“I need you to go somewhere with me.”
Another exhale. This one more annoyed. “Where?”
“A party,” Amanda managed. “At my friend Maude’s house. She’s a friend of Sarah’s, the woman who works at the foundation? It’s uncomfortable that you never come to anything. They’re insulted.”
“That’s absurd,” Zach said, as though this were a scientifically verifiable fact.
“You need to be there. Because I need you to be there.”
And Zach being there would be something. They could walk there together, and that would be a good opportunity to tell him about her dad. Could she just have told him right then? Yes, she could have. She did know that. But also, she couldn’t.
“Who else will be there?” Zach asked.
“Mostly Country Day parents, I think.”
“Ah,” he said. Then he was quiet for an endless moment. “Fine, then. But I won’t be able to stay long. I’ve got a work thing later on.”
And then he turned over on his side and fell fast asleep.
Lizzie
JULY 10, FRIDAY
I got off the Q train at Seventh Avenue near Flatbush and headed toward Sarah’s brownstone on First Street. I had suspicions about Sarah now, though it was hard to imagine someone as petite as her having the physical strength to kill anyone with a golf club. Still, there was a reason she’d lied about the accountant. And it didn’t seem impossible that she and Zach might be in on something together—defrauding the foundation, or maybe even Amanda’s death.
In the end, with no payment forthcoming, I’d left Evidentiary Analytics without Amanda’s file but with a promise from Millie: “I’ll work on Vinnie. I’ll get it to you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I’d said to her, again. And there was so much to apologize for. “I obviously had no idea about Zach’s finances. But I will get you paid. Zach has the brownstone. There has to be some equity there.”
Millie also mentioned that a single print comparison might be an option even Zach could afford. Though it was surely the opposite of what Millie intended, that said to me one thing:ifI got a sample from Xavier Lynch, andifthat print matched the ones in the blood from the stairs that night, it could exonerate Zach. And I’d be free and clear.
If. If.
There were many problems with this plan. Not the least of which was how speculative it was. I’d also have to go alone to St.Colomb Falls. There was no money to pay Millie’s other investigators now, even if I’d been willing to wait until they were available. And I wasn’t.
As I crossed Seventh Avenue at St. Johns Place, I spotted a standing sign on the opposite side, perfectly chalked, neon-pink rose in its center. “Blooms on the Slope” was written in an arc over the rose, an arrow pointing to the right. Once I crossed the street, I paused and searched through my bag. Sure enough, I had the card from Amanda’s nightstand. I could at least check in to see if anybody at the florist recognized Xavier Lynch as the one who’d sent the flowers. It wouldn’t necessarily get me out of a road trip to see a rapist, but it would be a start.
A small bell jingled when I opened the door. Blooms on the Slope was a narrow but chic shop, with an attractive older woman behind the counter, hair piled high and tied with a scarf. Her mouth was slightly upturned as she concentrated on an arrangement of all-yellow flowers. She was even humming contentedly. Watching her, I was overwhelmed by regret.
I’d imagined myself happy like her by now, with my dream job and Sam at my side, my past neatly wiped clean. And yet here I was, drafting email after email to my best friend from law school about what a disaster my life had become. Emails I was too ashamed to even send. Deep down I did know that these things—the secrets I’d kept, my marriage to Sam despite his problems, maybe even my getting sucked in by Zach—were not unrelated. Once this mess with Zach was over, I needed to reach out of my own darkness and at least tell Victoria about Sam’s drinking. It was reckless to live with secrets. After all, if I hadn’t kept so many, Zach wouldn’t be able to use them against me now.
“Well, hello there!” the woman behind the counter called brightly when she finally noticed me, then appraised me with an air of concern. “You certainly look like someone who could use a little floral harmonizing.”
I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “I’m trying to figureout who sent some flowers?” I began as I approached the counter. Though the shop did sell flowers, not guns. What type of records was I expecting them to keep? “I have a card, but it’s unsigned. I know it’s a long shot.”
She stepped to the counter, looking concerned.
“Unsigned?” she asked, reaching out for the card. “I’ve got a policy against anonymous flowers. A sister of mine was stalked mercilessly in high school. Bastard leftrosesfor her everywhere. Last thing I want is my flowers making somebody upset.” She looked down at the card. “But it is one of ours, and this looks like Matthew’s handwriting. Hold on a second. Hey, Matthew!” she called toward the back of the shop. “Can you come out here for a second?”
A moment later a gangly teenage boy with considerable acne, all black clothing, and a disaffected air emerged.
“Did you deliver flowers with this card?” she asked, holding it out to him. “This looks like your handwriting.”
He hesitated for a long moment before finally reaching out and snatching the card. He looked down, shrugged. “Whatever. His wife was really mad at him. He came in and asked me to make out the card like it was from a secret admirer. He thought she would recognize his handwriting.”
“Thank you, honey,” the woman said, notably unfazed by his surly attitude. She turned back to me. “Sometimes we all have a hard time saying no to the people in this neighborhood. They can be, well, insistent would be a nice way of putting it. I hope the flowers didn’t cause a problem.”
“Could I show you a picture?” I asked Matthew. “To see if you recognize the person who bought them?”
