Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 29

  “She made me promise not to tell anyone,” he said. “She was humiliated. She felt it was her fault. Marina is complicated. She guards herself . . . you know. But I had to talk about it. I went out with an old friend, someone who didn’t know anyone we knew. It was safe to tell him.”

  “That was Clint,” I said.

  Philip blinked. “Yes. I forgot you met Clint.” He rubbed his jaw. “Well. A few days later, he called me up. He knew a woman whose daughter was pregnant, way too young. She was six months along. About the same as Marina had been. And the baby was a girl, like ours.

  “I was excited. It seemed meant to be. We’d been trying so long, the idea of going through all that again made me sick. But I thought Marina might not agree . . . she might be upset if I proposed it.” His voice had gone faint in his recollection. “I found a way to bring it up gently. She didn’t say much at first. Then, after a few days, she came outside. She was so white in the sun. She wanted to take the baby.”

  It was difficult to imagine Marina falling into a stupor of grief. The Marina I knew would suffer silently, grimly determined. Hadn’t she shown up at Bryant’s the morning after Amabel died, with her lipstick on, her clothes pressed?

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  His gaze was concentrated on a spot on the desk, where the paler oak was inlaid with a bow-shaped mahogany joint. “Gradually, I realized Marina meant for her to be ours. Not to go through formal channels but to . . . As if we’d never lost . . .”

  He looked up, defiantly. “To tell you the truth, I felt the same way. Why not spare ourselves the spectacle of grief, all the pity? And we were right. From the minute we had her, Amabel was ours.”

  Something slid into place in my mind. Sunday afternoon, the Senator had been furious with both Philip and Marina. You lied to me. “That’s why you didn’t tell your dad.”

  Philip frowned, surprised. “My dad? Who told you that?”

  “I was just guessing,” I said.

  Covering real anger with a sardonic eye roll, he said, “It wasn’t anyone’s business. You know Jim. He makes everything about himself.”

  “But it was so risky to hide—look at what happened with Iris.”

  “Iris is a bitch with no right to anything.” He threw his napkin on his desk. “It’s ghoulish, what you’re doing. Running around, chasing down some girls who tried to ruin our family. Digging for dirt, after everything we did for you.”

  “Isn’t that why you asked me here? And told me about this job?” I said. “Because I found out, and you were afraid I’d tell someone.”

  “I asked you here because we are old friends,” Philip said. “Aren’t we, Finn? If I respect you enough to answer your questions, I hope you’ll respect our privacy. You’ll forgive me for being so blunt.”

  He lifted the desk phone. “Tommy? Send up some coffee, would you?”

  A dense silence fell. Philip was wounded and noble, twisting open the second bottle of wine.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said finally. “I never did. Iris was threatening the family. When Ammy died, I blamed her. I only wanted to find out who she really was. I had no idea how it would end up.”

  “You were told it wasn’t your business,” Philip said softly.

  “It felt like it was,” I countered. His cool expression reminded me of Mrs. Everett, standing behind her screen door, looking at my lilies like they were ghastly.

  The waiter returned. He moved silently across the carpet. He set down a French press ready to plunge, cream, sugar cubes. A plate of toffee bars, homemade, the edges unevenly cut and crumbling. He whisked away our lunches, stacking my untouched plate on top of Philip’s.

  When he’d gone, Philip uncapped the coffee and stirred the grounds. A rich, murky aroma rose. He poured a mug for himself and flipped the other over for me. “The usual way?”

  I nodded, and he added a sugar cube, tossing it with his fingertips rather than using the tongs. He poured cream until the coffee was pale.

  “We used to have coffee in the mornings together. Do you remember?” His tone surprised me: fond, nostalgic. “You’d make a pot and pretend like you hadn’t been waiting for me to come downstairs. We’d sit on the balcony. You’d blush when I brushed your leg with my foot.”

  Warmth rose to my cheeks. Philip, gazing over the valley, the sun in the folds of his shirt, his cuffs pushed over his forearms, his feet bare.

  “Amabel would play with her blocks on the kitchen floor,” I remembered. “We’d leave the door open to hear her.”

  He grinned. “Bad nanny. Neglecting the child for the father.”

  A chill swiftly replaced the warmth in my chest. I sipped my coffee. Sweet. Philip held the plate of toffees to me, and I took one politely. My fingers were sticky.

  “Were you and Clint really friends?”

  He crunched a toffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “He seemed so . . . different.”

  He laughed. “You sound like Marina. Clint and I knew each other when we were young. You don’t understand what that means yet.”

  Of all the options I’d considered, the idea that the accident had brought them closer together hadn’t occurred to me. I wondered what Erica might have become, if she’d lived. We might have been tossed from the boat together and swam to the shore, laughing, an adventure.

  “Were you surprised?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My purse had slipped off my lap. I hoisted it up. “When he died.”

  Philip went absolutely still, like a deer. “What happened?” His voice was dry.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you must have heard. He overdosed. In the motel room.”

  Philip ran a hand over his mouth, dragging the skin.

  He didn’t know. I quickly looked down to hide my relief. “He was addicted to painkillers since the car accident. He overdosed on Monday or Monday night. The police just closed the investigation.”

  I hadn’t meant to mention the accident, but Philip didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he hadn’t seemed to hear me at all. He was staring at the bow-shaped mahogany on his desk again, his face frighteningly blank.

  Clint had sat in this chair, days before he died. Clint and Philip had hashed things out. Philip put him in the motel, paid him, trusted him to threaten Iris. For Philip, Clint was willing to commit crimes. Suddenly, I wondered how I’d ever suspected Philip. He needed that loyalty. He needed someone who traced back earlier than the Senator’s influence.

  Philip laughed. The noise made the hairs on my arms stand up. It was a wild sound, like a noise the coyote might make, pain and distress.

  “Poor Clint,” he said. “What a life.” He lifted the wine and refilled his glass, though he was halfway through his coffee. “To Clint.” He drank, spilling down his front. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes avoided mine, jumping when I came close.

  Clint won’t say a word. It had been a defense. The Senator was there, heard Clint’s name, and understood that Clint knew too much.

  The newspaper—folded just so on Bryant’s counter. The investigation was closed. I thought of the old article in my bag: d.a. announces no charges in football party fatality. The Senator had rushed home from Washington after the car accident, and within weeks, the case was closed.

  I tried to choose my words carefully. “Did your dad know about the motel?”

  “Motel?” Philip’s eyes flicked to the base of the lamp. “As far as I know, Clint lived in a trailer park. He was always saying it was temporary. Ten years of temporary.”

  Philip’s phone rang, startling us both. He silenced it without checking who it was. “What a mess. I won’t be sorry to get away for a while.”

  I felt cold. “What do you mean, mess?”

  “It’s only an expression.” He checked his watch. “It’s getting late.”

  “It took the police a few days to decide Clint overdosed,” I said. “At fi
rst they were investigating his death as suspicious. I heard a rumor that someone forced open the motel door.”

  Philip’s face twitched. “A rumor? Where’d you hear that?”

  “I saw you at the motel. I followed you.” And then, realizing it as I spoke: “You had a key. You were keeping him there.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Philip said. “That I put a grown man in a motel room, and then killed him? My own friend?”

  “No,” I said. “You tried to protect him.”

  “Clint’s been depressed a long time.” Philip’s voice was deliberate.

  “He knew your secret. He’d given you up to Iris, maybe unintentionally, but still. He was dangerous to your family. To the Senator.”

  “If you’re accusing—” He laughed, like it was absurd. “You’re emotional. You’re not thinking clearly.” His voice was soft, but far from gentle. It held a tone of warning.

  “I saw your face when I told you. You knew it wasn’t an accident.”

  “That’s enough!” He stood in a rush, chair spinning. Went to the window and yanked the blinds up. Dust motes exploded into the air. He was breathing so hard his shoulders rose and fell.

  I felt dizzy, drunk, though I hadn’t finished my second glass of wine. I stared at Philip’s slowly spinning chair, willing myself to calm down.

  He broke the silence. “The coyote came into the yard the other day, when we were emptying the pool.”

  I blinked, trying to catch up to this new thread.

  “He was closer than I’d ever seen him. He was bigger than I realized. And yellow, like he had a disease. You were right, he was dangerous.”

  My dream surfaced, the coyote drinking from the pool, Philip petting him.

  Philip’s expression was ominous. “I went for my gun. When I came out, he was still there. Hunting in the brush. He only heard me at the last second. His ears flattened out.” He turned to the window. “You wouldn’t believe how loud it was. It must be the house, how it’s over the valley. The pool guy was out front, packing up the hose. He came running, probably afraid I’d killed myself. I told him the coyote was going to hurt someone. We couldn’t find the body. He must have dragged himself away.”

  I felt sick. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He came back to the desk and stood over me. “You’re a good girl. Let’s go out on a friendly note. I’ll say we should keep in touch. You’ll tell me to enjoy my cruise. And then you’ll go home and forget about this. You’ll call Meredith. In ten years, you’ll be a big-shot designer. You’ll think of me fondly.”

  I protested, but he put his hand over my lips. “No, Finn.” His face was close to mine. To my surprise, he didn’t look angry, but afraid. “Don’t. Take my advice. Get out of here. Get a fresh start.”

  He helped me up, held the door. Passing him, I felt heat coming off his chest.

  I ran down the stairs, raising a metallic racket. The storeroom was quiet and empty. I could feel Philip at my back, lumbering with alcohol.

  I pressed through the door to the dining room. The clamor of the lunch crowd enveloped me. Tables packed with women in sundresses drinking iced tea, businessmen in suits chewing steak. The normalcy of it returned air to my chest.

  At the door, I slowed. Philip was gone. He’d vanished somewhere in the cavern of his restaurant. Or he hadn’t followed me at all, but only watched me hurry away.

  Walking through the garden, heat blazing up from the flagstones, I remembered the creature at the perimeter of the Martins’ yard. Hollowed out and rancid. The disturbed air above it rippling and dancing, alive with flies. The dog we’d watched run and scratch and hunt, his fur painted with every color of the desert.

  39

  It took all my energy to channel that old Finn, to flirt and boss and cajole, whatever was necessary, until the auto shop agreed to repair my car immediately. I had to put it on my credit card. My bag felt hollow without the Martins’ cash. Though I wouldn’t have spent it anyway. Or so I wanted to believe.

  For two hours, I waited in the auto shop, woozy with the smell of oil, a magazine unread in my lap. When I stepped outside for fresh air, the day was stagnant, heat lying heavy as a cat over the valley. The sky was stingingly bright.

  I called the Verde Police Department. The man who answered the phone listened without interest as I told him I had information about a car fire. He put me on hold for someone whose name I couldn’t catch. Minutes of country music followed—plus a recorded warning to call 911 if it was an emergency. A bus sped through a yellow light, trailing a swirl of dirt behind it like a cape. I chewed the inside of my mouth.

  “This is Officer Mendez.”

  I introduced myself, awkward. “I’m calling with information on a fire in Verde. I believe it was last week. Iris Jamison’s car was burned.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” I said. “I think I know who did it. His name was Clint Davis. He was staying at the Sunset Motel. He was also making threatening calls to Iris’s house. I’m guessing that could be checked.”

  He was silent a moment. Then, “Miss? What was it? Hunt?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I’m having trouble keeping up. Let’s take it slower. What connection did you say you have with this case?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Try,” he said dryly.

  “I was stopped outside of Iris’s house by a policeman. He questioned me about the fire. How I knew Iris, what I was doing there, things like that.”

  He didn’t speak, so I went on. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I’m happy to come in—”

  “You were stopped by an officer? When was this?”

  “Thursday night. About ten.”

  “One minute.” He put me on hold. When he came back, he said, “Miss Hunt, we don’t have any record of that on our end.”

  “I didn’t get a ticket or anything. I was just walking down the street, and he stopped me. He was undercover. He drove a black car. He was short. Bald. He had a tattoo on his forearm. An eagle, with a gun in its claws.”

  “An eagle with a gun,” he repeated. “A large tattoo?”

  “Like a sleeve.”

  “Have you been to Verde, Miss Hunt?”

  “Yes. I just told you—”

  “We’re a small town. We’ve got a small force. I know every person on it, and none of them is even a little bit like your description.”

  I sucked my lip. “But—”

  “Did he show you any ID? Was he in uniform?”

  “He had a gun. On his belt.” Saying it I felt dumb. I’d fallen on the ground and looked up, and seen the dark clothes, and the heavy belt, and I’d assumed.

  “Come on down and file a report, if you were threatened. But it wasn’t an officer. That I promise you.” He hung up.

  I stared blankly at the sidewalk. Remembering the black car, its nose parked flush against my bumper. The tattoo with veins rising under it. The menace in his smile. He wasn’t a cop.

  He was following me. I saw him in Verde, while I was driving Stacy. He’d chased me downtown, and I’d convinced myself I’d imagined it. Where else might he have tailed me? To the library? To my apartment?

  He’d already known where I lived, what it looked like.

  Last night, when Iris kept glancing around the patio, she wasn’t afraid of Philip, or Bryant. It was him. A creeper, as Stacy would say.

  A Snoop?

  As soon as I thought it, I knew.

  When I got to my apartment, Bryant was waiting in the lot. He wasn’t surprised to see my car. He walked around it, kicking the tires. His sunglasses reflected the slate of the evening sky.

  “We should get going,” he said. “We have a dinner at eight.” He was upset when I insisted on driving myself to his place. On the way, he managed to drop behind me, and whenever I lifted my eyes to the rearview, he was persistently at my back.

  We were playing a game. I didn’t know the rules, or if there were rules. I could only guess Bryan
t’s objective. To keep me quiet? To persuade me I was overtired, overemotional, overimaginative?

  I was playing for knowledge. Evidence, something concrete.

  While Bryant was in the shower, I stole his phone and looked through it. He’d never told me the password, but he had typed it in front of me a dozen times, his fingers flying quickly over the four numbers, the glass smudged darkly in four particular spots.

  Nothing. He’d erased all of his texts, except for the thread with me. His email account required a password, which I didn’t know. His photo album was sparse, a few snaps of roadside landmarks or rally crowds. There was a selfie of us from the Fourth, Bryant’s arm outstretched, my cheek against his. I looked tired. I remembered feeling exhausted, after a day of Amabel and the Martins, of chatting with Bryant’s circle. I’d had no concept of how deep exhaustion could cut. How little a person could live on.

  We drove together to the dinner.

  A dark restaurant, a private room, candles, tablecloths, a long banquet table with a dozen couples. It was an ordinary evening from my life before; now it was surreal as a dream. Bryant made his way around the table, touching shoulders, shaking hands. His smile. The same smile as when I’d met him, and he’d confidently touched my skirt, lifting it to see the spill, bringing the hem above my knees.

  I waited for him to sit (Rick Leach, rosy with sunburn, practically tugged him into a chair). Then I sat on the opposite end, beside a girl I recognized. Rick’s girlfriend, Meg, the girl with the lollipop. Fresh from a weekend in the Seychelles, she was sleek as a seal and so tan her face was darker than her blond hair. She smelled of coconut oil. Though I’d only met her once, she kissed my cheek as if we were close friends. She chattered quickly, not pausing for any response: I looked amazing, so thin, how had I lost so much weight, I had to tell her, she was such a whale. Had I come here with Bryant? She paused to look approvingly at him. Had I noticed how conservative men were better in bed? Nastier, she winked, isn’t it ironic?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “We’re fighting now anyway.”