You Deserve to Know

Chapter 26

26

NOW

Tuesday morning and Gwen is up early, awakened by a panic dream and unable to drift back to sleep. Down in the kitchen she notices movement through the window and peers out. A familiar sedan pulls up in front of Aimee’s house, and Detective Salazar gets out.

Her stomach does a little flip. What could he want with Aimee and Scott? She remembers what Aimee said the other day, that Scott had gone to Villain & Saint. Yes, it was the closest bar to where they lived and Anton could have been going there to have a drink.

But she feared it wasn’t just a coincidence.

She’s scared Anton went after Scott, went to confess everything.

She wonders what the detective is saying inside that house. She’d love to be a fly on the wall.

“It’s quiet down here. I suppose the boys are still sleeping.” Barb opens the fridge and begins taking out eggs. She holds up a bottle of maple syrup. “Thought I’d make breakfast. Pancakes? French toast?”

“Pancakes are good.”

“The boys were up very late last night. Too late. We don’t want them to get into an unhealthy sleep schedule. Just because they aren’t going to school doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have a routine.”

“It’s fine. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning. And they only found out yesterday that their dad is gone. I think they’re allowed to sleep in.”

“Have you called the school? Told them the boys will be out for the week?”

Gwen winces. “No, but I will.”

“I can do that, right after I make breakfast. Have you thought about the funeral?”

“Mom, I haven’t had coffee yet.”

“I’m putting on a pot as I speak,” Barb says. “This isn’t one of those things you can put off. Arrangements need to be made.” Barb works as she talks, efficient, although the tremble in her hands gives her away. Gwen wonders whether she’ll turn into her mother, especially if she keeps drinking. Brittle and strong, yet trembling and fragile. “When will the police release the body?”

“I told you,” Gwen says. “When the investigation is done.” Whatever energy she had drains right out of her by the rat-a-tat of questions from her mother’s mouth.

“What am I supposed to tell people?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Gwen, you’re not being any help.” Barb turns, hands on her hips. “This helpless little girl act will not get you very far. With your permission, I’d like to contact the police myself. Someone has to take charge here. Did you find Anton’s life insurance? Have you filed a claim yet?”

“I can’t, Mom. I don’t have the death certificate yet.” She had forgotten about the life insurance. A two-million-dollar policy her parents insisted he take out when the boys were born.

“Well, why not?”

And around and around they go, discussing the logistics of death as Barb cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks them. Gwen feels herself fading. She wants it all to be over. Not just this conversation, but this whole section of her life. She wants to fast-forward to the next part, whatever it may be. Whether it is here in this cul-de-sac in Bethesda, Maryland, or in an entirely different state. She doesn’t know how she’ll get through these next few days, weeks, months. The last time she felt this way was after the boys were born. The dense, timeless haze of postpartum depression. She went on Zoloft and stayed on it for more than a year, until the good it was doing was outweighed by the twenty pounds she had packed on. Should she see a doctor? Ask for some pills to get through this?

At least she has Aimee. She thinks of how Aimee tended to her last night, even in her barefoot, drunken state. Aimee is more of a sister to her than her own sister, whose only contact since Anton’s death has been a text, followed by a stock image of a wreath of flowers with Sorry for your loss written in script. It took Gwen five seconds to pull up the same GIF on her phone. Unbelievable.

Through the kitchen window she spots Detective Salazar leave Aimee’s house. She adjusts the curtains so she can watch him.

“What is it?” Barb asks. “What are you looking at?”

Gwen doesn’t answer. She expects him to get into his car, but to her dismay, he begins to walk up her path. When the doorbell rings, Gwen jumps.

“Someone is at the door,” Barb says. “I’ll handle it.”

Gwen stops at the entrance of the dining room and hides behind the wall so she can overhear the conversation.

“Detective Salazar, ma’am. From the Montgomery County Police. I was wondering if Mrs. Khoury was home.”

“Gwen? She’s my daughter. And yes, she’s in the kitchen. Please come in, Detective,” Barb says. “Have a seat and I’ll get her. May I bring you some coffee? Tea?”

“Just a water, please.”

“Certainly.” Barb has gone into full hostess mode. Her voice always turns melodious when talking to men. Gwen stiffens when she hears her mother’s footsteps approaching.

“There you are,” Barb says, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen. “There’s a detective here to see you. I’m getting him some water. Why don’t you go out, and I’ll bring you a glass, too.”

Gwen feels like her limbs are made of lead as she drags herself into the living room. Nothing good can come of this visit. She takes a seat across from Salazar, giving him a little nod. Today his tie is a deep forest green, his dress shirt steel gray. She can see him in the morning, carefully choosing his clothing. He must think it reinforces his image as detail-oriented and meticulous. And he’s right. So few men are like that these days. Anton could go days in sweatpants or ill-fitting jeans, T-shirts with the names of his favorite bands, looking more like an overgrown teenager than an esteemed author. Gwen picks a golden hair of Sababa’s off her pants.

The detective jerks his head toward the dining room, where her mother has been hard at work organizing all of Anton’s things. What was chaos is now organized into neat piles and half-filled cardboard boxes.

“Looks like you’ve been busy, Mrs. Khoury,” he says.

“Yes, well, I’m not sleeping. I sort of don’t know what to do with myself.”

“So you’re packing up all your husband’s things?”

“Not exactly,” she says, more sharply than she means to. But that is what she is doing. She wants every trace of that man out of her house. Out of her life. She glances at the detective’s face. What must he think of a widow who empties the house of her husband’s belongings only a few days after he is murdered? “I’m sorry, but why did you come here? Do you have any news?” she asks. “Any suspects?”

“Were you aware that your husband was having an affair?”

The question is so abrupt and unexpected that Gwen recoils. Before she can answer, Barb bustles in with a tray and puts it on the table. “Here we go, two waters. I brought some of these little hazelnut cookies, too, in case you two were hungry. If you need anything else, I’m happy to get it.” She takes a seat next to Gwen.

“Mrs. Khoury?” the detective asks.

Gwen sputters, unable to find the words to respond. “Yes. I mean, no.”

“Which is it, yes or no?”

“I didn’t know before he died. But since his death I have learned that Anton was seeing someone.”

Barb reaches out and squeezes Gwen’s hand. “Is this an entirely necessary line of questioning?” her mother asks.

“I’m afraid it is, Mrs.…?”

“Buckley. Barbara Buckley.” Barb gives Gwen’s hand a tight squeeze. “My daughter has been through a lot, Detective. I don’t want to see her upset needlessly.”

“I assure you I have no intent of upsetting her needlessly. Unfortunately, this is a murder investigation, and we have to ask these difficult questions.” He reaches for one of the two glasses and takes a big sip. “It’s been my experience that the best way to approach sensitive topics like these is to be honest and straightforward from the beginning. Now, Mrs. Khoury, do you mind sharing how you learned he was seeing someone?”

“I can’t explain it. Just little things.” Gwen stares at her knees as she speaks. One of the cruelest aspects of infidelity is that the wronged party often ends up feeling ashamed. As if she were deficient in some way, and Anton’s betrayal was a reflection of her worth. That was part of the work she had done in therapy three years ago, to realize the cheating was about him and not her . And yet, here she is in the same position again, back to square one, shame building inside her like steam in a pressure cooker. “It’s happened in the past. I just know.”

“This may be difficult to hear, but we also found evidence of an affair,” he says. “Do you have any idea of the identity of the person he was involved with?”

Gwen removes her hand from under her mother’s and reaches for the other glass of water just to have something to do. The silence in the room feels oppressive. Does he know who Anton was cheating with, and he’s testing her? She regrets confronting Lisa. She was drunk, not thinking straight. If it gets out that Anton was screwing her neighbor, her friend, she’ll have to move. She can’t stand the thought of being the object of gossip and pity. What would chatty Gabby say? Or crazy Michelle J.? And a tiny part of her wonders, what if she’s got it all wrong? What if Lisa did just bump into him, and he was actually sleeping with someone else entirely?

And then there’s the question of what Anton told her he had been up to.

Sending the police after the other woman increased the likelihood that all of his secrets would be revealed. This feels like chess, and she was never very good at chess. She could remember all the pieces and where they went, and that the rook did this and the bishop did that. But she was never very good at imagining the steps that would follow next. Strategy, that’s what people called it. She wasn’t one for strategy, and what is her strategy here? To tell the truth? To play dumb? To outright lie? Is there another choice? A coughing fit perhaps, or breaking into hysterics?

“Mrs. Khoury, are you aware of the identity?”

“I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions. A neighbor of ours. Lisa Greco-King. I considered her a good friend. At least I did, before.”

“You must have been very upset to learn that your husband was sleeping with a good friend of yours,” he says. “Your families are close. You’ve even been on vacation together, haven’t you?”

She gasps. He knew all along and was testing her. She feels vindicated—she was right to have accused Lisa. But that sense of vindication is overpowered by a wave of humiliation. Anton couldn’t even be bothered to leave their street to find someone to cheat with. Lazy bastard.

“We found messages on his phone,” the detective says.

“Where? I check his texts.” The words slip out before she realizes what she’s saying. The jealous wife, the insecure nag.

“He had WhatsApp on his phone. We found it hidden inside another folder.”

Gwen sinks back into the sofa, wishing the cushions could swallow her up. He must think her a fool. No, he sees deception every day. She’s just another clueless woman with a cheating husband. She had checked his messages—it was part of the condition of taking him back. But he was determined to cheat on her, so he found a way. She couldn’t watch his every move.

“Where were you Friday night?” the detective asks.

This question shakes her out of her thoughts. “Me? What do you mean? Here with the kids.”

“After your husband left, did you follow him in your car?”

Gwen coughs out a broken laugh. “Follow Anton? No. Of course not.”

“Did you drive to Villain & Saint, hoping to intercept him, catch him there?”

“What? No.”

“Did you have an argument with your husband that evening?”

“Why are you asking—”

“Neighbors overheard arguing. Raised voices.”

“What neighbors?” Surely not Aimee. She would never talk to the police about her, would she? Maybe it was Paola, who lived on the other side.

“Your husband had a gash on his head. Did he get that during your fight?”

“No, he slipped. He hit his head. He stormed out.”

“All right, I think that’s quite enough.” Barb stands up. “Maybe it’s time for you to go.”

“Not quite,” says Detective Salazar, standing as well. He pulls out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search the house. And your car.”