“Next year,” Gretchen had said as she did every year. “I promise.”
This was a lie. Nothing he said would ever change the fact that they needed to go home for the holidays. Toherchildhood home.Her parents expected it. It was expected in general. Richard didn’t have his own family to visit, which, in the early years, had made the matter slightly less complicated. But he wasn’t especially comfortable in Greenwich, with all the social obligations that accompanied spending the holiday there—Christmas dinner for thirty, the cocktail party at the club, and the annual caroling party at the Finches’.
It was all a little over-the-top. Gretchen could see that. Certainly, these kinds of celebrations were not as fancy elsewhere, but Richard didn’t seem to understand that these gatherings were what it meant to be part of a community, a family.
From the moment they arrived in Greenwich this particular year, everything had felt slightly off. The girls had been cranky, and Richard’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. On the night of the caroling, Gretchen had a bad feeling when her father started drinking hours before. It was always something of a boozy affair, but this year he was fully drunk before cocktails had even begun. “Drunk and oppositional”—that was what her mother always called it, as if he were a toddler. But that was downplaying matters. Her father was extremely nasty when he was drunk, picking fights with anyone he could find. Men, usually. But not this year. This year his focus was on Gretchen.
“Why did we even send you to Dartmouth?” he’d asked as they gathered in the foyer, bundling into their coats while the cars idled in the driveway.
The Finches lived only a few houses down, but it was a freezing-cold night, so her parents’ drivers would take them. Gretchen knew the extravagance drove Richard to absolute distraction.Who doesn’t drive their own car?
“What are you talking about, dear?” her mother asked, though only an idiot would have missed that this line of conversation wasn’t worth pursuing. Her father had been picking on Gretchen all night. Her hair, her clothing,the baby weight.That last one a joke about the price Richard had to pay for children—losing his wife’s figure. Richard had glared at him before turningto Gretchen, who had motioned to let it go. But Richard didn’t approve of ignoring her father’s “oppositional” behavior. Easy for him to say when his own drunk father was long gone.
Her father’s face was flushed as he leaned back against the wall, coat on, highball in hand. “I’msaying,look at her.” Gretchen was crouched down, zipping Elizabeth’s jacket. “Breeding doesn’t require an education.”
Gretchen had closed her eyes and kept her back to him. Would Cassandra and Elizabeth remember this? The moment when her father spoke to her that way, and she let him? But the two girls were obliviously giggling.
“Hey, Chad,” Richard said. His voice crackled with anger. “Talk to my wife like that again, and I will level you.”
Her father laughed. “How dare you—”
“And you won’t get back up.”
Her father left her alone for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t until they were being driven back to the house, the children asleep, that they spoke of it.
“We don’t have to go back inside,” Richard had said. “We could get in our car with the kids and go home.” He hesitated, took her hand, and squeezed it until she looked at him. “We could leave our life behind there, too, if you want. Start new.” And when Gretchen turned to look at him, his eyes were so hopeful.
Gretchen felt like she might cry. “Leave behind your whole career and our apartment and all the children’s friends?”
He nodded, his eyes filled with love. “All I’ve ever needed was you.”
***
“Gretchen,” Mikey said, drawing her attention back to their conversation. “Richard told me about the spray paint.” His eyebrows were raised expectantly. He clearly believed this was the moment Gretchen was going to fill in some sort of gap.
“What spray paint?” Cluelessness could be an art, in and of itself.
“Apparently, someone broke into Frankie Callahan’s studioand vandalized it.” He paused. “Richard told us he found cans of spray paint and other related items in your home. He suggested you might know something about the damage?”
“He thinksIbroke into her art studio and vandalized it?Me?” He was right: She wasn’t just going to sit there. But vandalism?
Mikey’s gaze was unwavering, and disconcerting. “He doesn’t know, Gretchen. The only explanation he could come up with was that you must have…” He paused. “When Richard went to Frankie’s apartment the night she was killed and saw what had happened, he panicked. Because he was concerned that maybe…” He nodded at Gretchen.
Becks. He’d been following Richard and Frankie. Becks whose troublemaking friend Luke lived with “street artists.” No. No. No.
“Gretchen?” Mikey pressed.
“He thought thatI…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Unbelievable.”
“To be clear, he started trying to clean up only because he was trying to protect you. So the blood on his pantsisFrankie’s. That’s also why he panicked when the police turned their attention to you, why he started making incriminating statements. He was concerned there was somethingtocover up.”
“Did he move her body?” Gretchen asked softly.
“God, no.” Mikey waved a hand. “When he got there, the door was open and there was blood everywhere, but no body. She had already been moved.” He hesitated as if to give her another opportunity to explain what had happened. Did Mikey Pearce actually suspect her? “In any case, the police don’t seem to know about the studio damage yet. But surely Frankie told someone other than Richard. So if you’re saying it wasn’t you, it would be helpful to tell the police.”
“Fine. It was me,” she said. “We will need to keep that to ourselves.”
—
