Someone Else's Husband(98)

A. We alerted the prosecution’s office, and they began reevaluating the evidence.





After


Gretchen

September 18

Mikey and Gretchen were seated in the living room. He’d asked to speak to Gretchen alone, without Elizabeth, who’d complied with surprisingly little fuss. Becks wasn’t home, hadn’t been home for hours, even though Gretchen had texted several times. She needed to speak with him.

“First off, I’m here as Richard’s attorney,” Mikey began. “But also as yours.”

“Why would I need a lawyer?”

The men. Oh, she had a bad feeling now. Yes, that man had claimed he’d had nothing to do with what happened. But who knew what was true?

Mikey pulled a document from his briefcase. “This is just a precaution. For confidentiality purposes. Don’t want anyone trying to argue that something you tell me isn’t privileged because I’m not your lawyer.” He placed the paper on her Cézanne coffee-table book and handed her a pen. “It’s a retainer agreement.”

“Yes. I understand,” she said, panic rising in her throat as she quickly signed. She returned the pen to him. “Now can you tell me what this is about?”

“Okay. I need you to listen carefully,” he said. He seemed to be steeling himself. “The DNA on Richard’s pants is not back yet. But when it does come back, which will be soon, it’s going to match Frankie Callahan’s. It’s her DNA, Gretchen.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Bang, bang, bang went her heart. “Did—did Richard say he was there?”

“Yes. He was there, but he did not kill her.” Mikey held eye contact with Gretchen. There was something careful about it—gentle and firm—like he was holding her upright with the force of his gaze. “He was in her apartment that night.”

“Oh my God.” Gretchen clamped a hand over her mouth.

Mikey held up a palm like a stop sign. “It’s not what it sounds like. When he arrived, she was already dead.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“Yes, and I believe him. And to be honest, I don’t always believe my clients,” he said. “Anyway, that’s why her blood is on his pants. It’s extremely damaging evidence, obviously. Regardless of how it got there.”

Gretchen felt like she might retch. “This is not happening.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Mikey said, though even he didn’t sound convinced. “The important thing is that he didn’t do it, Gretchen.”

“Stop saying my name!” she shouted, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s just making me feel…worse.”

“It’s okay,” Mikey said. He was quiet then, leaving Gretchen at a loss. But at least he didn’t tell her to breathe or stay calm or make any of the usual infuriating suggestions.

“I’m sorry, but this is…” Facts. That was what mattered now. “What does this…mean?”

“We need to use whatever you know to help Richard while still keeping you out of harm’s way. I promise.”

What did he mean? Keep her out of harm’s way?



* * *



*

Richard and Gretchen had been married for ten years when Richard finally tried to put his foot down. He wanted to celebrate Christmas in their home, with their own Christmas tree. He wanted to start building their own traditions. After all, they had two children now.

“Next year,” Gretchen had said as she did every year. “I promise.”

This was a lie. Nothing he said would ever change the fact that they needed to go home for the holidays. To her childhood home. Her parents expected it. It was expected in general. Richard didn’t have his own family to visit, which, in the early years, had made the matter slightly less complicated. But he wasn’t especially comfortable in Greenwich, with all the social obligations that accompanied spending the holiday there—Christmas dinner for thirty, the cocktail party at the club, and the annual caroling party at the Finches’.

It was all a little over-the-top. Gretchen could see that. Certainly, these kinds of celebrations were not as fancy elsewhere, but Richard didn’t seem to understand that these gatherings were what it meant to be part of a community, a family.

From the moment they arrived in Greenwich this particular year, everything had felt slightly off. The girls had been cranky, and Richard’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. On the night of the caroling, Gretchen had a bad feeling when her father started drinking hours before. It was always something of a boozy affair, but this year he was fully drunk before cocktails had even begun. “Drunk and oppositional”—that was what her mother always called it, as if he were a toddler. But that was downplaying matters. Her father was extremely nasty when he was drunk, picking fights with anyone he could find. Men, usually. But not this year. This year his focus was on Gretchen.

“Why did we even send you to Dartmouth?” he’d asked as they gathered in the foyer, bundling into their coats while the cars idled in the driveway.

The Finches lived only a few houses down, but it was a freezing-cold night, so her parents’ drivers would take them. Gretchen knew the extravagance drove Richard to absolute distraction. Who doesn’t drive their own car?