We are all the tip of our own iceberg, with secrets that range from little white lies to crimes that can get us put away for life. And you can never truly be sure.
No, this blood doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about humanity. But it may have told me something I was afraid to admit about my own life, about the father of my child, and the game we’ve been playing since the day we met.
He couldn’t have done this.
It was Bertram. It has to be.
My husband was sleeping beside me all night. Yes, he tried to scare me off the trail with the rental car. His possessiveness has a bit of an edge. But he’s so sensible, his moral compass so strong that there has to be a limit.
“Everyone is capable of anything,”my brother’s voice says.
I expected Bertram Casimir to be a simple case, but his whole story is like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
As though reading my thoughts, my phone rings, making me jump. Bertram.
“Hello?” I’m standing in the living room now, and realizing that it’stoopristine. The carpet—old and faded after years of tenants—has been freshly vacuumed. Neat horizontal lines in the nap show that every inch was covered.There’s the faint smell of disinfectant. The couch cushions are damp, as though they’ve been recently steam-cleaned.
“Are you all right?” Bertram asks. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning. Listen, I know your marriage isn’t my business, but I’m worried that Annie may have gotten to your husband.”
“No, my marriage isn’t any of your business,” I say. I’m noticing how bare the apartment is. Was it always like this? As I backpedal to the front door, I drag the edge of my shoe against the carpet to erase my footprints. I wipe the prints off the doorknob with my shirt.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, Margaux. Everyone in my life gets caught up in this. It’s why I’m so selective about who I speak to.”
“Then why are you speaking to me?” I try to keep my voice neutral. I don’t want him to know what I’ve just witnessed.Did you do this, Bertram?
My heart is pounding, though I appear calm as I walk back toward Waylen’s car.
“I’m worried about you,” Bertram says. “I—”
I shush him, and he stops speaking. There’s a police car turning into the complex.Okay, I tell myself. That’s not too unusual. But then the driver locks eyes with me as I grip the handle of Waylen’s car, and the lights and sirens come on.
“Margaux?” Bertram says.
Waylen called the cops on me. He broke the cardinal rule of our line of work—even though he gave up this life, he still knows what something like this can mean for me. For our family. And it isn’t just about the fact that I stole his car—technically. He must have told the police that Iwas a danger to myself. That’s why all the fanfare. The officer gets out of his car, hand on his holster. “Are you Margaux Blue?” he asks.
“Margaux.” Bertram’s voice is urgent now. “Is that a police siren? What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I’ll call you back,” I say.
And then I run.
Nineteen
To: Jennifer Smith
From: ProfArtler@Yale
Dear Ms. Smith,
Apologies for the delayed response. I would be happy to speak with you. I’m available until noon or after 5 p.m. on weekdays.
Sincerely, Professor Jim Artler
Yale University
I’m hiding in the alleyway between a laundromat and a Chinese takeout when I see the email. It comes amid a flurry of texts that I don’t bother to check, missed calls that I send straight to voicemail.
I sprinted a mile before pausing here to catch my breath, in a haze that smells like detergent and fried shrimp.
