Chapter Thirteen #2
“I mean, you’re likable. I like you, but you don’t seem to want friends.”
I look at her. What’s your game, Elodie? What is this?
“Are you trying to cheer me up?” I ask dryly.
“I’m saying that I’m the same way. I get it.
” She sighs but doesn’t release me from her arm.
“I don’t know how to have close friends, either.
In fact, Todd and I have talked about moving back to California in a year or two.
But this thing we’re doing needs to be a partnership.
Fifty-fifty. That means spilling the beans, sister. ”
We can never tell anyone, do you hear me?
Mr. X—my brother—said those words to me after the fire that killed our parents.
We were standing in the cemetery, and I turned my head to look at the CPS car that was parked at the edge of the grass.
I knew that I was only being given a few minutes to attend the funeral before they would take me away again.
I want to go with you, I told him. I don’t want us to be separated again.
He stooped to my height. The summer sun made his blond hair so bright that it was reflective and painful to look at. It’s going to be okay, but only if we never, never trust anyone but each other.
That was it, and then our time was up. A social worker led me back to the car. A parole officer came for my brother, and I could hear the clink of the shackles at his ankles and wrists as he was taken back to jail.
My mind jolts back to the present, where the car smells like Elodie’s sugarplum hand lotion.
In a different world, where I wasn’t so warped by the things that had happened to me, maybe she and I could be friends.
Then again, in a different world, I wouldn’t be here doing this. We’d have to bond over cookie recipes.
Still, I need to give her something. I weigh it carefully before I speak.
“Bertram gives me friendly-next-door-neighbor vibes. You know on the news when some guy kills his whole family, and all the neighbors talk about what a nice guy he was and how he always waved? That’s him. Usually, I can tell when someone is suspicious, but he’s throwing me way off.”
Elodie nods. “He’s a creep for sure.”
“But what kind of creep? It worries me that I can’t tell.”
“Did he say anything to give you a clue?” Elodie asks. “Think.”
“He told me that someone is following him. Actually, he said that Annie is stalking him. But when I called his bluff and suggested going to the police, he kept insisting that she knows how to stay hidden. And apparently she does, because we still haven’t found her ourselves.”
Elodie balks, and at my startled expression, she eases up. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just, killing your girlfriend and then blaming her for her own murder is like, chapter one in the Creepy McCreeperson handbook.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But…it just isn’t adding up.”
“Yes, it is,” Elodie insists. “Don’t feel bad.
I could almost buy his bullshit, too. But that’s how he’s been so successful at getting away with murder and stealing his sister’s app.
Annie Clarke isn’t stalking him. She’s probably buried at a construction site somewhere, and our job is to figure out how he did it.
” She nods to Erin’s condo, far below our parking spot.
Everything Elodie says makes perfect sense. I’ve already thought the same. What are we missing?
I pull up my phone and type Bertram’s name into Google, looking for any new articles, as though they will contain some kind of hidden clue.
Despite Elodie’s logic, I can’t explain my apprehension.
I can’t justify why my instincts are telling me Bertram may be telling the truth.
I can’t find any evidence that he’s the monster I thought he’d be.
The top result is a YouTube link for Business Insider’s channel. I tap and it takes me to a live stream. The host is on one side, talking against a living room backdrop. And to the right is Bertram, his back against the fireplace in his sterile penthouse apartment.
Elodie huddles against me to look at the screen, and I wonder if Californians are more comfortable with physical contact than us New Englanders. “Is that live?” she asks.
“Seems to be.”
“No way it’s prerecorded?”
I turn the volume up. “Looks like they’re answering live questions from the comments right now.”
We watch as Bertram chats in real time. Elodie even throws a comment into the quickly churning comment section, and while it doesn’t get addressed by the host, many of the other comments do.
“A frustratingly solid alibi,” she mutters, and then glances at Erin’s condo. “But if he’s not there, why wouldn’t she feel safe telling us what happened?”
“Unless it wasn’t him,” I say. “Maybe she has a more complicated life than we realized. Maybe she’s not such a recluse.”
Continuing to watch Erin’s home for the next hour yields no results. The live stream ends with Bertram cheerfully thanking the host for his time.
“Well, this was a bust,” Elodie says.
“I’ll see what I can squeeze out of Bertram,” I say. “What’s your plan?”
Elodie seems to remember something that makes her grin. “I slipped an AirTag on Erin’s car, so I’ll keep an eye on where she goes today.”
“You sly fox,” I say. “I didn’t even see you do it.”
She beams. “That’s the idea. Never get caught, right? Here, share your phone’s location with me, so I’ll know where to come looking if things go sideways with Mr. Millionaire.”
I do, but only select the “until end of day” function. Her name appears on a little map, next to Mr. X. The blue dot representing him is still fixed at the cancer center, ten miles away.
“When all of this is said and done,” Elodie says, “I’m treating us to lattes. Full-fat, with whip, extra syrup. We’ll have earned an overpriced drink.”
There it is, that glimpse of what my life could have been if only I’d taken a different path so many years ago. I’ve always dismissed the idea of truly enjoying these little things, but deep down I think I envy the people who can.
Elodie and I part ways, and I drive home first. I leave my phone in the garage, texting Elodie to say I have to take care of some things at home and won’t be able to get to work for a couple of hours. Then I head to the hospital, sans phone.
As I drive, I think about Elodie’s offer of friendship, and then I chide myself.
You don’t know how to have friends, Margaux, remember?
When Waylen pushes me to lead a normal life with him, when he tells me I need to make friends, and especially when he tells me I need to shield Collette from my work, it’s easier to disregard the thought.
But Elodie’s words reached me in an unexpected way. I never tried to open myself up to other people, and yet here I am forcing Collette to be social.
As I drive to the hospital, I imagine it.
Elodie and me, conspiring over lattes as we read the latest headlines on our phones.
Browsing obscure message boards to find cold cases, talking in whispers about how we’d get the criminals who walk free.
Like scratching the ultimate itch. And then sitting on a bench, watching our daughters’ dance rehearsals.
Is it possible to form a true friendship? Not in the way my husband proposes—which would require me to ditch my little side hobby entirely. But with someone who gets it, and who’s willing to entertain the thought with me from time to time. You know, for fun.
When I make it to my brother’s hospital room, he’s asleep.
But he jolts awake as though I’ve just burst through the door with a marching band procession.
“Margaux,” he blurts. But he doesn’t mean me, the grown woman standing before him.
He means the twelve-year-old who was separated from him when we were young.
He’s been dreaming about the night of the fire. I can tell. I have the same look on my face when I dream about it, too.
One look at his expression, and all thoughts of a friendship with Elodie dissipate from my mind. A real friendship is founded on honesty. It’s the same as a marriage in that way, isn’t it? And I can never be honest with Elodie about what really happened that night.
But I don’t say any of this to my brother.
We’ve agreed never to speak of it, and we don’t.
Whatever alternate life I might like to lead, this is the one I have.
There are no friendships. No true, soul-deep connections over Starbucks lattes.
Only the memories that haunt me, and the regrets I don’t think about.
“Hey.” I draw up a chair and sit by his bed. “You look good. I thought you were supposed to be sick.” What I’m really thinking is that he doesn’t look as bad as I thought he would, based on how he sounded over the phone. I won’t let myself think about him getting worse. One thing at a time.
He smiles, despite himself. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday. You up for a little recap?”
He nods, and I summarize everything I know about Bertram and about Erin, who was always a bit strange but may be worth a closer watch.
“A lot of my clients go deeper than we expected,” he agrees. “She may have a complicated life, but she only hired us to resolve one aspect of it.”
“Yes, but if she gets murdered by an ex-boyfriend or a violent neighbor, we can’t exactly give her the answers she’s looking for.”
He stares flatly at me. “You know better than anyone that people keep their secrets for a reason, M.”
“Her secrets weren’t of any use to me at first,” I say. “But now I wonder if there’s some connection. Something happened to her. She looked terrified when Elodie and I showed up unannounced. I could have sworn someone was in there with her.”
“You’re sure Bertram had an alibi?” he asks.
“Airtight.”
He nods. He pushes the button to recline his bed and slowly brings himself to a seated position. God, he looks so pale. I should have ignored his demands for privacy and checked in on him. Maybe if he’d gotten to a doctor sooner…
Don’t think about it, Margaux. Don’t go there. He’ll be fine.