Someone Else's Husband(99)

“What are you talking about, dear?” her mother asked, though only an idiot would have missed that this line of conversation wasn’t worth pursuing. Her father had been picking on Gretchen all night. Her hair, her clothing, the baby weight. That last one a joke about the price Richard had to pay for children—losing his wife’s figure. Richard had glared at him before turning to Gretchen, who had motioned to let it go. But Richard didn’t approve of ignoring her father’s “oppositional” behavior. Easy for him to say when his own drunk father was long gone.

Her father’s face was flushed as he leaned back against the wall, coat on, highball in hand. “I’m saying, look at her.” Gretchen was crouched down, zipping Elizabeth’s jacket. “Breeding doesn’t require an education.”

Gretchen had closed her eyes and kept her back to him. Would Cassandra and Elizabeth remember this? The moment when her father spoke to her that way, and she let him? But the two girls were obliviously giggling.

“Hey, Chad,” Richard said. His voice crackled with anger. “Talk to my wife like that again, and I will level you.”

Her father laughed. “How dare you—”

“And you won’t get back up.”

Her father left her alone for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t until they were being driven back to the house, the children asleep, that they spoke of it.

“We don’t have to go back inside,” Richard had said. “We could get in our car with the kids and go home.” He hesitated, took her hand, and squeezed it until she looked at him. “We could leave our life behind there, too, if you want. Start new.” And when Gretchen turned to look at him, his eyes were so hopeful.

Gretchen felt like she might cry. “Leave behind your whole career and our apartment and all the children’s friends?”

He nodded, his eyes filled with love. “All I’ve ever needed was you.”



* * *



*

“Gretchen,” Mikey said, drawing her attention back to their conversation. “Richard told me about the spray paint.” His eyebrows were raised expectantly. He clearly believed this was the moment Gretchen was going to fill in some sort of gap.

“What spray paint?” Cluelessness could be an art, in and of itself.

“Apparently, someone broke into Frankie Callahan’s studio and vandalized it.” He paused. “Richard told us he found cans of spray paint and other related items in your home. He suggested you might know something about the damage?”

“He thinks I broke into her art studio and vandalized it? Me?” He was right: She wasn’t just going to sit there. But vandalism?

Mikey’s gaze was unwavering, and disconcerting. “He doesn’t know, Gretchen. The only explanation he could come up with was that you must have…” He paused. “When Richard went to Frankie’s apartment the night she was killed and saw what had happened, he panicked. Because he was concerned that maybe…” He nodded at Gretchen.

Becks. He’d been following Richard and Frankie. Becks whose troublemaking friend Luke lived with “street artists.” No. No. No.

“Gretchen?” Mikey pressed.

“He thought that I…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Unbelievable.”

“To be clear, he started trying to clean up only because he was trying to protect you. So the blood on his pants is Frankie’s. That’s also why he panicked when the police turned their attention to you, why he started making incriminating statements. He was concerned there was something to cover up.”

“Did he move her body?” Gretchen asked softly.

“God, no.” Mikey waved a hand. “When he got there, the door was open and there was blood everywhere, but no body. She had already been moved.” He hesitated as if to give her another opportunity to explain what had happened. Did Mikey Pearce actually suspect her? “In any case, the police don’t seem to know about the studio damage yet. But surely Frankie told someone other than Richard. So if you’re saying it wasn’t you, it would be helpful to tell the police.”

“Fine. It was me,” she said. “We will need to keep that to ourselves.”



* * *



—

It took forever for Mikey Pearce to leave. He wouldn’t stop with questions to which there were no safe answers; it was with no small amount of relief that Gretchen finally saw him to the elevator. She was heading upstairs when the doorman called up again. A moment later, Deborah was in the foyer. She had on a long-sleeved pink dress with huge white flowers, a Zabar’s tote bag over her shoulder, and a casserole dish in her hands.

“Lasagna,” Deborah said, smiling sheepishly as she stepped into the foyer. “It’s ridiculous. You must have someone who cooks for you. The last thing you need is my lasa—”

“No, no. Thank you.” Gretchen felt genuinely overcome by the simple kindness. She took the glass dish, gripping it like a flotation device in front of her. “It’s perfect. I don’t remember the last time I ate something.”

Deborah rested a hand on Gretchen’s back. “Come. I’ll make us some tea,” she said, steering Gretchen to the kitchen and depositing her at the counter as she heated water and let Gretchen point her toward the correct cabinets.