’d reach the clouds. I was afraid to close my eyes for fear of nausea, so I squinted so fiercely that I could barely make out my white knuckles gripping the safety bar as we plunged downward at a near ninety-degree angle.

I do that now, allowing my blurred vision to see what’s in front of me only in the fuzziest sense. I will do this by feel, not sight. Ready…set…

Pull.

Not a jerk. A slow, steady glide, straight back. I feel resistance, then a wet, sliding suction. A faint sound, like tearing cloth. And then the blade is free.

I open my eyes.

A line of blood has risen to the wound’s surface—thin, dark, not gushing but oozing. Gravity does most of the work, drawing it down the slope of his chest in a single, sinuous thread, quickly absorbed by the cotton of his shirt. A longer, newer, thicker stain, nothing more.

The carpet remains pristine.

The blade, which I keep over his body, is streaked red but not soaked, not dripping.

Lying right next to Finley, resting on a towel, is his fancy new Italian designer duffel, now filled with stacks of cash. I push back the top layer of cash and slide the bloody blade between two thick stacks of twenties. Then I zip the bag closed, lift it by the handles, and shake it like I’d shake a plastic take-out container of salad to integrate the dressing.

The bills shift. I feel them slap against the blade, jostle it. The bag softens in places where the cash gives way. I picture microscopic droplets of Finley’s DNA being pressed into the fabric of the bag, smeared along the edges of the bills, flicked into the crevices between them.

When I’m done, I remove the letter opener, which has settled at the bottom, seal it up in a gallon-sized plastic bag I brought from home, and toss it into the garbage bag for disposal. Nobody ever needs to see that letter opener again.

Inside the duffel bag, everything looks the same—orderly, banded. But faint stains appear along the edges of the stacks. Tiny, ragged arcs on the canvas interior. The blood will dry. It will not be readily visible to the naked eye, particularly one fixated on all that cash. But it will not escape the notice of forensic science.

The story is writing itself.





After April Fools’ Day





62


Louise

—Investigation, Day 5—

Louise stands with Cutty just outside the yellow tape, arms folded against the evening chill, as the slate-blue Jeep Wagoneer is wheeled up the flatbed ramp.

“Confirmed the vehicle is his.” Officer Nardulli steps up beside her, flapping his notebook. “Registered to Finley Michael Brice.”

The technical response unit techs open the doors on each side as if in sync.

“Bag and tag the whole interior,” Louise tells them. “Check for latent prints, trace hair, fibers—especially steering wheel, gearshift, door handles.”

“You got it, Lou.” The techs are already photographing the console and dashboard.

A shout from the front passenger seat, more like a triumphant song. “We have phones!” A moment later, the tech produces two evidence bags. Each bag holds a standard iPhone. One, with a red case, has a cracked screen protector. The other has a customized Chicago Bears case and appears intact.

“Two phones,” says Cutty. “Huh. One for Finley, the other our offender?”

“Get both boxed and over to digital, to Ruby,” Louise says. “Rush order. I want every call, every text, every GPS breadcrumb we can pull.”

“Copy that,” says the lead tech.