Twenty-One
On Sunday, Marcus, Easton, and I move Nate’s furniture into the middle of the room so we can paint. I’m glad I decided to put the duffel bag with the food in the closet instead of under my bed. I still feel bad changing Nate’s room, but if he really is dead, it’s not like he’ll be using it. I’m still not sure how I’ll feel once I get out of this situation. But maybe a fresh coat of paint will help them move on, or even sell the house, after they find out I’m not Nate.
Easton doesn’t stick around to help paint, saying he’s going to work on the essay he’s turning in as a final instead. Marcus tapes off the molding around the room and instructs me to take off the outlet covers and switch plates. Valencia brings us a Bluetooth speaker and mentions that she’s going to do some administrative work for her dental practice while we paint, saying that three of us painting the room would be too many cooks. But it’s clear she’s trying to force some “father-son” bonding.
Which is fine. Because it means I can figure out where Marcus lies on my hierarchy of suspects. So far, he’s solidly at the top of the list. He had anger issues, he’s a straight white male—which is usually the profile of psychopathic killers—and there was that whole argumentabout money last night.
Plus he’s a lawyer. And a criminal defense lawyer at that. He’s seen all the mistakes his clients have made.
So I broach the subject as we paint opposite sides of the room.
“Have you ever had a client who murdered someone?” I ask. Across the room, he pauses but doesn’t look at me. Then he goes back to rolling the gray-green paint onto the wall.
“I’ve had clients who have been accused of murder.”
“Did they do it?”
Again he pauses, and this time he turns. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you if they told me they did. There’s something called attorney-client privilege.”
“But you’re not telling mewho. Just if it ever happened.”
Marcus smirks. “I’m not a nobody in the criminal defense world.”
Which means there’s articles online. Especially if it was a murder trial. I make a mental note to tell Miles to do a deeper dive into Marcus’s work life.
“Generically then, let’s say you did defend a person who murdered someone. How do you usually get them out of trouble?”
He sighs and goes back to painting. “If theydidit, I’d suggest they take the plea deal. Maryland doesn’t have the death penalty anymore, but there are work-arounds—like if the crime was committed on federal land, it could still be tried as a capital case despite Maryland, Virginia, DC, and Delaware all abolishing the death penalty. Pennsylvania still has it, but the governor hasn’t put anyone to death in years.” He stops himself, probably realizing he’s gotten into the weeds on jurisdictional law and capital punishment. Thenadds, “So I would say, take the plea, do the time.”
“What if they don’t take the plea?”
“Then they need an alibi or alternative theory. Someone else to blame. But that only works if the evidence against them is flimsy, and in order to even pursue legal action for something like murder, you need a lot of solid evidence.”
“Like a murder weapon?” I ask.
He nods, and as he continues painting and talking, he seems less guarded. “That would definitely help. But the body is the main crux. Without a body, you need physical evidence that a crime took place. Blood, body parts, video evidence or eyewitnesses. Otherwise you put someone in prison for a murder that never happened, and seven years later you find out the guy is innocent.”
Maybe that’s why no one has ever found Nate’s body. Because his father knows the best way to not be found guilty of murder. Even if it was an accident. Like if he lost his temper one day and snapped. It all started with a reprimand, maybe grabbing Nate to swat him on his backside, and then he lost control.
“Nate?”
I turn to see him staring at the paint roller in his hand.
“You’re not planning on killing anyone, right?” He dips the roller and, without looking at me, continues painting.
I give him a fake laugh. “I got caught shoplifting, what makes you think I can get away with murder?”
He stops painting and looks over his shoulder at me. “Never said I thought you’d get away with it.”
He locks eyes with me for what seems like an eternity, and it makesthe blood in my veins feel like ice water. It’s like he’s telling me that he knows I’m not Nate and he knows I won’t get away with this. And that he knows I can’t outsmart him. Then he grins like it was all a joke and goes back to painting.
It takes us two coats of paint and until four p.m. before we’re moving the furniture back where it started. Easton helps us with that. Marcus and Easton go to move Nate’s dresser back, but Marcus stops and picks up the remaining half-full paint can.
He holds it out to me. “Grab the rollers and put all this stuff in the garage with the other paint supplies.” We’ve already thrown out the used cloth rollers, and he’s taken the paintbrushes he edged the ceiling with down to the utility sink in the basement. I take the can, tarp, and unused rollers and head to the garage.
The paint supplies are on the middle rack of the wire shelf, next to Valencia’s gardening stuff. But there isn’t room for the paint can. I put the unused rollers on the shelf, place the tarp on top, and set the paint can on the floor of the garage, then shut off the light on my way out.
Twenty-Two
