Officer Berg remains composed. “How did you know it was money?”
“I was curious,” I tell him. “I watched you. After you left, I went to see.”
“Mail fraud is a federal crime. It carries a hefty penalty, Dr. Foust. Up to five years in prison, a steep fine.”
“But this wasn’t mail, was it? Mail goes through the postal service. This didn’t. You put it there. Which, in and of itself, is a crime, I believe.”
To this, he says nothing.
“What was it, Officer? A kickback, hush money?” Because there seems no other logical explanation why Officer Berg would secretly place an envelope of bills in the Nilssons’ mailbox, and all at once, puzzle pieces drop into place.
“Did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie?” I ask, dismayed. “To say he saw me when he didn’t?”
Because without a murderer, Officer Berg needed only a scapegoat, someone to blame for the crime of killing Morgan Baines.
He chose me.
Berg leans against the countertop. He wrings his hands before him. I take a deep breath and gather myself, spinning the conversation in a different direction. “How much does obstruction of justice go for these days?” I ask.
“Pardon me?”
I make sure my question is clear this time. “How much did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie for you?” I ask.
A beat of silence passes by. All the while he watches me, surprise turning to sadness. “I almost wish that was the case, Doctor,” he says, lowering his head. “But no. Unfortunately not. The Nilssons have fallen on hard times. They’re nearly broke. Their son got in some trouble, and George and Poppy spent half their savings to help him out. Now there’s talk that the city might take their home if George can’t find a way to pay his municipal taxes on time. Poor George,” he sighs. “But George is a proud man. It’d kill him to ask for help. I keep my donations anonymous, so it doesn’t feel like a handout. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything,” he says.
He takes a step closer to me and says, “Look, Dr. Foust. Between you and me, I don’t think you’re capable of murder. But the truth is that spouses don’t always make the most viable alibis. They’re subject to bias; there’s a motive to lie. The fact that you and your husband both claim you were at home when Morgan was killed isn’t an impenetrable alibi. A prosecutor may see right through that. Add to that witness statements, and we have ourselves a bit of a problem.”
I say nothing.
“If you help me, I will do everything I can to help you.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
He says, “The truth.”
But I’ve already told him the truth. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you,” I say.
“You’re certain of that?” he asks.
I tell him I am. He stares awhile.
And then, in time, he tips his hat at me, and he leaves.
SADIE
At night I find it hard to sleep. I spend most of the restless night awake, on alert, waiting for Imogen to creep into the bedroom. Every sound worries me, thinking it’s the opening of a bedroom door, footsteps padding across the floor. It’s not. It’s just the house showing its age: water through pipes, the furnace quickly dying. I try to talk myself down, reminding myself that Imogen only came into our room the one time because of something I’d done. It wasn’t unprovoked. I tell myself she wouldn’t come again, but that doesn’t come close to allaying my concerns.
I’m also thinking about the photograph Officer Berg showed to me. I wonder if, in the photograph, Will was consoling Morgan because she was already sad? Or if Will had said or done something to make her sad?
What power would my husband have over this woman to make her sad?
In time, morning comes. Will goes to start breakfast. I wait upstairs as Imogen, just down the hall, gets ready for school. I hear her moving about before she clomps down the stairs, her feet heavy and embittered, spiteful.
Downstairs, I hear her talking to Will. I move into the upstairs hall to listen. But, try as I might, I can’t make out their words.
The front door opens and then slams closed. Imogen is gone.
Will is standing in the kitchen when I come downstairs. The boys are at the table, eating a French toast breakfast that he’s made.
