Chapter 31
31
It’s two days before Javier comes back. Two more sleepless nights in the dank cell. It feels like my mind is unraveling. I can’t make sense of how or why I’m here.
The hours tick by. To pass the time, I replay my fight with Violet over and over again as sweat beads along my brow, gathers under my arms, the cell humid and hot.
When I first walked into the bedroom, she’d been packing. Quickly, by the look of things—clothes strewn about, dresser drawers open. She didn’t seem mad, at least, not at first. She bustled around, stuffing things into a bag. It took me a minute to realize they were my things, my bag.
Then she saw me in the doorway. There was a twitch at the corners of her mouth. “I want you out,” she said. “I saw you with Caitlin.” Her voice was as emotionless as if she were telling me we were out of milk.
It was so different from last time, from that night she’d thrown her wineglass at me, her eyes wild, face contorted into a furious snarl. No, this time, it was almost as if she was enjoying it.
What else did she say? Right. It’s exactly what I hoped for. Then the twitch at the corners of her mouth blinked into the briefest of smiles that, when it was gone, I thought I might have imagined it.
It’s exactly what I hoped for.
Why? Why?
I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that when I walked out of the house, Violet was alive. What had happened after I’d left? How had she ended up dead? The question pounds inside my skull like a drum.
Finally, when I’m on the brink of losing it altogether, a guard unlocks my cell door and takes me back to the interrogation room. Javier is waiting inside, his hands folded on the table.
I sit down in the chair across from him. He smiles at me expectantly. “Have you—?” he starts.
“I need you to tell me what happened,” I interrupt. “After I left. I swear, when I walked out, Violet was alive! Did someone come into the beach house? Is that where she was shot?”
Javier stares at me as if trying to determine whether he should answer me, as if he thinks I might be fucking with him. Then he says, “Your nanny said she heard you and Mrs. Lockhart arguing. A few minutes later, a gunshot. When she felt safe enough to come out of her room, she found Mrs. Lockhart bleeding in the master bathroom. When the police arrived, Mrs. Lockhart confirmed she had been shot by you.”
I shake my head. “There was a gunshot after we argued?”
Javier looks down at his papers. “According to Ms. Caraway. It says she told the police that—”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. That’s the second time he’s said that name. “Who is Ms. Caraway?”
“Sloane Caraway. Your nanny.”
What the fuck? “No,” I say. “Our nanny is named Caitlin. I don’t know anyone named Sloane.”
Javier takes a photograph from his folder, slides it to me. It’s a picture of Violet and Harper on the beach with Caitlin.
“Yeah, that’s Caitlin,” I say, looking back up at him.
“She told the police her name is Sloane Caraway,” Javier says, shrugging. “I’m sure they asked for identification.”
I stare back at the photo. Sloane Caraway? Why had she told us her name was Caitlin?
“Look,” Javier says. “It’s a pretty airtight case against you. The prosecutor emailed me this morning. They found the gun that was used to shoot Mrs. Lockhart. There were no prints, but they ran the tags. It was registered in your name. I understand you don’t want to plead guilty, but that, along with Ms. Caraway’s testimony—”
“Violet’s mom gave her that gun! I’ve never touched it!” My voice is strained. “I won’t plead guilty. I can’t. I didn’t do it.”
Javier’s face tightens, his mouth puckering. He sighs. “I think that’s a mistake. Like I said in our last meeting, this might be your best chance at a reduced sentence. I know it’s not ideal, but you have to consider the alternative. If this goes to trial and you’re convicted, it could be decades before you’re released. And what about your daughter, Jay?”
My shoulders sag. Harper. My beautiful brown-eyed girl.
“Where is she?” I ask. I drop my head into my hands. “Is she okay? I need to call my sister. She’ll come out. She can stay with her.”
I haven’t spoken to Denise in months, despite the fact that she calls me every few weeks. I ignore her calls, don’t call back. I plan to, but I don’t get around to it, never quite in the mood to rebuff her requests for money. She lives in Ohio with her three kids, two stepkids, and her second husband, and is always short on funds, for rent, for groceries, for clothes for the kids. “I wish I could enroll Penny in ballet,” she’d said irritably, last time we spoke, like somehow it was my fault she couldn’t afford it.
Javier opens his manila folder, flips through it, and pulls out a typed sheet. “She’s in the custody of Ms. Caraway.”
I jerk back up to look at him, frowning in confusion. “Caitlin? Why is Harper with her? She should be with family.”
“Well, it looks like Ms. Caraway”—Javier says her name slowly, emphatically, to correct me—“is listed as Harper’s guardian. In your will. Should you and Mrs. Lockhart become incapacitated.”
“What?” This doesn’t make sense. “No, no, there’s been a mistake. My sister is the designated guardian.”
It was a point of contention when Harper was born, a hard sell to both Denise and Violet. Unsurprisingly, the two didn’t like each other. Denise thought Violet was a snob; Violet thought Denise was a freeloader. Neither was wrong, exactly. But I couldn’t stomach the idea of Harper going to live with Violet’s parents, or my own, for that matter. “She should be with her cousins,” I argued to Violet, “other kids, family. And anyway, what is the likelihood of something happening to both of us?” Violet relented eventually, as did Denise, when she realized custody would come with a check. Had Violet updated our will without telling me? Why?
“Your signature is on the paperwork. Right next to Mrs. Lockhart’s.” He takes another document from his file, hands it to me, taps a finger near the bottom of the page. “It was forwarded to us by your lawyer in New York. He said you sent it to him.”
I stare at it, speechless, my name—next to Violet’s—in blue ink.
Finally, I look up, shaking my head. “I didn’t sign this! And I definitely didn’t send it to him. I don’t want her with Caitlin—or Sloane—whatever her name is! Please, let me call Denise.”
“Look,” Javier sighs. “Apparently, Ms. Caraway has a lawyer. A good one. If you want to dispute the will, we’ll have to send it through the proper channels. It could take months.” He closes the folder. “I’m happy to start that paperwork if you want.”
My head is spinning. What is happening? “Yes! Harper doesn’t belong with her!”
Javier nods. “Okay, I’ll work on that. But the plea—you’re sure?”
“How many times can I say it? I’m not going to spend fifteen years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit!” Spittle flies from my mouth, lands on the table.
Javier nods. “I understand. Let me talk to the prosecutor again. I’ll see if there’s room for negotiation.” Then he stands up. The chair legs squeal against the concrete floor. “In the meantime, try and get some rest, okay?” His voice is gentler now.
I nod dumbly, still breathing heavily. Rest, sure. I wonder if I’ll ever feel rested again.
“And Jay?” Javier puts a hand on my shoulder. When I look up at him, I can see the pity in his eyes. He thinks I’m a sad sack of shit. “I saw Harper with Ms. Caraway, leaving the station. She looked like she was in good hands. She was smiling, going to town on a big bag of M isn’t that what women do, share clothes, swap style tips?
But now it needles at me. Had Caitlin been jealous of Violet? Had she been dressing in Violet’s clothes, acting like her, because she wanted to be her? I feel a thick wave of nausea roll through me. Could she have been jealous enough to murder her?
I rub my temples. No. If it was Caitlin who shot Violet, why would Violet have told the police it was me? It doesn’t make sense. I’m missing something. But what? I lie on my back, my bones jutting into the cement floor beneath me, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I feel like the answer is just out of reach.
Eventually, I fall asleep, my eyes burning, head pounding. I toss and turn, body aching. I sleep dreamlessly.
Then, in the middle of the night, I sit up. My eyes fly open, a cold sweat drenching my shirt.
Javier said that Caitlin had overheard us arguing. But she hadn’t been home. I brushed by her on my way out; she was coming in.
So how would Caitlin have known we’d been fighting? Unless the person who told the cops about the argument wasn’t Caitlin. The truth slams into me like a freight train.
Caitlin didn’t shoot Violet. Violet shot Caitlin. She shot Caitlin and told everyone that Caitlin was her, that it was Violet Lockhart lying on that floor. And that I was the one who killed her.
Caitlin wasn’t trying to look like Violet; Violet was trying to look like Caitlin. She wanted Caitlin to look like her. And she wanted Caitlin and me together so people would think Caitlin was Violet Lockhart, my wife. It’s exactly what I hoped for.
I scramble to my feet and begin banging on my cell door. “Someone, help! I need help!”
I bang and bang until finally, there’s a loud buzzing and my door opens. A guard eyes me with irritation. “I need you to call my lawyer!” I say.
“It’s four in the morning,” the guard says. “You can call tomorrow.” The door slams shut again.
“No!” I yell. “No, wait!”
But no one comes back. I slump to the floor. Eventually, I lie back down on the mat, but I don’t sleep, wired. Violet is not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.
I’m pacing when a guard finally buzzes me out of my cell, tight figure eights around the small room. My whole body is pulsating, like how I feel after snorting a line, lightheaded and everything crystal clear.
As soon as I’m inside the interview room, uncuffed, I rush to Javier, grabbing his shoulders. “Violet isn’t dead!” I say. “Caitlin is! I mean, Sloane. Violet killed her!”
Javier takes a step back from me, straightens his suit jacket, then gestures to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down?” he says calmly. “Have you slept?” He touches me on the elbow, an attempt to steer me toward the table.
“No!” I jerk away. I know he thinks I’m crazy—I would, too; I know how I look, how I sound—but I’m sure I’m right. I’d bet my life.
“Listen,” I say, lowering my voice. “Violet is framing me. She shot Caitlin and said it was me. Now she’s pretending she’s Caitlin. That’s why she was dressing like she did. I thought maybe Caitlin was trying to be Violet, but it was the other way around! Can you bring her here?”
I’m breathing heavily now, panting almost, staring at him. He doesn’t have to believe me, he just has to hear me out, give me a chance to prove it.
Slowly, Javier shakes his head. “I can’t bring a witness to see you. Even if she agreed, which…”
Then something else hits me. The other thing nagging at me. “The M she always has. This was her chance to prove it. But I won’t let her. I sober, stop laughing as quickly as I started.
I set my jaw. “I want to go to trial,” I say.
“Jay—” Javier starts, reticent.
“No!” I interrupt. “If Caitlin is the only witness, then that means they’ll have to call her to the stand. Violet will have to show up.”
Javier takes a seat at the table. He sighs. “The prosecutor said they could offer twelve years if you take the plea,” he says. He doesn’t believe me. Not even a little bit.
I shake my head. “No. Do I need to hire another lawyer? I’m taking it to trial. With or without you.”
There’s a long silence. “If you want to go to trial, we’ll go to trial,” Javier says finally. “But it could take months, up to a year even, if not longer.”
“I don’t care.” I don’t care how long it takes. I will not let Violet get away with this. I will not let her take everything from me.
“Okay,” Javier says, nodding slowly. “I’ll let the prosecutor know. And if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” I say.
Three months go by. At my request, Javier successfully petitioned for the case to be tried in Brooklyn, so I was transferred to a holding prison in Queens. It means I’m closer to Harper, but no one will bring her to see me. It means I’m closer to Violet, too. I know she’s out there, can feel her, hear her laughing at me.
Then, one afternoon, news. In another concrete room, just as bleak as the others, Javier tells me that Sloane Caraway has agreed to meet with me. She’ll be accompanied by the prosecutor. Javier will be there, too.
“Will you take the plea,” Javier wants to know, “if it is, in fact, Sloane Caraway and not your wife?” I nod. It will be Violet. I know it will be. She can’t help herself; she wants to rub it in, wants me to know she’s punishing me for what I’ve done.
“Good.” Javier nods, and I know he and the prosecutor have come together, both with the same goal: to stay out of the courtroom, to close the book on this case, on me.
I don’t care about their motivation. The only thing that matters to me is that she’s coming. I didn’t kill her, but when I see her, I might.
Two days later, Javier and I sit side by side in a windowless room in the cellblock, two empty chairs across from us. My ankles are shackled to each other, to the legs of the chair. A guard stands in the corner.
The room is stiflingly quiet.
I can’t take my eyes off the door. Any minute, she’ll walk in.
My heart is pounding violently in my chest. It’s like sitting at the top of an amusement park ride, legs dangling, waiting for the drop. It’s coming, you know it is, but you don’t know when. Now? Now? Now?
Finally, a loud buzzing. Now. My stomach plummets.
The door opens. Two women walk in: the prosecutor first, a tall woman in a boxy suit, gray-blonde hair, and behind her, Violet, her head ducked, dark brown hair silky and smooth. My breath hitches, catching in my throat. It’s her. A triumphant smile spreads across my face, adrenaline coursing through me.
Then she looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and my smile fades, drips from my mouth onto the floor, a puddle at my feet. Both she and the prosecutor take a seat on the other side of the table.
The woman across from me is not my wife. She looks like her, almost—the same haircut, the bangs, the heart-shaped face. She’s wearing Violet’s clothes, too, a crisp pin-striped shirtdress I always loved, the top two buttons undone, her gold sunburst necklace.
But it’s not Violet.
It’s Sloane.