“You know…” She shrugs.
He nods, runs his fingers down either side of his mustache. “So, you ready for this?” He gestures to the stage.
No,she wants to reply. She’ll never be ready. But if she doesn’t do this, he and others will continue to suspect her of having protected Henry, of shielding his crimes long before they came to light.
“As I’ll ever be, I guess.” She pictures herself up there, in front of all those scrutinizing faces, and she reaches for the wall to keep herself upright.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing.” Cornwell purses his lips briefly, as if it pains him to be polite. “It’s going to help a lot of people.”
“Sure.” She closes her eyes, battling the part of her that wants to tear down the corridor and race back out into the parking lot. But she has little time for escape fantasies. Cornwell glances at his watch just as the feedback squeal of a tapped microphone rips through the air.
Two
“Ladies and gentlemen,”the emcee’s voice booms, “welcome to the LAPD’s annual family-and-friends gala evening, 1966.”
Beverley feels as if her heart has dislodged itself and oozed down into her stomach. “To get us started, please welcome”—someone has stuffed sandpaper into her mouth—“Chief Tom Cornwell, head of the California Major Crimes Investigation Unit.”
The crowd applauds.
She slips into a spot at the side of the stage that is crammed with shadows but has a clear sight line to the audience. People watch intently, low light refracting off their diamond jewelry, as Cornwell strolls into the spotlight. It occurs to Beverley that men like Tom Cornwell have no cause to be nervous, because they are so often the default heroes, so often able to control the narrative, to tell others what they should be thinking of them.
So, what does that make her? A villain? An accomplice? It has been almost five years since it all happened, but she has still not figured out quite where she fits into the story. A wife? Sure. A womanexisting in a torturous duality? Most certainly. Someone close enough to a killer to know the smell of their neck, the sighing noise they make in their sleep, the fact that their bottom-left canine tooth is black from a run-in with a baseball bat. But someone so close to a killer that she could not step back and see it, so wrapped up in the mundanity of her life that she was very easily played.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cornwell begins. Beverley sees shoulders straighten at his imposing voice, the same voice that questioned her, that bombarded her with the horrific intricacies of Henry’s crimes. “Thank you for having me here tonight to celebrate another year of successes at the Los Angeles Police Department and beyond.” Still no smile. “I’m proud to have the opportunity to speak about one of the most pivotal moments in my career.”
It’s about him. It’s always been about him.
“Five years ago, after an investigation that demanded unprecedented resources, the support of every county sheriff’s office in the state and the hard work of my staff and my deputy, Roger Greaves, I placed handcuffs around the wrists of Henry Lightfoot, a man who terrorized the good residents of California for over three years. A brutal spree that earned him the name the Heatwave Killer.” He pauses, and it takes a moment for the audience to realize they are expected to clap.
What must it be like, Beverley wonders, to stand before a roomful of people and demand that they applaud you? Cornwell fixes his tie, flexes his jaw, basking in the sound, before quieting the room with his hands.
“I can still remember”—the audience is transfixed—“the way my heart raced when my fingers brushed his skin. It was like touching pure evil.”
Beverley swallows.
“And, actually”—he raises a finger—“while that might have been the most pivotal point in my career”—he glances briefly into theshadows—“my proudest moment is right now, right here”—he points to his feet—“tonight, because tonight I am blessed to be welcoming a remarkable woman to this stage.”
She could leave. She could turn and run before anyone could stop her.
“Mrs. Beverley Lightfoot, ladies and gentlemen.”
It’s Edwards now. Miss Edwards.
“Wife of the Heatwave Killer.”
Ex-wife.
“The woman who worked openly with the police to help secure a conviction for her husband.”
Defineopenly.
Suddenly the lights are on her, and she sways a little, dizzy from the ambush. She squints, her hearing blunted by white noise, flashes of the afternoon it happened hot in her skull. The handcuffs. The helicopters.Bandstandon the television. Teenagers dancing to Neil Sedaka’s “Little Devil”; she still remembers the song. Images reel by. The sunlight, golden at that hour, slanting in through the window. The heat of the casserole dish through her oven mitts, the ones with rabbits. Ceramic smashing into a hundred pieces on the floor.
“We can chase criminals all we want,” Cornwell continues, “but only brave women like Beverley Lightfoot know what it’s like to share a life with one, and withthatsort of information, that sort of insight into the lives of murderers, shared by women like this one right here, we can help build a picture of these dangerous men and what they do behind closed doors.”
She can smell him then—Henry—what he used to smell like when he crawled back into their bed late at night. She swears the scent still lingers in her nostrils, Old Spice and engine oil. She’d slide herself over to where he lay and curl herself across his back like the shell of a pill bug.
“So, without any further ado, here’s introducing to the stage the remarkable Mrs. Beverley Lightfoot.”
