Someone Else's Husband(43)

“Well, wait, let’s see…” Hilary clicked back to Richard’s account, then other people’s, moving so fast it was hard for Gretchen to keep up. Finally, Hilary exhaled in relief. “Scratch that. He likes every single one of a lot of people’s posts—men, too. It’s probably nothing except him being…weird.”

Gretchen nodded, her head feeling fuzzy. She wanted this information to be more comforting than it was. But she did feel like she cared a bit less and the world was beginning to feel a little farther away. Muted. The Xanax was definitely working. No wonder it was so popular.

“Maybe we should do some poking around and figure out what else was going on in this woman’s life?” Hilary offered with something of a mischievous smirk.

“What do you mean?”

Hilary started scanning the Instagram grid again. “A woman like this, I’m sure she had boyfriends, admirers, stalkers. Who knows? The police probably won’t bother looking for other suspects if they’ve already got Richard. You hear about that kind of thing all the time.”

Gretchen must have looked horrified, because Hilary held up her palms in mock surrender. “I mean, only if you want to look into her…if you don’t, I understand. Though personally I’d never be able to stop myself.”

Leaping into the fray with Hilary sounded ill-advised. But also irresistible. Maybe even wise. The best way to prove that Richard hadn’t done anything was to find the person who had. And Hilary was probably right about the police not looking.

“I don’t want to be in the way,” Gretchen said. “I’m sure Scotty wouldn’t want that.”

“Don’t you worry about Scotty—I know how to handle him.” Hilary’s face turned serious. “Besides, under these circumstances—you should also find out for sure that there wasn’t anything between them. No one is perfect. Not even Richard. You can get mad at me again, but I’m only saying this because I’m your friend and I love you. I mean, it’s one thing to stand by him through this shitstorm if there wasn’t an affair. But if there was?” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pack his bags for you.”



* * *



—

A few hours later, Gretchen was seated in the living room, all three children dutifully assembled, and so quickly. Yes, Gretchen thought, looking at them—they were a good family. She and Richard had done a good job.

She felt less sure about the “top-flight criminal attorney” seated next to Scotty on the couch. Scotty’s text announcing that Mikey Pearce had “agreed” to take the case had endless exclamation points. But Mikey Pearce wasn’t at all what Gretchen had pictured. He was decidedly ugly, along with being short and, well, portly. There was also the matter of his flashy suit and too-shiny shoes. Looking at him brought to mind a lacquered bureau. But even Gretchen had to admit that the overall effect screamed expensive. Tacky, but expensive. And then there was Mr. Pearce’s watch, an enormous gold Rolex. Gretchen didn’t approve of that kind of— She pulled her sleeve down to cover the watch Richard had given her. Which was different, obviously.

Then again, what did Gretchen know about criminal defense attorneys, successful or otherwise? Maybe judges listened more closely to a man with a garish watch. Besides, as Gretchen’s father had always said, you don’t hire a banker to fix your toilet. And a toilet was certainly an apt metaphor for the New York City penal system. Unlike Scotty, who was hardly steeped in grit, Mikey Pearce seemed like a man who would sink his teeth into an unsavory problem and not let go until he had a mouth full of blood.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink, Mr. Pearce?” Gretchen asked.

“You already offered once, Mom,” Elizabeth hissed.

Gretchen bristled at her daughter’s tone. Elizabeth had been far less prickly than usual since she’d gotten home. There had been no digs about Richard and Gretchen’s conspicuous consumption—not even when she saw the new couch or the new wallpaper in the living room, which, it was true, was really down to boredom. Elizabeth even looked like her old self, now in a pair of tailored slacks and a blouse that must have been in her closet at the apartment, instead of wearing the worn flowered muumuu she arrived in. Manson Family chic, Hilary called it.

“I know, dear,” Gretchen said, shooting her daughter a cool look. “I’m just trying to be polite.”

“Thank you, no, Mrs. Falk,” Mikey Pearce said, eyeing Gretchen intently.

That was the way he’d been since he arrived. Very focused. Like he was trying to burrow under their skin and inspect the pattern of their veins. His powers of observation both reassured and unsettled Gretchen. She didn’t necessarily want him getting to the bottom of absolutely everything.

“Our dad will be home Monday, right?” Becks asked. He was folded over into himself in one of the new flaxen Cisco armchairs. Gretchen had to resist the urge to go over and cover him with the cashmere Missoni throw from the couch.

Meanwhile, Cassandra paced back and forth behind him, like some kind of exhausted, puffy-eyed panther. And now Elizabeth was piling on with her wounded, angry snapping. Whatever else could be said of her children, they were always, relentlessly, themselves.

“Yes, definitely he’ll be home Monday,” Scotty blurted out from his perch on the edge of the couch next to Mikey, one leg bouncing. Mikey shot him a look.