Count My Lies

Chapter 30

30

She said what ?” I ask. I raise an eyebrow in surprise. In the distance, the faint wail of sirens.

Anne-Marie grins cheekily, then shrugs, brushing a strand of her blonde hair from her eyes. “She said you were coming on to her.”

“I came on to her ? Caitlin said that? When?” I try not to sound as irritated as I feel. Why had Caitlin been talking to Anne-Marie about us?

“Look, don’t shoot the messenger,” Anne-Marie says, crossing the kitchen and taking another beer out of the fridge. “But don’t worry, I didn’t put much stock in it. All nannies think the dad is interested in them, ever since Ben Affleck ran away with his. It goes with the territory.”

She winks and takes my empty bottle from me, hands me the full, cold one. I take a long drink, then another. The beer’s relaxed me; when I first got here, forty-five minutes ago, right after my fight with Violet, I could have put my fist through a wall. Thank god for Anne-Marie. She was on her porch when I drove by, waved at me to stop. “The kids are upstairs,” she said, motioning to follow her inside, “zonked out in front of the TV.” I can hear it now, volume at full blast.

Now, even over the sound of the TV, the sirens are louder, getting closer. I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard them since we left the city. In New York, they are a constant part of the background noise, an ever-present whine, swelling and fading throughout the day, quieter sometimes than others, but always there. Here, where the only noise is the rushing of the waves, the sound is grating, out of place.

I cock my head toward the street. “Think Caitlin called the cops?” I joke.

Anne-Marie looks at me, amused. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t have a chance to speak, because suddenly, the sirens are right out front. We turn to see two police cars, their lights strobing, parked outside of the house. The doors of each car open, sirens still blaring.

“I’ll go check on the kids,” I say to her. I set my beer on the counter. “Maybe one of them got ahold of a phone?”

But before I can move, there’s pounding on the door. Heavy thudding, a closed fist banging against it. We look at each other, frowning.

Then it bursts open. We both recoil, backing away from the door until we’re pressed up against the living room wall. Three police officers stand in the doorway. Their guns are drawn.

“Jay Lockhart?” one of the officers booms.

Instinctively, I raise my hands above my head. “Yes, that’s me. I—”

“Sir, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Violet Lockhart.” He approaches me with handcuffs, roughly turns me around. I feel metal against my wrists, cold, hard.

Attempted murder? What the fuck? My head is spinning, body unmoving. I stare at him, shell-shocked.

The cop continues, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

“There’s been a mistake,” I finally manage, trying to turn to look at him, but I’m jerked back around, my body propelled forward toward the door. “Please!” I’m yelling now, panic rising.

I glance back at Anne-Marie. She’s pale-faced, staring at me with her mouth hanging open, arms clutching at herself.

“It’s a mistake,” I yell again. “Anne-Marie, call a lawyer. You have to help me!” But she doesn’t move, her eyes wide, round and unblinking.

Outside, I’m shoved into the back of a police car, its lights flashing. My head knocks against the side of the car on the way in.

No one speaks to me on the ride to the station. I sit, reeling, a numb, heavy feeling making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Attempted murder? Of Violet? No, there has to be some mistake.

At the station, I’m dumped in a dingy holding cell, drab, gray, humid. There are no windows, no air-conditioning. My shirt sticks to my back, sweaty and grimy. I sit on the hard bench, then stand, then sit again. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I know I shouldn’t be here.

Twice, I get up, yell for water, desperate for someone to talk to me, to look at me, but no one comes. Finally, after what feels like hours, a guard opens the door, calls my name.

He leads me down a cement corridor to an interview room. Like the holding cell, it’s hot and run-down. In the middle, there’s an aluminum table and two chairs, one on each side. The chair is uncomfortable, too small.

The guard leaves, and I’m alone again, but this time, not for long. There’s a loud buzz and the click of the door unlocking.

A man walks in. He’s wearing a pair of slacks, a dress shirt with rolled cuffs, unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a faded white undershirt. He pulls out the chair opposite me, lowers himself into it. He’s a thin, sharp-featured man, forties, early fifties, maybe.

“I’m Detective Edgerton,” he says. He’s brusque, but not rude. “You’re on camera, okay?” He shifts to point to a small video recorder behind him, in the top, right-hand corner of the room. Then he turns back toward me. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I shake my head. “ Nothing happened! This has to be a misunderstanding!” I’m on the verge of hysteria. “You have the wrong guy! I never hurt Violet. I would never. I—”

“Jay.” He holds up a hand. “Let’s take a step back. When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

I breathe out shakily. “Earlier this afternoon.”

“And what happened during that conversation?”

“We…” I swallow. I know how this will sound. “We had a fight. She asked me to leave.”

“What was the fight about?” he asks.

“She thought…” I stop again. I rub my temple. My brow is slick with sweat. Fuck. “She thought she saw me with the nanny.” My head is pounding, pain wrapping from the back of my skull to my forehead. “Can I get a water or something?”

The detective ignores me. “Did she?” He’s straight-faced, doesn’t blink.

I shift in my chair. “Look, my wife and I, we’ve been having some problems. We’ve discussed separating.” I know this doesn’t answer his question, but I want him to know that it’s not what it looks like.

“Who suggested the separation?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, we both agreed that things haven’t been working.” This, too, isn’t exactly the truth. But the truth won’t help me.

“But initially, Mrs. Lockhart was the one who wanted to end things?”

I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Or who told him that.

“She was angry, and yes, she might have been the one to first say it, but we were working on things—”

He interrupts me. “So, she wanted out and you didn’t. Is that why you shot her?”

I stare at him incredulously. “What? Shot her? No! I didn’t shoot her. Did she say I did? She’s lying! Jesus. ”

I drop my head into my hands. I know Violet’s been upset with me; of course I know. Things have been rocky between us for a long time. It’s true I haven’t always been the best husband, but it hasn’t always been easy to be who she wants me to be. It’s been lonely, and I’ll admit, I’ve been weak. The last year in New York has been especially hard. We’ve both done things, said things, to hurt each other, but this ? To say I shot her? What the fuck, Violet?

“Look.” I raise my head. I’m exhausted, every part of my body like deadweight. “Can I talk to her? If I could just have five minutes, I’m sure I can clear this all up. Please. Just a quick call.” I’m begging now. “She’ll tell you, this is all a mistake!”

Detective Edgerton sighs. Then he leans back in his chair. He looks tired, too. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“I haven’t had my phone call yet!” I say, realizing. “Don’t I get a phone call? Please. Let me talk to her!”

The detective clears his throat. There’s a long, heavy pause before he says, “Unfortunately, Mrs. Lockhart died two hours ago, on the way to the hospital.”

I stare at him in disbelief. What? No. No. She can’t be—

“Which”—he clears his throat again—“means you’re looking at a first-degree murder charge. Are you ready to tell me what really happened the last time you saw Mrs. Lockhart? If I know the truth, I can help you.”

The room seems to expand then shrink, my vision getting darker. Suddenly, it feels like I’m underwater, everything distorted. I’m waterlogged, sounds muffled, my eyes bleary.

“Mr. Lockhart?” Detective Edgerton’s voice booms loudly. “Someone get me some water!” he calls. “Mr. Lockhart, are you okay?”

“I need a lawyer,” I hear myself say.

No one comes for me until the following afternoon. My body is stiff and aching, head still pounding. My eyes burn from the lack of sleep. After my interview with the detective, I was booked—fingerprinted, photographed, clothes exchanged for oversized sweatpants and a stained T-shirt—and led to a cell with a thin mat in one corner and metal toilet in the other. The small room was hot and reeked of piss.

Exhausted, I lay down on the mat. I drifted in and out of sleep, jolting awake whenever I dozed too deeply, chest seizing, remembering. Violet’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

A guard banged on my door early this morning, signaling breakfast. Four hours later, lunch. Both were served on plastic trays, both inedible.

Finally, the guard unlocks my cell, swings the door wide. “Your lawyer’s here,” he says apathetically. “Get up.”

Before he left the interview room yesterday, after I steadied myself, lifting my head from between my knees, Detective Edgerton slid a list of names across the metal table. “Attorneys on the island,” he said. “If you don’t have one.”

I pointed to the first name I saw. Javier Delgado. I could have called Kathleen, the divorce lawyer I met with a few times, but what good would a divorce lawyer do me now? And I wanted someone local, on the island. Someone who could get me out of here as soon as possible.

The guard leads me to the same interrogation room I was in yesterday. Javier is in the same chair as the detective was, a file folder open in front of him on the table. He stands when we walk in, smiling politely at me as he reaches to shake my hand.

Javier is well-dressed in a nicely tailored gray suit, expensive tie, leather loafers. He’s late thirties, early forties, maybe, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his clean-shaven face.

I know how I look in contrast, steeped in grime and sweat, eyes bloodshot, rimmed with deep bags. I smell, too, a sharp acrid smell, like sweat and urine, the stench of the cell clogging my pores. I need a shower. I need to go home, get the fuck off this island.

“Mr. Lockhart—” Javier starts, a pleasant, almost vacant expression on his face.

“I didn’t do it,” I interrupt. He has to know this. It’s the only thing he has to know. “We had a fight, but when I left, Violet was fine! I swear, I had nothing to do with this!”

He smiles kindly at me, nodding. He believes me. I slump back in my chair. For the first time since I got here, I feel relieved. He’s going to help me.

“I talked to the prosecutor this morning, before I came here,” Javier says. “They’ve offered us a plea deal.” He looks at me as if this is good news. When I don’t react, he continues. “If you plead guilty, they’ll reduce the sentence to man one. Fifteen years in prison.”

I stare at him blankly. What? “But I told you, I didn’t do it,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would I plead guilty?”

Javier sighs. He takes off his wire-rimmed glasses and drags his hand down his face, forehead to chin, as if he’s already exhausted by this case.

“Mr. Lockhart, I’m going to level with you. This doesn’t look good for you. If we take this to trial, there’s a very good chance you’re looking at life in prison.”

“But I didn’t do it,” I repeat dumbly.

“That may be the case, but it could be hard to prove.”

I slam a fist down on the table. “Isn’t that your fucking job?”

The placid expression on his face doesn’t change. He looks down at the file in front of him. “Your wife told police before she died that you shot her. Ms. Caraway corroborates this story. That makes two witnesses. Then there’s the life insurance policy.”

I don’t know who the fuck Ms. Caraway is, but I’m too tripped up by the mention of our life insurance policy to give a shit right now.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward, my hands on the table.

“The one that names you as the sole beneficiary of her trust. Unless, of course, you were to get divorced.”

Javier pushes a stack of papers across the table.

“What is this?” I flip through the pages.

“Those are the divorce papers. They render the insurance policy defunct. Mrs. Lockhart had them drawn up before you left New York. Prosecution will argue that you were angry when she served you. You tried to talk her out of it, but when you couldn’t, things escalated.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s not what happened! This is the first time I’m even seeing these! But”—I look down at the pages, trying to make sense of them—“even if that were true, I would never have shot Violet! I’d never hurt her!”

“There’s been a history of physical altercations, correct? The police came to your house on a domestic disturbance call last year?”

“Because she threw a glass at me!” I run my hands through my hair, pulling at it. I feel like I’m losing my mind. “The neighbors heard us arguing and called the cops. I never touched her!”

“Listen, I’m not saying you did. But it could be seen as a pattern of behavior. At least, that’s how the prosecution will present it. And the fact that you were found next door, that you were planning to take your daughter without the consent of her mother—”

My mouth drops open. “Take her? I wasn’t there to take Harper. I…” I stop abruptly. The real reason I was there won’t make things any better for me.

Javier shrugs. “It’s a compelling case against you, Mr. Lockhart.”

I stare at him incredulously. He doesn’t care whether or not I did it. Not even a little.

“Think about it,” Javier says. “Fifteen years if we plead out. You’ll probably only do twelve with good behavior. You’ll be able to see your daughter graduate high school. If this goes to trial, you may not even get to walk her down the aisle.” He shuffles the papers sprawled across the table into a stack and puts them back into a folder. “Sleep on it. I’ll be back in a few days.”

Javier gets up, starts toward the door.

“Wait!” The thought of him leaving, of me being alone in that cell again, lurches me into a panic. “Don’t go!”

He stops, raises his eyebrow. Yes?

“When can I get out of here?” I ask. I want to run to him, clutch at his suit jacket, beg him, Take me with you .

He stares at me for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s no bail. Not for capital cases.”