Someone Else's Husband(103)

“Dr. King?” Gretchen called out. And he jumped. Not just startled—literally jumped. Like a fugitive on the run. She hadn’t called out that loudly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Perhaps all psychiatrists were jumpy—accustomed to, or afraid of, being accosted by patients. “I’m here about your friend Frankie.”

Noah blinked several times in rapid succession. “What about Frankie?” he asked. “Are you with the police? Because I was in Rhinebeck the whole time. I’ve already told you that. You can ask my husband, Max.”

He knew she was dead. That much was obvious. Gretchen wasn’t sure why he needed an alibi, or why he seemed so nervous offering it. She added him to her mental list of non-Becks suspects.

“I’m not with the police.” Coming clean felt like the only option. “I’m—my husband is the man who’s been arrested for her murder.”

“Richard?” Noah asked.

“She talked to you about him?”

He nodded. “A little.” He looked up then, toward the top of the skyscraper he’d just exited, chewing on his lip, considering—maybe whether to tell her to go to hell? “What can I do for you?” His tone was cool but polite.

“My husband didn’t do this. I don’t have any way of convincing you, but it’s the truth.” She paused, hoping it might give her words more weight. “I need your help. I know there was an ex-boyfriend harassing her. Sounds like maybe he’s responsible. But the police don’t know his name and aren’t trying to find out.”

Noah looked up again as if the answer might be written in the sky. “Tell your lawyers to look into Senator Adam Foley. He raped Frankie when she was seventeen. He just showed up again recently.” He cleared his throat. “I already told the police, but they didn’t seem to care. Not when they already have your husband.”

“Thank you.”

“I have to go,” he said. When he lowered his eyes to hers, he looked genuinely pained. “I helped you and I was polite. Please don’t mention my name to the police. Don’t even tell them you spoke to me. I have my own reasons for never wanting to talk to them again.”



* * *



—

Gretchen could hear Becks and Elizabeth talking somewhere inside the apartment. She willed her shoulders to release as she continued inside. It was more important than ever to stay calm. She’d called Mikey Pearce as soon as she left Noah and dropped the Senator Adam Foley bombshell.

“Yes, thank you,” he’d said, but she could tell that Senator Foley’s name was old news as far as he was concerned. “The police told us about that tip from one of Ms. Callahan’s friends. But they also said that Foley appears to have an alibi.”

“Appears?”

“They said he does have an alibi. But I’d like to verify that myself before we just move on. That said, I don’t think we can count on using him in any meaningful way for Richard’s defense.”

Which meant that Gretchen also couldn’t count on using him to protect Becks.

“Where have you been?” Elizabeth asked when Gretchen finally made her way into the living room.

Her children were lying on opposite ends of the couch, their legs entwined the way they used to do when they were younger and more innocent. Before anything bad had happened. She wanted to leave them that way forever.

“I was with Hilary,” Gretchen said. A lie, not a lie. What difference did any of the details make now? “Becks, I need to speak with you privately. It won’t take long.”

“Privately?” Elizabeth snapped.

“I’m just trying to be respectful of Becks, that’s all.”

Becks stared at Gretchen. Finally, he dropped his head. He knew where this was going.

“It’s fine, Mom,” he said quietly, after a long silence. He untangled himself from Elizabeth, then sat up on the couch. “I don’t care if Elizabeth knows.” There was a chilling resignation in his voice.

Becks had been angry enough to destroy Frankie’s studio. Had he been even angrier than that? Had he had one of his episodes? Maybe he didn’t even remember. Things happen. People argue. Accidents. Elizabeth was right about all that. Becks could still be exactly the same person Gretchen knew and yet something horrible still could have happened.

“Okay.” She clasped her hands together to steady herself. When that didn’t work, she rested them on the back of the couch. She didn’t like how physically far away she was from her son. Like they were on opposing sides. She came around and took a seat in the armchair next to the couch. “You told me you followed her and Dad. Were you angry, Becks? Maybe at Frankie?”

Elizabeth looked horrified. “Mom, what the fuck are you—”

“It’s okay,” Becks said. “I was angry at her. Really angry.” He looked down for a minute. “At Dad, too. But maybe more at her. I wanted her to leave our family alone.”

“Did you…Becks, did you break into her studio and do something to her paintings?” Gretchen asked. “With spray paint?”

Becks stood and walked over to the windows, crossing his arms as he looked out. He hadn’t answered, but his silence spoke volumes.

“Becks…” Gretchen pressed.