“So we both had pieces of the puzzle, and they fit.”
I thought of the thing we always used to say, we fit.
Lucinda rubbed her face, leaving pinkish streaks. “I feel so terrible. Allison’s death is because of me. I brought Milo into our life.”
“Don’t say that,” I told her, meaning it. I wanted to reach for her, but didn’t. “Milo was the one with the gun. You’re not responsible for Allison’s death, any more than Ethan is.”
Lucinda looked at me, teary and vulnerable. “But I feel so guilty.”
“Good. Feel guilty for cheating on the best husband ever.”
Lucinda managed a shaky smile. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Agree.” I wasn’t kidding. “We done here?”
“We have to tell Dom and Wiki, when they get back.” Lucinda wiped her eyes. “The FBI should talk to Paul. He could know where Milo is.”
“We can’t do that.” I had yet to tell Lucinda that the FBI had been lying to us. I had been up all night doing research and formulating a plan.
“Why not?”
I met her eye. I’d tell her most of my plan, but not all.
I didn’t trust her anymore, either.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The rest of the day, I avoided Lucinda, staying downstairs on the laptop while she stayed in our bedroom. Each of us nursed our grief, and our wounds. My feelings for her tore me up inside, love bollixed up with betrayal. We traded off on Ethan, spending time alone with him. At dinner, we faked it for his benefit. I wondered if there was a married couple who hadn’t.
Online I checked in on citizen detective Bryan Krieger, and he had put up a new podcast, which took me aback:
Folks, if you listened to my last podcast, you know I revealed a bombshell! Lucinda was having an affair with one of her clients, according to her best friend Melissa. That only adds fuel to my theory that Jason killed her after he found out about the affair, and either he took the kids or killed them too. But Melissa refused to tell me who Lucinda’s lover was, so I got busy. And guess what I found out?
I continued reading, with a bad feeling:
I began at the beginning, with Lucinda’s website. She took engagement pictures and family portraits. I ran down every lead I could, calling a bunch of middle-management bros and lacrosse dads, and got no suspects. Then I went through the corporate portraits, and I could just smell that I was in the right place. Melissa said Lucinda’s lover was well-connected, and I got the impression he was prominent.
A feeling of dread came over me, and I read on.
I noted she photographed three executives, over the summer. I called the first one, a CEO, but he’s super old. I reached the widow of the second one, a retired CFO, who died two months ago. I called the third one, named Paul Hart, a partner in the white-shoe law firm of Lattimore & Finch. Hart wouldn’t return my calls to his office, but I found his home number and called him there. After I tried many times, his wife Pam answered. PAY DIRT! I reached her after she had definitely had a few drinks. Listen to what she told me:
I recoiled, dismayed.
I put on my earphones and clicked play:
Bryan: Hello, my name is Bryan Krieger. Is this Pam Hart?
Pam: Yes, the one and only.
Bryan: I was wondering if I could talk with you about the Bennett family— Pam: I don’t know them, but what the hell, I have nothing better to do. I’ve seen every show on Netflix. Ha!
Bryan: First, may I ask, is your husband Paul home?
Pam: You don’t know him very well, do you?
Bryan: I don’t know him at all.
Pam: Neither do I, and I’m married to the guy twenty-six years! Ha!
Bryan: I can see you’re brutally honest—
Pam: That I am! I got honesty and brutality! Ha!
Bryan: I’m investigating whether your husband was having an affair with a woman named Lucinda Bennett. She’s a photographer who took his photo last summer.
Pam: I don’t know anybody named Lucinda, but if she had a pulse, I’m not surprised Paul’s screwing her. She wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last! Ha! Ha! Are you trying to shock me?
Hart’s wife laughed, and the audio ended.
I sighed inwardly. Now the gossip about Lucinda would begin. Her secret was out. I knew she would try to keep it from Ethan.
My heart hurt for her, knowing what she would be going through, yet I couldn’t justify my sympathy for her. I didn’t know how it would end for us.
I set that aside for now.
Tomorrow, everything changed.
PART TWO
“The fight don’t stop until the casket drop.”
—Kaboni Savage, quoted in U.S. v. Savage, 970 F.3d 217, 291 （3d. Cir. 2020）
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Don’t worry, buddy.” I smiled at Ethan, putting a hand on his shoulder. We all stood in the driveway, since it was Tuesday morning and he was leaving for his first therapy appointment. Lucinda was going with him, only one parent permitted per FBI procedure, which worked for my plan.
“I don’t want to go, Dad.” Ethan looked up, his worried eyes communicating what we couldn’t say in front of Dom, waiting by the Tahoe.
“Everything’s going to be okay.” I gave him a hug, then walked him to the Tahoe and opened the door. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. See you later.”
“Yep.” I forced a smile, not knowing when I would see him again. Ethan reached for another hug, and I squeezed him quickly, not to arouse suspicion.
Lucinda smiled convincingly. “Later, honey. Love you.”
My throat caught. She wasn’t supposed to say that. It wasn’t in the script. “Love you, too,” I said lightly, as she got inside the Tahoe.
“See you, Jason.” Dom opened the driver’s side door.
I waved goodbye, and Dom got into the Tahoe, started the ignition, and drove off, but I didn’t have time to watch them go. I was on the clock.
I hurried upstairs to the agents’ apartment and knocked on the door. “Wiki?”
Wiki came to the door with a smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I smiled back, trying not to think about whether he knew Milo was an FBI informant.
“Sorry to bother you, but something’s wrong with the outdoor shower.” I faked a frown. “Maybe you can give me a hand with it.”
“Not a problem, I can give it a shot.” Wiki opened the screen door to go. “There’s a toolbox in your laundry room.”
“I found it and I put it in the shower.” I went down the stairs and led Wiki to the outdoor shower, which I opened. I let him go ahead of me, closed the door partway, then stopped. “Hold on, I have to hit the head. Be right back.”
“Okay.”
I padlocked the shower door quietly, then took off running. I turned right out the driveway, running as fast as I could down the street, feeling light and fast. There wasn’t a moment to lose. The shower door was thick wood, but I didn’t know how long it would hold.
I reached the house with the junk in the front yard, and old man Thatcher sat in his BarcaLounger next to a refrigerator, reading the newspaper with his cigar plugged wetly into his mouth. Thatcher looked up, his hooded eyes flinty, when I ran up to him, but I didn’t have time for small talk.