Chapter 53
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“It was Jesse.”
I’m sitting across from Neil at a cafe in the city near his work. An espresso machine rumbles in the background, and it sounds like a steam train is passing through the kitchen.
After the text from Jesse, I messaged Neil. He offered to come to my motel, and only after some frustrated back-and-forth did he agree to talk to his contacts at the police.
“About that,” he says, but stops himself as a cappuccino arrives on the table before me.
“You ordered for me?”
“I know what you like.”
“No,” I say, looking down at the drink. The barista has shaped the foam into a love heart. “You don’t.”
“Whatever. The man from last night.”
“Jesse!”
“Jesse Youngman. Yes, I know you think that it was him. But I talked to the police last night, and it’s not what they think.” He pauses, as if choosing his words. “And I agree with them.”
“You think I made it up! Neil, he threatened me!”
“I believe you. But you didn’t see the man yesterday. You just saw someone in a hood. And Jesse has a pretty good alibi. He was in New York.”
“Have they heard of planes?”
“Have you heard of airport security? You can’t travel anonymously these days. He wasn’t even in the same time zone. It was probably just a random man. Maybe a fan of Grace’s that found out who you are.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out, OK? If there’s any evidence that the cops shared information about the investigation, I’ll end their careers. That’s a promise. But it’s a stretch.”
“What about the text message?”
“A coincidence. Think about it. If that man in the hood was Jesse and he wanted to hurt you, why didn’t he just do it?”
“To drag it out. To make me suffer.”
“This isn’t a movie, Brie. Bad guys don’t do that in real life. When they want to hurt someone, they hurt them,” Neil says, before lowering his voice. “By the way. I did some more digging last night. The police are moving fast. They’re sending a diving team into the river.”
“Diving team?”
“Off the Memorial Bridge outside of the city. And I think they found something.”
When he tells me this, I’m about to sip my cappuccino. In the half-second it takes for me to understand what he’s saying, my hands open wide. The cup crashes to the table, and the coffee spreads across it like a chemical spill.
“Brie, Jesus. Are you OK?”
I don’t respond. I feel like I’m sitting with my head in a guillotine.
“Snap out of it,” he says. “We can fight this. Whatever it is.”
“It’s over,” I whisper.
“What was that?” he says.
“The rock. The murder weapon. We threw it over the side of the bridge.”
“Christ, keep your voice down!” He leans across and shakes me. “Could you be more stupid?”
“You’re being cruel.”
“That’s an interesting word,” he says slowly. “I believe you’d know.”
“You have to be kidding me!”
“I suppose all is fair in love and war. And murder.” He pauses. “Why couldn’t you love me like that?”
I feel whiplash from the change in topic. “I did. Once.”
“Not like that. Not obsessively. You were never hungry for me. You never suffered for me. You’d never kill for me.”
“I didn’t kill for him, either!”
He picks up his coffee cup as if to finish it, then slams it onto the ground, where it shatters. I jump out of my chair, and the restaurant immediately goes quiet. “Apologies! Dropped my cup.”
“You need to go.”
“Gladly,” he says, but he doesn’t get up until the staff come over to clear up the mess. “I apologize. Don’t leave the motel. I’ll get you out of this mess. I promise.”
I feel the color leech out of the world. The street, the buildings, the people—everything looks pale and worn.
Neil can’t promise, because how could he? Bradley planned everything from the beginning. There will be more evidence, and soon the case will be irrefutable.
The divers will find the rock, conveniently located inside a black plastic bag. And then it will be over.
I go back to the motel and spend the day watching reality television with the blinds down. I watch shows about dating, shows about house renovations. Wives being swapped, homes being demolished and rebuilt, near-naked people hopping from bed to bed.
Sometimes, I go out to buy snacks from the vending machine. By the end of the day, I realize that I’m not panicking anymore. I’m not scared either.
I’m resigned.
When night falls, I switch the television off and look up at the ceiling. I immediately see fragments of a dream. Grace dying, again and again. Her head collapsing under the weight of the rock.
My life is over, one way or another. Either Jesse gets me, or the courts do.
As soon as the police find the real murder weapon, they’ll cross-reference it with the autopsy.
They might even talk to Madeleine from the window place.
I’ll be done. My fingerprints or DNA will be on the murder weapon somewhere—and most importantly, Bradley’s won’t.
It’s over.