“That must feel like cold comfort,” she says, “being exonerated twelve years later.”
Something like that. They were never going to pin St. Louis on me, as long as they couldn’t talk to my shrink, to whom I spilled my guts the next morning. （A moment of weakness I will never forget or repeat.）
Comfort? I wouldn’t use that word. I wouldn’t even say I’m happy about what I did. Or unhappy. Virtually every moral code and penal code would condemn my actions. I analogize it to the law of war, instead. My father and Lauren declared war on my mother and me. They killed her, and I killed them back. Soldiers aren’t prosecuted for killing other soldiers. They’re prosecuted only for killing innocents. Lauren and my father were the furthest things from innocents. I don’t require approval, nor do I accept disapproval, for what I’ve done.
Did I know that the Grace Village P.D. would fingerprint Lauren and take a DNA sample? Sure, they always do that, if for no other reason than exclusion, differentiation from other prints and DNA found at the scene. Did I know that they’d enter this information into FBI databases? Of course—standard protocol. Did I know that this newly submitted information would find a match in the databases for the champagne bottle and plastic flute found at my father’s crime scene? I hoped so. I couldn’t be sure Lauren’s prints or DNA would be on that bottle or those champagne flutes. But a guy can hope.
And did I time this entire thing so that St. Louis would be in a position to declare its investigation solved and closed only weeks before I had to stand here before this committee and answer questions?
Well, let’s just say the timing worked out okay.
“I’m just glad to put it behind me,” I say, looking squarely at Dean Comstock as I do.
105
Simon
The forest preserve outside Burlington, Wisconsin, where Vicky stashed her post-Halloween burner phone to communicate with me, seems as good as any place to meet. I get there early, having the longer drive and not wanting to be late. The habit of timing things perfectly with Vicky, so critical over the summer and fall, is hard to scrub from my DNA.
I assume there isn’t much of a need to be careful anymore. The day after Jane Burke visited me with the news about Lauren’s fingerprint on the champagne bottle, Grace Village P.D. announced a solve in the murder of Lauren Betancourt. Nicholas Caracci, aka Christian Newsome, killed her in a jealous rage after she rejected his advances and then took his own life out of remorse. I watched the press conference, which featured Jane Burke standing behind the chief, looking as happy as someone with hemorrhoids.
Through the light snowfall, Vicky walks up the trail in a new, long wool coat and matching hat.
I wonder how she’ll approach, arms out for an embrace or hands tucked in her pockets and keeping a distance. It’s no secret that we have very different feelings about our relationship, that I want far more than she does. That made it awkward on occasion over the months that we plotted our scheme. It wasn’t easy executing this plan. It was scary and stressful. At times, we clung to each other for comfort—a hug, a peck on the cheek, a quick rub of the back.
But there was an undeniable intimacy to sharing secrets like we did, to knowing that it was us against the world, that we could trust no one but each other. We’d lie together, up on the roof in lounge chairs, on the couch in the living room, working through everything. We argued about some things, mostly about Vicky sleeping with Nick, an unbearable thought to me and the last thing on earth Vicky wanted to do, but she insisted （“It’s his routine, his scam, it will make him comfortable that his scam is working like it always has.” “How else will he and I ever be close enough to make this work?” “I can handle it. I know how to shut off and just perform the act without it meaning anything. I have years of experience.”）。
I quizzed her to keep her sharp （What was my mother’s middle name? What day were we married? Where did I go to high school?）。 We’d go over the next day’s text-message exchange （“Be playful, you’re still in the honeymoon phase.” “Maybe be a little cranky tomorrow; everyone’s cranky sometimes, right?” “Tomorrow, you start showing signs of hesitation, second thoughts.”）。 She’d read the journal I was writing and offer critiques and suggestions （“Mention I’m from West Virginia but do it like a throwaway comment.” “You need to be freaking out a little—you’re falling in love with Lauren and you’re married to me!” “You have to show a little self-doubt, like this is too good to be true.”）。