Eyes on You (22 page)

“I felt walled out by you—I mean, you were never home during the years you did your show. So I let some stupid girl turn my head momentarily. But that’s not abandoning you. I’m not your father, Robin.”

I felt a flash of anger, like a firecracker going off in my head. “To
some
extent that’s true, Jake,” I said. “Because he’s in a league of his own.” I closed the flaps on the box. “I’ll arrange to pick up these boxes as soon as possible. I shouldn’t make you keep them any longer.”

I hurried across the loft, flung open the door, and nearly flew down the stairs.

Because of the rain, hailing a cab was a freaking nightmare, and I just made the 9:35 train. I found a seat alone and stared out the window for most of the trip, trying to avoid eye contact with other passengers. As promised, the housekeeper, Nancy, was waiting for me on the platform. She greeted me cheerily, as if I’d arrived for a day of antiquing.

The drive to Bettina’s took under ten minutes. There was a long driveway lined with trees, and then the house emerged, gray-shingled and rambling, though not the kind of huge mansion you could expect to find in Westport. Bettina once confided to me that she’d bought the place with her first few millions and liked it too much to ever upgrade. Besides, she now had big-ass houses in Aspen and West Palm Beach.

Nancy parked directly in front of the house and led me by foot around to the back. It was clear from the ground that the rain had bypassed this area. The guesthouse was behind and to the right of the main house, alongside a gorgeous black-bottomed pool. Nancy unlocked the door, and we stepped inside a room with whitewashed wood beams and a stone fireplace. At some other point in my life, I would have relished being there.

“I stocked a few things in the fridge,” Nancy said. “I wish I had time to make you lunch today, but I need to be with my sister. It’s her chemo afternoon.”

“I’m so sorry about your sister,” I said. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Bettina said there was a car I could use, and I’ll just drive into town if I need anything.”

Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Oh dear, she didn’t mention that. I’m using the car this afternoon to take my sister. You’re welcome to it tomorrow.”

“That’s okay,” I said, though I couldn’t help mind. I’d thought there would be a car, and now I felt trapped. I dropped my duffel bag to the floor.

“Enjoy the pool and the grounds,” Nancy said. “Ms. Lane said she would be up in a day or two.”

After she left I helped myself to a container of chicken salad in the fridge but ate no more than a few bites. I wandered into the other room, flopped onto the bed, and stared up at the whitewashed beams. Finally, I slept. When I woke, I forced myself up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

I washed my face with a cool cloth. Then I dug the manila envelope from my duffel bag and set it on the table. The envelope had been addressed to my aunt Jessie during the first year I’d lived with her. The return address had been made with a rubber stamp: Martha Brenner, CSW, 149 Sherman Avenue, Oneonta, New York.

I’d found it among my aunt’s things when she died of cancer seven years ago, but I’d never looked inside. I’d told myself none of it mattered anymore. But I had to look now.

I picked up the envelope and carried it out to the umbrella-topped table on the deck. The only sign of life outside were the automatic lawn sprinklers between the pool and Bettina’s house, their spray catching the bright afternoon light as they spun around.

Though the envelope had been unsealed long ago, the flap was secured with two prongs of a rusted metal clasp. I squeezed them together and tugged the flap up over them. Inside the envelope my fingertips found a thin piece of paper, which I slid slowly out.

It was what I’d assumed would be inside—the report from the social worker that Jessie had sent me to after I’d returned to stay with her for good. She had claimed it would be a chance for me to talk to someone about what I’d experienced.

“I can talk to
you
,” I’d pleaded. I hadn’t been able to, though. I could sense it would be a relief to share, but I couldn’t form words to describe my psychic pain, the terrible hours spent cooped up in the closet, my father’s betrayal of me. Over time, Mrs. Brenner pried it all from me.

I realized now that Jessie probably had been anxious to learn the whole story herself. Despite her love for me, she must have had doubts, especially considering the factors at play: a dead mother; a newly smitten father; a stepmother smug about the prize she’d snagged and not pleased with the idea of sharing. It would have been easy for Jessie to imagine me acting out. In little ways at first, nothing atrocious, but then one event leading inexorably to another, with no chance of me ever going back. There had been so many moments that year, particularly as I lay in my bed in Oneonta—not the pink canopy I’d slept in at my old house but the narrow headboard-less one in Jessie’s tiny guest room—when I’d wondered if I really
was
the evil one.

I picked up the paper and began to read.

I let the paper drop to the table. When I’d had tremors lately, they had felt familiar to me, but I’d forgotten I had also suffered from terrible headaches back then. I’d lost track, too, that the rocking motion that comforted me had started in the closet. I’d vaguely thought it had begun with my mother’s death. I began to read again:

In so many ways, I realized, Janice and Vicky were alike. I hadn’t been a real threat to either of them, but they had perceived me that way—as the interloper who could undo all that they’d claimed for themselves. And their plan had been the same: Convince people I was half-crazy, that I’d dreamed up an elaborate and dangerous scheme to portray myself as a victim.

I stood up from the table, stripped off my clothes, and plunged into the pool, exhilarated by the feel of the water on my naked body. I’d been so committed to work this summer that I hadn’t been out of town any weekends, hadn’t been swimming a single time. I swam lap after lap, caught up in the rhythm of my arms and legs slicing through the cool water. After finally climbing out, I wrapped myself in a beach towel and stood on the deck, thinking hard. Years ago, I had proved my innocence to Jessie and Mrs. Brenner. Once again, I would have to find a way to exonerate myself. In this case, it meant figuring out who’d had the motive, means, and opportunity to harm me.

As I’d realized earlier, I would have little chance attacking the situation from the outside. It would be like trying to ram a fortress with a straw. So I needed to work from the inside, and that meant recruiting an ally. Ann was out, but there might be someone else.

Over the past few days, I’d felt too overwhelmed to read emails or return calls, but I’d glanced occasionally at the screen of my iPhone and knew that a few people from work had reached out. Clutching the towel around me, I traipsed into the house and dug my phone from my purse.

I started scrolling down, bypassing emails from friends and reporters, as well as panicky ones from the book publishing team.

Maddy had emailed more than once. She was anxious to see me, she said, and had gone by my apartment looking for me. I emailed back, explaining that we couldn’t meet because I was staying at Bettina’s house in Westport, and I asked her to call me. I knew it wouldn’t be smart to take her into my confidence, but she might have info I could use. Plus, talking to her would help me gauge whether she could possibly be behind what had happened. And there was one specific thing I needed to know from her.

There was nothing from Carter, of course. For the first time in days, I thought of the two of us in bed, the reckless pleasure and release I’d experienced on each occasion. There was no kidding myself. I felt more than a twinge of loss and regret.

To my surprise, there was an email from Alex Lucca. Three, in fact. He needed to talk to me, he said. It was important. Why so eager? I wondered.

When I called him, I reached voice mail, but fifteen minutes later, he phoned back. I could hear car horns honking in the background. He’d clearly gone down to the street in order to speak to me privately.

“How are you doing?” he said.

“I’m not great,” I said. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“I wanted to find out how you were, but I also have information that might be worthwhile.”

I felt a jolt of adrenalin. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’m all ears.”

“I don’t think it’s smart to talk on the phone. Can we meet in person?”

“I’m staying outside the city right now.”

“How far away are you? I have a car. I could drive to you after the show this evening.”

“I’m up in Westport, Connecticut. You wouldn’t want to come all the way out here tonight.”

“I don’t mind. Robin, I really think you need to hear this.”

I couldn’t turn this down. I found the exact address on the mailing label of a magazine lying on the coffee table, and I gave it to him, knowing it would take at least an hour to drive here following the show.

After hanging up, I warned myself not to become excited, but I couldn’t help feeling a surge of hope. There was one person on the inside who at least claimed he wanted to help. And that was a tiny start.

At around six, I finished the chicken salad I’d found in the fridge, eating it outside on the deck. The early-evening sky was streaked with pinks and reds, and the air began to fill with the rhythmic call of katydids. As I stood in the yard, I realized something funny. Despite the mess my life was in, for the first time in days, I actually felt safe, out of reach of my tormenter.

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and tried leafing through magazines, but all I could think about was Alex and when he would be here. I walked back outside and stood for a while on the deck. The light, which had seemed to linger so long, finally faded and the air was cool. Outdoor security lights popped on, but the interior of Bettina’s house was totally dark. I had assumed that Nancy was a live-in housekeeper, yet there was no sign of her. It meant that I would be all alone on the property tonight.

Back inside I turned on lamps, dug a sweater from my duffel bag, and slipped it on. At nine-thirty, I heard wheels on gravel and then the sound of a car door slamming. I watched from the doorway as Alex—I could tell by the tall, slim shape—emerged from around the corner of the main house and made his way in my direction.

I stepped outside and crossed the dark lawn to greet him. He was still in that work uniform of his—the white dress shirt paired with jeans—though he’d rolled up the sleeves. His hair was mussed a little, as if he’d driven with the window down. It was a relief to set eyes on him, but I warned myself to keep my guard up. I hardly knew him.

“I appreciate you coming, Alex,” I said as he reached me. “Was the drive okay?”

“Yes, fine. It’s good to see you, Robin.”

Inside, I asked if he’d like something to drink, and he accepted a beer. I poured myself a glass of sparkling water.

“I feel terrible about all you’ve been going through,” he said as we took seats at the small dining table.

“How much do you know?” I asked. I realized that it was odd to be sitting with him in a guesthouse of a Westport estate, like one of those improbable things that happen in dreams.

“More than most people, I think,” he said.

“Why is that?” I asked, feeling a prick of concern.

“Other than Tom, no one around work has been told anything, though people are speculating like crazy. There are rumors that you had an affair—with Dave Potts or Carter or whoever. That you’re addicted to painkillers. All sorts of crap. But by a fluke, I ended up hearing what really happened.”

I stared at him, expectant.

“Tom confided the story to his partner, and he ended up blabbing to a lawyer pal who, coincidentally, is a friend of mine. So much for the cone of silence.”

“What exactly did she say?” I asked, wondering if Alex knew less than he was letting on and was fishing.

He ran through a capsulized version of my story, with all the basic points correct, including the fact that I’d considered Vicky as a possible suspect.