Chapter Eighteen
Matthew
No, the worst part for Matthew was that he was still expected to go in to work and be on the five and eleven Sunday broadcasts, putting in a full workday while Perry was probably home drinking a rum and Coke with his feet up.
The other talent from the weekend team—Stella, the anchor, and Emma, the sportscaster—had been given the option of attending or not attending the vigil, and both chose not to attend.
But Matthew was on the weather team and Perry had required them all to be there.
Thus, Matthew was the only one at the vigil who both had to play the proper grieving role and work that day, and he had to go straight from the event to the station, sweaty from the heat, annoyed by the day, and overwhelmed with thoughts, as his mind was still processing all that had happened.
To add final insult to injury, he didn’t even have time for lunch.
It would have to be one of those crappy microwavable meals from the vending machine.
Matthew used his key card to gain entry to the gated parking lot and swiped into the two doors that led to the newsroom. The air-conditioning was blasting, as it always was, protecting lots of expensive equipment. The coolness felt incredibly refreshing, and he dabbed at his brow.
Walking quickly to the weather office, he went to the small fridge in the corner for a bottle of water.
After downing half of it in three giant gulps, he said, “Ahhh…,” wiped his upper lip, wandered to his desk, and flopped down in his chair.
Closing his eyes, he tried to quiet his tired mind, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Faith, about the vigil, and about the thing in this office that had plagued him for months.
Matthew’s baseball and water bottle had never been returned.
He looked with dismay once more at the empty space where the ball used to sit on his desk.
He had reported it to Perry and HR but they couldn’t find any evidence of wrongdoing and Perry just said, “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?
” Of course Matthew was sure, but he didn’t feel like dealing with Perry’s BS toward him, so he was forced to let the whole thing go.
Still, memories of the game with his father were so strong that Matthew could almost smell the popcorn mixed with the scent of his dad’s aftershave.
Matthew had been sitting on Dad’s lap munching down a snack for most of the game.
After it was over, an autograph line formed and his father put Matthew on his shoulders as they waited.
Matthew adored when his dad did that; it gave him both a bird’s-eye view and a feeling of complete safety being fully supported by his dad’s broad shoulders.
Matthew would wrap his skinny arms around his dad’s head, and his father would laugh.
“Don’t block my eyes, kid, or we’re both going down!
” he’d say, and Matthew would slide his arms higher or lower, sometimes tickling Dad as he did.
A lump started to come into Matthew’s throat now. He would never get over the loss of that ball. Matthew and his dad remained close, but his dad had retired to Florida and they didn’t see each other that often.
Matthew let his eyes drift to Faith’s desk, and his stomach clenched at the almost inconceivable news he had learned Saturday morning.
He couldn’t compute that Faith was not just on vacation, but gone forever.
Yes, he hated her, and yes, he was still 99 percent sure she had something to do with the baseball, and yes, he had wanted her gone, but not in this way, and now that she was, he didn’t know how to feel.
Perry had told Matthew that Matthew would be ascending to the Monday–Friday main meteorologist chair on an interim basis and they would see if it was permanent or not.
This was what he had always wanted, had dreamed of since he watched Detroit TV as a kid.
He was in Jack’s position now. It was the fulfillment of so many years of work and sacrifice, yet he felt somehow unsatisfied and ill at ease.
A ball of sour acid was growing in his stomach, and he turned back to his desk and reached for the Tums he kept in a drawer, downing five in one handful.
They said to take a max of four but he always thought one more would be for good measure and surely couldn’t hurt.
OK, Matthew, focus now, you have to work.
He needed to microwave his lunch and start going over maps and trends, designing his forecast for the shows.
Perry had him not only working today but all five days of the week ahead.
A seven-day week, and he didn’t even get overtime since he was on a salary.
It was just something people on TV were expected to do when needed.
In what other industry could you be asked to work any shift anytime and put in marathon weeks and not be compensated?
Maybe a doctor, he didn’t know, but it was one thing he had always disliked about television news.
The news never stopped: not for nights, not for weekends, not for holidays. He had worked countless holidays in this business, eating the catered-in Thanksgiving turkey on paper plates in the back hallway, or rushing to his mom’s house for a quick Easter or Christmas brunch before a long workday.
He had to get going on the forecast, but first just one more minute. He closed his eyes again, thinking of Tara.
She had not wanted to attend the vigil, and Matthew couldn’t blame her.
He wouldn’t have either if he didn’t have to.
He had to work a normal shift Saturday, which was hard enough.
When he got home close to midnight after the show, Tara was in her flannel pajamas, the ones with little pictures of sheep on them.
She was curled in the corner on the couch.
The air-conditioning had been set so low it was freezing in the apartment, and he stopped at the thermostat and cranked it back to a more normal level.
There was a bottle of wine next to Tara that was almost entirely empty, and she looked at him with glassy eyes.
“It was just a silly thing,” Tara said, slurring more and leaning over to top off her glass. She spilled some wine on the table. “Just soooo silly, silly.”
“Right, honey, right,” he said, moving over and gently sliding the wineglass away from her. He would clean up the spill in a moment. “How about we go to bed early? It’s been a lot. And I have the vigil in the morning.”
She nodded and uncharacteristically allowed him to lead her to bed like a child; she was usually independent, feisty, and fiery. He tucked her in as she mumbled, “Just a game, a silly game…”
Matthew kissed her on the forehead, turned out the light, went back to the living room to clean up, and drank the glass of wine she had topped off for herself while pacing for over an hour. Now it was just thirteen hours later and he was in the weather office needing to focus.
He spun back around in his chair and looked at Faith’s desk one more time.
And suddenly he noticed that it wasn’t quite as messy as usual.
Messy, yes, but some of the shoeboxes under her desk had been removed or more carefully arranged, the teddy bear was gone, and her makeup bag was not there, nor were two of her curling irons.
It was all kind of odd, he thought. Did someone take these things yesterday after they learned she was killed?
He had been in the office most of the day, so he didn’t think so, but maybe in the morning when he wasn’t there, maybe it was Perry, and Matthew just hadn’t noticed until now?
Or had Faith taken these things with her on her dinner break Friday night?
But that made no sense. Why would she go out for dinner with her makeup bag, a teddy bear, and two curling irons?
He was just tossing this all around in his mind when his cell phone rang: Tara.
“Hey, babe,” he said with a deep sigh, anticipating having to recap the vigil. She had still been sleeping when he left that morning.
“Matthew.” Her voice was filled with panic. “The police are here. They said they need to talk to both of us.”
A dagger seemed to stab into his throat.
“What? Honey, what are you talking about?”
“Two officers are in our living room. They asked me to call you.”
Shit, shit, shit. His mind started flying through scenarios and possible lies and what the police might know or not know, or maybe they were doing this with all the mets and it was nothing.
He could tell that Tara was trying to keep it together in front of the officers, but the panicky note in her voice told him she was thinking the same.
“Can I speak to them?” he asked.
“Uh, sure. I can ask.”
There was some muffled talking and the exchange of the phone before a female officer’s voice rang out.
“Sir, I understand you’re at work?”
“Yes, I work at Channel 9 as a meteorologist and I have to be on TV.” He tried to keep his voice strong but felt it waver.
“I understand, sir, but I’m sure you can see the importance of this. We’re opening an investigation into the homicide of Faith Richards. We need to ask you and your fiancée some questions. How quickly can you get home?”
“Well, my issue is I still have to create the forecast. It’s 2:30 and we’re on the air in two and a half hours. Is this urgent?”
“I would call it urgent, absolutely. How far away do you live?”
“Twenty minutes. I can get home if you need me to.” He did not want Tara to have to deal with this alone.
As for the forecast … he shuddered but he could always pull up whatever the National Weather Service had to say; thankfully it was shaping up to be a quiet week.
It made him physically ill to think of stooping to Faith’s level and copying the NWS forecast, but it could be done in a pinch.
“Can I get back in time for the five o’clock news?”
“That might be possible, yes, sir,” the officer replied. “We’ll come back in thirty minutes and speak with you both.”