Chapter 30
Jenn
I’ve locked myself in the basement, because I can’t stand the thought of anyone following me, questioning me, tearing me down
like they think I deserve it. I’m pacing up and down, my heartbeat going a mile a minute. Those losers. It’s just like Jesus and the sinners. I’ve only done what’s right, and a bunch of people with literal criminal records,
drug addictions, and horrible choices are trying to throw rocks at me?
I won’t win them over. I knew I never could. That’s why I tried to cut ties . . . tried to make Will see . . .
I have to get out of here. I have to get the car keys and leave . . . but could Will use that against me in court? The car we drove here is in his name. And does Will really have evidence? He can’t . . . Not after five
years. Can they even legally reopen the case? I’ll deny and deny. It’s worked for me before. Ugh. How did I lose control of
tonight so quickly?
I’m pacing, pacing, up and down the basement, shooting like a pinball from the wall with the massive screen to the opposite
end with the sad built-in bar and the electronic darts. The painted cement floor is chilly under my bare feet.
Something beeps loudly behind me and I let out a yelp and spin, prepared to face—
Calm down, Jenn. It’s just the freaking electronic dartboard, turning itself on for no apparent reason. Cheap and broken, like everything else in Phelps’s house. Just as I’m taking a deep breath, there’s a loud whoosh, and I fly around—but that’s just the heater turning on.
I fill my lungs, then breathe out slowly. I can’t think if I’m panicking, and what I actually need to do right now is pick through the pieces of that night. Decide in my mind if Will really is bluffing, or if he has
something. I dig my fingers into my temples and breathe in and out five times, trying to ignore the creaks and thumps of people
moving around upstairs.
Mackenzie.
She had that slipup this morning about the night I left her “in charge.”
Does my darling husband somehow count that as evidence? If so, he’s delusional. Our daughter may be precocious, but no jury will accept the testimony of a girl who
was only five years old at the time . . . And I could say that I suspect Will was coaching her. That’s a good idea.
It’s strange to imagine myself lying in front of a jury. But when I put my hand on that Bible, what I’ll swear to tell won’t
be the outer truth, but the inner truth. Truth has so many dimensions, doesn’t it? The outer truth may be that I burned the
restaurant down. But the inner truth is that I was preserving our family’s resources, both financial and emotional, against
an outer threat. I was under duress—my hand was forced. And just like confessions under torture don’t count, what I did that
night can’t count, because Will was threatening me with this nightmare investment . . .
If only Mackenzie hadn’t said anything. She was the wild card when I was planning everything—I just didn’t expect the wild card to come into play five years later.
She had nightmares a lot back then, so my main concern when I was planning it all was what if she woke up with a bad dream and went to get Will?
He might wake up in spite of the heavy dose of sleeping pills I was going to put in his chocolate lava cake.
Then he’d notice I was gone, and the car was gone, and . . . game over.
Of course, burning Rock the Clock down wasn’t my first option. I tried to reason with Will first. Use logic. Isn’t that how
men’s brains are supposed to work? I gave Will the stats on restaurants, down to the very zip code. I reminded him how many
times Phelps had flaked. And then what does Will do but write a check for fifteen thousand dollars without even double-checking
with me? I felt so helpless, because even though Will stood up there on our wedding day and made vows to me, he was more committed
to his horrible friends. It was basically adultery. He was cheating on me by putting them first.
Fine. If he was going to pour our money into a sinkhole, I’d just have to plug up that hole. There’s logic.
Ted seemed like a good option. He was a criminal, so he’d do anything for money, right? And we’d gotten along pretty well
at a few of the New Year’s parties, but he was also kind of detached from the group, which was ideal. Then he laughed in my
face, and I realized pretty quickly I was going to have to do it myself.
No one would imagine a woman four weeks postpartum would drive three hours with her newborn to set some greasy rags on fire
while her baby snoozed in the car seat three blocks away. But no one would imagine how desperate I felt to cut ties with the
people who were determined to drag me and Will down with them. My mom spent her entire life trying to keep ahead of my alcoholic
dad. Trying to outsmart his stealing, his lies, his pathetic weakness. I couldn’t let Will become that person who was always
frittering away our resources, the person I was always having to outsmart. But if I didn’t act, that’s exactly what he would
become.
It was easy to get in. Phelps and his dad both worked at Rock the Clock as teens, and Phelps joked numerous times about how old Eddie still hadn’t changed the location of his spare key, taped to the inside of the old coal chute.
I let myself in. Replaced the batteries in the two smoke detectors with dead ones. Then I turned a single burner on low, with
a dirty pan over it like Eddie had just forgotten it there. Finally, I fed one of the dishrags to the blue flame. Just the
corner. I watched it blaze up. The whole kitchen was disgusting, covered in decades of grease. It was primed for a fire anyway.
Then I said a prayer, locked up, returned the key, and drove away. Baby Tessa slept like an angel the whole way home. Would
it burn all the way down? I had no idea, but I didn’t have the luxury to wait. As I crawled back into bed next to Will just
before dawn, rubbing my chilly feet together, I reminded God it was in his hands now.
I didn’t know Eddie lived above the restaurant. I did feel bad the next morning, hearing the news that there had been a death.
I never intended to cause any collateral damage, much less take a human life. But he was also seventy years old, and dying
of smoke inhalation is supposed to be a painless way to go. At the end of the day, God knew I didn’t mean to do that, that
my intentions had been pure, to protect my family. That’s what I was responsible for, so I took that guilt and said, Not today, Satan.
A feeble beep nearly sends me out of my skin again. “Argh,” I growl, stomping over to the dartboard and slamming it as hard
as I can with my palm. It makes a long electronic sigh and goes quiet.
When Phelps returned the fifteen thousand in the mail, I got the check, because I always open the mail.
I opened a secret account and put the check in there.
I didn’t steal it or use it for myself—I used it for groceries, or to make extra payments on the mortgage.
Even to get Will a nice cashmere sweater for Christmas.
I never outright lied about it. Every now and then, I’d just say, “Have you seen a check from Phelps?” because if Will would just get the courage to confront Phelps, their friendship would hopefully fall apart in the ensuing argument.
But Will wouldn’t man up and confront Phelps.
He preferred to “let it go.” I even shouted, “This isn’t Frozen, Will!” and he dared look back at me and say, “It’s love.”
Which just sends me, even thinking about it now. Nuh-uh. Nope. Love does not let people get away with things like that! Love confronts. Love challenges. Love changes people.
The rattling of a knob sends me into a panic again. I locked the door behind me, but . . .
“Hello?” says a tentative voice.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, backing away toward the TV. I’m not putting up with a single accusation more from these—
“Sorry to bother you . . .”
Oh. It’s just Allie. Picking her way down the stairs in bare feet, balancing a little tray in her hand.
“I thought I locked it,” I say, crossing my arms over my torso.
“Hairpin,” she says apologetically. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, and . . . I brought Jell-O shots?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, I know! Phelps told me. I made some nonalcoholic ones. It’s a great recipe. I can share it with you, if you want. Do
you have AirDrop on your phone? It’s all over Pinterest too.”
It’s hard to process Jell-O shots and Pinterest as everything that just happened is still crashing over me, again and again.
But Allie has walked right over to the couch in front of the TV and is lining up four paper cups all in a row on the coffee
table.
“I can’t believe what happened up there,” says Allie.
Her tone is neutral, and I can’t tell if she’s on my side or against me.
I walk toward her slowly. A Jell-O shot actually does sound kind of good right now.
Actually, her bringing these down for me, and having made them especially according to my preferences, might be the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time.
“I can’t either,” I say cautiously.
“I felt so bad for you. Like, I’m pretty sure Doug is high right now? You know? The dynamics here are so messed up.”
Ah. Finally, one person at this party who sees my point of view!
“Yes,” I say with a long sigh. “It’s not me that’s ruining anyone’s life. They’ve all done it very well on their own. Like—you
have no idea. I’ve known these people for years. It’s been like watching a train wreck in slow motion.”
Allie laughs. “I kind of gathered that.” She looks at me closely. “Do you want to sit down or something? You look really pale.”
I laugh weakly. “I am feeling a little lightheaded. It’s not exactly fun to be accused of horrible things that I didn’t even
do.”
“You might be having a sugar low.” She points. “Jell-O shots. They’re loaded with sugar.”
She has a point. I pick up the first one and squeeze it into my mouth, then plop onto the couch. I’m too tired to care how