Someone Else's Husband(15)

“What evidence?”

“Who knows? It doesn’t matter,” Scotty said dismissively. “So much of what prosecutors do at this stage is just grandstanding. They weaponize secrecy. Bottom line: They had probable cause to make the arrest even without Richard’s statements, which isn’t great. But that does not mean they’ve got a fraction of what they’d need for a conviction. The standards are completely different. And before we even get to any of that, we’ll get Richard out on bail.”

“Did they say when the arraignment will be?”

“Unfortunately, not until Monday morning. The courthouse has reopened, but now there’s a huge backlog. I actually think that’s not the worst thing. Buys us a little time.”

“He needs to be home, Scotty.”

“Gretchen, this is all going to be okay,” Scotty said. “I promise. Whatever this— Obviously it’s all some kind of idiotic mistake.” He hesitated again, but only for a second. “Full disclosure, I’m a little concerned about how the police ended up at your apartment so quickly. But something sent them there in less than twenty-four hours. An eyewitness wouldn’t know Richard’s name, presumably, or his address. Did any of the officers say anything about that to you?”

“No,” Gretchen said. “Why would they?”

“No, no—that’s what I figured. I just thought maybe off-handedly a uniformed officer might have…Sometimes they let things slip,” Scotty said. “The question didn’t occur to me until after I’d left Richard. I’ll just ask him next time. Not to worry. Also, I have a call in to three different criminal defense attorneys; that’s why the time might be helpful.”

“I don’t understand. You are a criminal defense attorney.”

“If this was insider trading, I’d be your guy. But we need someone who handles murders. Don’t worry—we’ll get someone really good.”

“?‘Get someone’?” she asked. “Why are you making it sound like we’re auditioning?”

“In a way we are. These violent-crime guys—they like to choose their clients based on the complexity of the case or how high-profile the client is. The press that might come their way. They can afford to be selective.”

“Good Lord.” Gretchen was disgusted. She did not want to be mixing with people who tried to capitalize on others’ misfortunes.

“You should get Elizabeth and Becks home, too.”

“Why would I do that?” One small bright spot was that they were far away from this mess.

“They’ll need to be here for the arraignment,” Scotty said. “Whoever we get to represent Richard, that’s going to be one of the first things they say, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said, though she could not conceive of having to contend with Elizabeth and Becks along with everything else. “And thank you, Scotty. Truly.”

“Hang in there, Gretchen.” She gripped the edge of the bathroom counter tighter, as though he meant this literally. “Maybe try to distract yourself. Get out and take a walk or something. This is going to take some time and patience. But it is going to be okay. All you need to do is hold on, and weather the storm.”





I don’t believe in coincidences. I never have. Everything happens for a reason—the good, the bad, the ugly.

This country, this mountain—this trip—has made me realize how much time I’ve wasted. And for what? So I could be a good husband? What does that even mean? I don’t know. I do know you only live once. And that’s what I plan to do from this moment forward. Live. Before it’s too late.

And I know it’s a sign that she’s in this place and so am I—of course it is.

I may never have believed in that kind of thing before. Maybe I don’t even now. No magical-thinking crap for me. But I have always believed in being in the right place at the right time.

I know how to seize an opportunity. And use the tools at my disposal.





Before


Frankie

September 6

“Hey there.”

When I look up, there’s Richard, silhouetted by the sun. My breath catches. I never would have expected this of myself—this dumb girlishness. And yet, here it is. Here I am.

I lift a hand to shield my eyes. “Oh, hi,” I say. Like we just stumbled upon each other.

Richard shifts so that his shadow—the shade—falls over me. “Is that better?”

My eyes blink in relief. “Thank you.”

I can see him clearly now. In his well-fitting polo shirt, salt-and-pepper hair neatly brushed, he looks so different than the last time I saw him, when he was so exhausted and shell-shocked. He still looks sad, though. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed like maybe he’s been crying recently. I get it. What happened was horrifying.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He gestures in the vague direction of the seemingly fast-moving traffic. “It took a long time to get downtown…”

“Do you want to grab something?”

“Um.” He looks for a long moment, warily, toward the inside of the café. Rubs a hand over his face. Is he worried about being seen? Or am I inventing a situation here where none exists? Maybe Richard really does just need a friend.