Then Marissa noticed a few new mentions of Tina had appeared. At least, they were new to Marissa.
Local man recants admission of murder of Tina Lennox: former high school English teacher Marvin Miller claims police coerced a false confession.
That article was from four years ago.
In another one, dated nine months earlier, on the anniversary of Tina’s death, Miller repeated his claims of innocence. I’ve spent half my life sitting in a cell while the real killer walks free, he was quoted as saying.
Marissa had stared at the screen, her hand over her mouth, feeling nausea rise in her throat.
If their English teacher hadn’t killed Tina, then who had?
It had been a struggle to get through dinner and Bennett’s bedtime routine, knowing this reckoning was finally coming. She’d tried to act normally, but more than once she’d caught Matthew studying her with a puzzled expression.
Now Marissa stands looking through the double glass doors leading from their family room to the backyard, to where Matthew stands by the fire in the stone hearth. It’s a cool, starlit evening, and Matthew has brought out a blanket and bottle of good wine. Bennett is sound asleep in his race-car bed, his thumb covered with a fresh bandage and his dinosaur diorama nearly finished.
The scene is set for a quiet, romantic night. Until Marissa throws a grenade into it.
She slides open the door and steps onto the patio.
Her husband is tending the flames, using a poker to arrange the logs. The firelight playing across his face conjures an image of another, long-ago evening by a bonfire.
Not that she needs the reminder.
“There you are.” Matthew puts aside the iron poker and sits down, patting the cushion next to him on the settee.
Marissa walks toward him as he reaches for the white Burgundy and twists the corkscrew before pulling it out with his strong fingers.
He pours them each a glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” She takes a tiny sip. She notices that on the eve of their anniversary, he has selected their wedding crystal.
She’s so cold again, despite her fleece leggings and top and the heat of the fire. She feels as if she hasn’t been able to get warm since this all began.
Matthew reaches for the blanket, tucking it over her legs. “You okay?”
Marissa makes a noncommittal noise. “Can I ask you something?”
Matthew looks calm; he has no idea what’s coming. “Of course.”
She takes a deep breath and speaks the question that has the potential to unravel everything: “Why did you lie for Skip all those years ago?”
Matthew sets down his glass and turns to face her, as if he recognizes the importance of this moment.
“Because it looked bad for him, and I knew he didn’t kill Tina,” Matthew finally answers. “You and I know Skip sometimes went to work on his boat at night, when he was taking clients fishing early the next morning. But if the police knew he was out there alone, near the spot where Tina was killed? They might not have believed him. He was about to go to college on a scholarship. Even if he was cleared later, that cloud of suspicion could have cost him everything.”
Marissa nods, remembering the scratch Tina had inflicted on Skip’s arm. “You were such a good friend to him,” she whispers.
The false alibi had seemed harmless when Marissa first heard about it from Matthew shortly after they started dating: Skip was scared. The police were questioning everyone. He came to my house to ask my dad for advice, but my dad was in the city. I knew he hadn’t done it, so I told him to just say he’d been with me at home watching a movie that night. My mom covered for him, too; she trusted me when I told her Skip wouldn’t hurt anyone.
The lie stopped seeming harmless when Marissa learned about that open window in Matthew’s office, and about the English teacher recanting his confession.
The fire makes a loud popping sound and Marissa flinches, but Matthew doesn’t even glance at it. He’s staring intently at her.
“Why are you bringing this up now?”
Marissa’s mouth is so dry she needs another sip of wine. “I googled the case this afternoon. Did you know our English teacher claimed the police leaned on him so hard he gave a false confession?”
Matthew reaches for her hand and begins to massage it. “Sweetheart, ask any man in prison if he’s innocent. They’re all going to say yes.”
“How well do we really know Skip anymore? We’ve only seen him a few dozen times over the past twenty years. He lived across the country until last summer.”
Matthew’s fingers stop moving. “What are you saying?”