Girl in the Rearview Mirror Read online

  She leaned in, intrigued.

  “The Senator’s involved in some shady stuff.”

  She waited, brows lifted. When I didn’t go on, she said, “Who the fuck’s the Senator?” She slumped back in her chair.

  I didn’t know what I’d been thinking. As if she’d pass anything on to Rick. As if Rick would care. The Senator’s shady? Of course he is. That’s what these people would think.

  The mojitos we sipped made me sugared and nauseated. Plate after plate of oysters came to the table, and Bryant and his friends slurped them down whole and tapped their lips with white linens.

  I excused myself, picking up my bag.

  I felt a touch on my back.

  “Is anything wrong?” Bryant said.

  “I’m not feeling well. I’m just going to head out. I don’t want to spoil the night.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  I protested; he insisted.

  In the car, he said, “I heard you had lunch with Philip today.”

  I studied his inscrutable profile. “I thought maybe you’d suggested it. I know you’ve been worried about me.”

  “That’s a funny idea. I haven’t seen Philip at all. He’s been busy.”

  “You all seem busy,” I said. “I’ve had nothing but time.”

  “Seems like you’ve kept yourself pretty occupied.”

  He knew I’d gone back to Verde. He must know the Snoop had confronted me. Had followed me.

  I almost snapped back at him—you were busy Monday night—but I swallowed it.

  The wheels splashed over wet pavement. A broken fire hydrant gushed water over the road. It pooled into a deepening puddle. There were no gutters to swallow it.

  “What a waste,” Bryant said. “We should call the city.”

  I hummed. I noticed a strange smell. Like shampoo. The car had been cleaned. No more folders in the back, no papers, not so much as a tissue. I dropped the glove compartment open. Maps, the manual, and a pair of gloves. I tugged them out. The fingers flopped over my bare knees. “What are these for?”

  He looked at me, and the wheel jerked. “Please don’t dig.”

  “What are they?”

  “They’re gloves.” He set a hand on top of the wheel and flicked his eyes at me. “Can you put them back, please?”

  I didn’t comment. I put them away. But I understood, suddenly, where he’d gone that night. Someone had torn through Clint’s trailer. Crept inside and progressed room by room, impatiently, kicking through clutter, searching for anything that might connect Clint to the Martins. The job required finesse, thoroughness, an eye for detail. Bryant’s kind of thing.

  “So,” he said. “What did you talk about?”

  “When?”

  “With Philip.”

  “He gave me the name of a designer who’s looking for an assistant.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “It would be in New York.”

  We turned into the parking garage. The car plunged downward.

  “I don’t know if I’m going to take it. It feels off.”

  He accelerated around a corner. He sped into his spot and stopped fast. I jerked against the belt. “You sound so ungrateful.” He got out of the car and slammed his door. I watched his figure move around the car to open my door. He was stiff with annoyance.

  Getting out, I squeezed my arms into my sides so we wouldn’t touch.

  He grabbed my elbow and we walked. Our footsteps echoed. If the black car showed up, the Snoop, they might just push me in and that would be it. I thought, Bryant couldn’t have known about Clint, he couldn’t have participated. He shook children’s hands at rallies; he remembered birthdays and anniversaries with unfeigned enthusiasm; he kissed the nape of my neck as he zipped up my dresses. He was good.

  We got into the elevator. The TV screen inside flashed trivia questions.

  Bryant didn’t release my arm until we were inside the condo. When he did, he moved tensely, flipping on lights. He practically ripped his tie off. I wanted to go and set my hand on his back, to calm him: a reflex, from before.

  “I should go,” I said.

  “No.” He covered his eyes, then swept his hand over his head. “No. Please. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s not that,” I said.

  “Rick said he has money troubles,” he said. “He’s not giving anything. Next time, he said. He just likes being at the table.”

  I almost laughed. Donations, those little triumphs, felt far behind us. Unless he was making this up, an excuse for his anger.

  “You want a drink?” He was already pouring. He carried the glasses into the kitchen. Under the work lamps, his skin was bright with sweat.

  “I’d rather have water,” I said.

  “Have both. I’m making it your way.” He squeezed in honey. He stirred manically with a spoon.

  I thought: last night, in my drink, he gave me a sleeping pill. That’s why I was so out of it.

  He pushed the glass at me. He leaned against the counter, holding his own drink in his palm. His legs were crossed at the ankle. He was wearing bright yellow socks with tiny white dots. A gift from me.

  “Philip mentioned you were moving to D.C.,” I said.

  He looked up. “I wish he hadn’t said anything. There are a lot of big if’s around that prospect.”

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  His smile seemed sad. “At the right time. When it was certain.”

  I nodded. “Congratulations. That’s what you’ve been hoping for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Probably.” His shoulders sloped.

  My drink was sweet and syrupy. I set my empty glass on the counter. “I’m going up.” I moved ahead of him. The pills were in the nightstand drawer. I counted them. My hands were shaking. I accidentally dropped a few onto the floor. Twenty-two, twenty-three? Surely the bottle had started with thirty.

  I was so tired. I slept soundly, but it might have been sheer exhaustion.

  At five in the morning, my phone buzzed persistently. I’d set an alarm.

  How many times had I woken up in this bed? Dropped my feet onto the wool rug and wrapped myself in a short silk robe Bryant had given me. Even this morning, even as my head ached and I held my breath with nerves, the room seemed calm, the Japanese-style bed wide enough to sleep a half dozen, the morning light filtered gray through the shade, the sighing of the air purifier. I was tempted to lie back down, pull the sheet to my eyebrows, and let sleep wash over me, not gentle but rough, like a tide.

  Instead I dressed and went outside. The courtyard lights were still on, though the sky was light. Sprinklers soaked the grass. I passed the gym, where a bulky, shirtless man was running on the treadmill. In the parking garage, I took the stairs instead of the elevator, pulling Bryant’s key chain from my pocket as I went.

  The click of the remote echoed faintly. I ducked my head into the passenger door, and my body felt exposed.

  The gloves were gone. The manual was there, and the maps. I tugged them out and shook the pages. Nothing. I stuffed them back. Moving faster, I checked every compartment, every seam in the leather. My fingers came away with a slight film, and the smell of shampoo. Every inch of the car was clean. The trunk was empty, though I knew Bryant usually carried an emergency kit: blanket, flashlight, first-aid supplies.

  Frustrated, I slammed the trunk shut.

  The elevator pinged. Instinctively, I darted to the front of the car and crouched. My back was against a concrete pillar, my body wedged between Bryant’s car and an SUV. I should have run out, headed for the exit. I was trapped. I could hardly breathe.

  The doors opened and someone stepped out, walking slowly. Heavily.

  I dropped lower to the ground. My hand reached down and touched warm, greasy pavement.

  Then, abruptly, the footsteps quickened. They moved away. A remote beeped, a door opened and shut, an engine shuddered on. I straightened. A sporty blue car was easing back from a space. As it pulled
away, I saw the driver, a woman absorbed in poking her radio.

  Time to go. I felt in my pocket for Bryant’s keys. They weren’t there. I’d sealed them in the trunk.

  I rapped lightly on Bryant’s door. I had a newspaper under my arm and a coffee cup in each hand. It was almost six. I hoped he was up.

  I’d walked to the coffee shop two blocks from Bryant’s condo. The place was swarming with crack-of-dawners on their way to work or the gym. Almost everyone idling around the barista counter was buried in their phones. I picked up a paper and idly twisted it in my hands as I waited. Soon enough the barista dropped two cups on the counter. I picked them up as smoothly as possible and headed for the door. A man held it for me. As I walked back, the coffee slowly heated through the cups, through the cardboard collars, and finally burned my palms. If I sped up, the liquid would spill from the lids, so I kept walking slowly, burning.

  Bryant was dressed for the gym when he answered the door.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was up early. I forgot my key. I’m such an idiot.”

  He frowned as I came past him. “I was worried.”

  I set the cups on the counter. “I got you a paper, too.” Suddenly I saw the name scribbled on the cups. John.

  Bryant took a sip. “What is this?”

  “I must have grabbed the wrong order.”

  “It’s not bad.” He studied me. “You must have been up at dawn. I thought you liked to sleep in.”

  “I woke up. I can see why you like it. It’s very private, so early.”

  He tilted his head. “Private?”

  “I meant . . . peaceful.”

  We sat on the balcony. Bryant shuffled through the newspaper. I’d never noticed before how he didn’t seem to read as much as to check. To check they got the right story, quote, facts. I put my feet up against the railing. The iron scratched my arches. The cloudless sky threw its fierce white glare. It seemed that the blue pigment had burned away in the heat.

  Bryant sliced a peach, prying out the pit with the tip of the knife blade. When he passed me the plate, the knife spun off and clattered on the glass tabletop.

  I jumped, spilling coffee.

  Bryant pressed his napkin to my skin. “Did you burn yourself?” His hair smelled like almonds. He must have gone out in the middle of the night and gotten rid of the gloves. Why?

  I pulled away. “I’m fine.”

  He was still leaning toward me. His eyelashes were thick as a child’s. He set his hand on my leg. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He reclined. “I have the day off. What should we do? Sit by the pool?”

  I smiled. He proceeded to eat the peach by himself, slice by slice.

  “I’m going to hit the gym first. Do you want to come?”

  I rubbed my face. “No—I’m pretty tired. I might take a nap.”

  He followed me upstairs and watched as I undressed and got back into bed. He stretched his hamstrings. “You could doze by the pool.”

  “I’d burn.” His stare was making me tense. I lay flat on my back, holding the thin sheet over me. I watched him pull one arm across his chest, then the other.

  I rolled onto my side. “Have fun.” I shut my eyes.

  He stayed a moment, but finally went downstairs. A minute later, he was back: “Where are my keys?”

  “What?”

  “My keys are missing.”

  I draped an arm over my face. “Where’d you put them?”

  “On the counter. Like always. I can’t find them.” He opened and shut drawers. He picked up my purse from the floor.

  “What are you doing!” I sat up.

  “I’ve looked everywhere.”

  I grabbed at the bag. He surrendered it. He was angry, but I saw him bite his lip and control it.

  “You didn’t see them?”

  “No,” I said. “Maybe you locked them in the car.” Avoiding his stare, I put the bag on the floor. “I’m going to sleep.”

  He stayed another minute, and then he left. I knew he didn’t believe me. He went downstairs and I heard him moving around the kitchen. Finally he went out.

  I didn’t have much time. I went right for his briefcase, tugging out the files. There had to be something. My hands were shaking. I checked the pockets of every suit, moving my hand swiftly in the cloth, finding folded tissues, pen caps, gum wrappers.

  He’d left his wallet in the kitchen. The credit card slots were stuffed with IDs and security passes and cards. The billfold was stocked with crisp twenties, a school snapshot of his nephew, and a blank check. In the zippered compartment behind the credit cards was a folded sheet of paper.

  I smoothed it over the counter.

  Natalie Finn Hunt was typed at the top.

  Below it was line after line of miscellaneous figures and notes. No details, no sentences. It would have been obscure, random, to anyone but me.

  My mom’s address.

  My mom and stepdad’s names and occupations.

  The years my brothers were born.

  Erica’s address. Her parents’ names. Their occupations.

  The year I shoplifted, and the store.

  The year Erica died.

  The names of the boys who’d been with us in the boat.

  My dad’s name and address. His wife’s.

  “What are you doing?”

  Bryant stood in the kitchen. He watched me with a flat, unsurprised look.

  “What is this?” I didn’t want to touch that paper anymore. I pointed at it.

  He drew his lips to the side. “You know what it is.”

  “How long—?” I couldn’t finish.

  “Have I known you were Natalie? A few days.”

  I backed away as he came in. I ran into the counter. He picked up the paper. His tongue flicked over his lips. “It was pretty surprising. Most of this. I actually thought they might have been wrong.” He laughed. “After a day or so, I realized I wasn’t actually surprised at all. Things that had seemed strange suddenly made sense. The way you talked about yourself. It was like a story. Like a little girl telling a story.”

  I flinched. In spite of everything, shame spread like dampness over my body. I’d known this moment would come, and it carried in it every cringing lie, every anecdote told with my eyes on the ceiling, thinking of Erica’s house, of washing dishes with her mother, of learning to drive with her father in the passenger seat and Erica lying in the backseat, shrieking with mock terror.

  “You were so perfect,” I managed. “I wanted to be perfect.”

  “I’m glad you’re not going to deny it,” Bryant said. “That shows some character.”

  “Are you?” I said.

  He frowned. “Am I what?”

  “Going to deny it,” I said.

  His face rippled with surprise, and then settled. “What do I have to deny?”

  “The Martins adopted Amabel. Bought her. From Stacy. That’s why Iris was after Philip. I’m not sure when you found out. At the gala?”

  He didn’t give a sign.

  “The Senator found out that Philip’s old friend Clint gave up their name to Iris. He was furious. He had you go through his trailer. To make sure there was nothing that tied him to Philip. That’s where you were, when you snuck out of my apartment Monday night, wasn’t it? Then the Senator had him killed, and shut down the investigation of Clint’s death. As if it were an accident. You left the paper out for me.”

  Bryant had crossed his arms. He was listening to me with a relaxed, even interested expression.

  “That’s quite a story,” he said.

  “I have proof.”

  If he tensed, I couldn’t see it. “What proof?”

  “Clint burned Iris’s car. If the police find out about that connection, they’ll be forced to reopen their investigation.”

  He smiled. He shook his head. “I don’t see why. Besides, who knows who burned her car? She might have done it, trying to get the insurance money. She has a record of
her own.”

  “Stacy was pregnant. Iris and Stacy are witnesses.”

  “Witnesses? Iris was living in California. Stacy is confused.” He stepped forward. “And you’re a pathological liar. Calling yourself by a fake name. Telling people you lived in someone else’s house. Someone who died. That sounds a little crazy, doesn’t it? Who does that?”

  I was breathing shallowly through my mouth. “Finn is my middle name. I was at Erica’s house constantly. I did grow up there. Those aren’t really lies. You’re twisting them.”

  His laugh was harsh. “If they weren’t lies, why tell them? Why not tell me you were close to a friend? Why not tell me your real name? I never knew you at all. That hurt me, Finn. I can see I got lucky, finding out when I did, but for a while I was shocked. I cared for you. I thought—well, never mind. After everything, you turned out to be a stranger.”

  “You’re the stranger,” I said. “I never thought you’d help them like this. I thought you were good.”

  “The Martins are good,” he said. “Those people were blackmailing them. They were threatening them.”

  “They had some reason.”

  “Oh, spare me,” he said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’ll go to the police.”

  “I wouldn’t.” His eyes were cold.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Finn. You stole from them.”

  I shivered. “What are you talking about?” Absurdly, I had a picture of Bryant picking up the dollhouse goldfish bowl from my nightstand.

  “Things were taken from the Martins’ house. Jewelry, mostly. Some art. Precious one-of-a-kind things.” His eyes were dark pools. “Marina had some clothes missing. You were wearing one of her dresses at the gala.”

  “I borrowed that when we hosted the party. I’m going to give it back.”

  “You were alone in the house all afternoon before the gala. You had a few hours. It was like you jumped at the chance.” He sounded genuinely disgusted. I couldn’t tell if this was a threat or an accusation. He could say anything, and I’d never know what he believed.

  “You know I’d never do that.”

  He shook his head. “How would I know that? I don’t know anything about you, apparently.”

  A tear escaped my eye. I swiped it with the back of my hand. “I loved them. I loved Amabel. I’d never steal from them.”