Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
GAbrIEL
Present Day
I wake up feeling like I ran a marathon. And I look like I haven’t slept in months. Since Judy found out about the affair, the guilt has been like a living thing eating away at me from deep within, wounding me the way I wounded my wife.
Do I even have a right to call her that anymore?
Being alone in the apartment with Scarlett feels so wrong.
It must have been so hard for Judy to leave us yesterday, possibly wondering if we would pick up where we left off. That’s of course if she even believes it’s over between us. But it is, has been for months.
After Sadie disappeared, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hurt Judy more than she was already hurting, couldn’t risk her finding out the truth. I love my wife, even though I had lost sight of that for a while.
I tried avoiding Scarlett as much as I could, but we need to work together to do what we can on our end, while Judy is in the camp.
A few minutes later, I find myself in front of Scarlett’s door and take a breath before knocking.
“I’m coming,” she calls out instead of asking me to enter, which I appreciate.
When she opens the door, the dark bags hanging under her eyes are proof that she hasn’t slept much either, or at all.
“I still can’t reach Judy,” I say to her, barely meeting the eyes of the woman I slept with behind my wife’s back. “Her phone is off and she’s not responding to my messages.” I press the heel of my palm to the space between my eyebrows. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it. We need to do something.”
“But what can we do?” Scarlett stands by the window with her arms crossed.
Coco lies at the foot of her bed, more still than usual. She would normally be pacing, her tail thumping as she reacts to the tension in the room. But today, she hardly lifts her head.
“I’m meeting Lawrence, the PI I hired, today.” I shrug. “Maybe he’ll have something that points us to our next move. He called last night and said he found something but wouldn’t talk about it on the phone.”
“Great. Yeah. That’s great.” Scarlett nods too quickly. “What time?”
“In about an hour. I’ll get ready and head out.”
She glances down at Coco. “I think I’ll take her to the vet this morning. She has not been herself and she barely touched her food last night.”
I look at the dog. She’s definitely too quiet. Her eyes follow our movements, but she doesn’t shift.
“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea.” I shift my weight, unsure what else to say, then turn to leave. “I’ll let you know what Lawrence says.”
I’m going to be five to ten minutes late, so on the way to the meeting place, I try calling Lawrence, but the call goes to voicemail. I send him a text and drop my phone on the passenger side.
Lawrence, the PI I found online, is not one for small talk or pleasantries. He gives me what I need, and I walk away. He prefers to communicate through his reports and the images he hands me.
As I weave my way through traffic, the phone beeps. I wait until I stop at a light to read it.
Let me know as soon as you meet the PI. S.
I reply immediately.
Almost there. Will tell you everything when I get back to the apartment.
Lawrence asked to meet at a weathered bench at the far end of the beach, in front of the Lobster Grill restaurant. We’ve met there once before.
I park the car in the deserted restaurant parking lot and step out. A gust of wind almost flings the car door from my hand. With a throaty grunt, I force it shut. It promises to be a warm day, but at this moment there’s a chill in the air that makes me shiver.
Walking down a wooden path covered in sand, my eyes scan for Lawrence’s hunched shoulders.
It’s nine and the Lobster Grill is not open yet, which gives us enough privacy for our meeting. The only other people nearby are a jogger dressed all in black and a couple walking a bulldog. Or more like the dog is walking them, trotting ahead and almost dragging the woman.
When I turn a corner and the bench becomes visible, I don’t see Lawrence, which is odd. He’s usually the one waiting for me, not the other way around. I look everywhere but he’s nowhere to be seen.
A glance at my watch shows I’m only seven minutes late. He can’t have left already surely.
I approach the bench and sit down anyway, but ten minutes go by and no Lawrence. Confused, I pull out my phone and give him another call. No answer, so I leave a message.
“Lawrence, this is Gabriel. I’m already here. Are you on your way?” I pause, then add, “Let me know if you’re running late. No rush.”
I hang up and stand. Keeping the bench in sight, I go for a quick walk along the beach to kill time and get rid of the nervous energy. Ten more minutes and the bench remains empty.
Back at the meeting spot and a little worried now, I check the last message he sent me to make sure I’m at the right place. I am.
I’ll stay another ten to fifteen minutes before heading back to the apartment. Opening my email app, I decide to respond to a few clients, giving my hands something to do.
That’s when I see it, an email from Lawrence that came in ten minutes before I arrived here. No subject line.
Taking a breath, I click on it, thinking maybe something came up and he decided to send me everything by email. But it’s barely an email, just two words and nothing else.
Trash can.
Perplexed, I turn the words over in my mind. What does he mean?
I call him again with no success and leave another message.
“Lawrence, I got your email. What do you mean by trash can? Please call me back.”
Metal scrapes against concrete behind me. I turn to see Lobster Grill employees setting up for the day, arranging white iron chairs across the patio. A woman with hair in a long braid puts out a chalkboard sign with a large drawing of a lobster.
Judy and I ate there before, and the food was delicious, an assortment of shellfish, crab legs, and warm bread with salty butter. Judy had taken a photo of her food before eating as she always does when we go out to eat, capturing memories. Memories I have tainted.
I blink, forcing myself to focus, and stand up to stare at the screen again.
Trash can.
It doesn’t make sense at all. I scan the space around me for trash cans. Two metal ones at the restaurant entrance, and one bright orange plastic one a few steps to the right of the bench.
My cheeks burn as I approach it, already feeling the stares of passersby watching me dig through garbage. What will I even be searching for?
When I reach it, I immediately notice the top flap of a manila envelope identical to the ones Lawrence uses for his reports sticking out.
Perplexed, I glance over my shoulder to see if someone is watching me. No one is. The Lobster Grill employees are now busy wiping down the outside tables.
The envelope tucked under my arm and my pulse hammering in my ears, I hurry back to the parking lot with questions floating around in my mind.
What exactly is happening here? Why didn’t Lawrence want to give me the envelope in person? What’s so sensitive he couldn’t tell it to me on the phone?
I’m almost at my car when I spot a white sedan in the far corner of the lot, half-hidden behind some dumpsters. The small dent in the rear bumper tells me it’s Lawrence’s car.
As I get closer to the vehicle, I spot his silhouette behind the wheel, chin resting on his chest as if he’s taking a nap. He does not wake up, not even when I’m standing right beside his window.
I knock on the glass twice, loud enough to get his attention. No movement.
Crouching down, I peer through the window to get a better look and immediately stumble back, my hands around my constricting throat, my gaze still on what looks like a bullet wound on Lawrence’s temple.
His wide open eyes are staring into space.