“Say exactly what you told me.”
“I’d sound crazy.”
“You don’t sound crazy. And I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go chasing after this woman. She could be dangerous.” Gwen retrieves the notebook from her bag. “If I’m right, then I think I know who she is.”
Aimee shoots her a sidelong glance. “What is that?”
Gwen turns over the black notebook in her lap. “It’s Anton’s. It looks like he was doing research for his next novel. The thing you should know about Anton, he likes to base his fiction on real people and real feelings.”
“Go on.”
“His first book,The Last Cyclamen, the one about the youngFrench-Lebanese woman who had a fling with an older man in Beirut before the war?”
Aimee shrugs. “I never actually read it.”
Gwen laughs. “That’s okay. Turns out no one in my family did, either. The heart of the story was this girl’s coming of age back when Beirut was called the Paris of the Middle East. How one summer, an older wealthy man seduced her and she shed her sheltered religious upbringing under his guidance. And the guilt she felt in betraying her family’s values, but how she was so enthralled by the glamour of this new world he was introducing her to. Only, all the best parts, the ones that showcased Anton’s understanding of the human heart, the lyrical interior monologues that led one reviewer to say she couldn’t believe how thoroughly Anton Khoury understood the female psyche—he didn’t write them.”
“Who did?”
“His mother. In her beautiful script in her journal. After she died, Anton didn’t just mine it for inspiration, he copied her entries word-for-word.”
“That’s insane. How did you find out?” she asks as they pull onto the Beltway.
“I found the journal recently. He kept it all these years. Which is crazy. You’d think he’d burn it or something.”
“So you never knew.”
“No. Not until just now, after he died.” Gwen takes a deep breath. “It must have haunted him, that he didn’t actually writeThe Last Cyclamen. His entire identity was wrapped up in being a writer. Not just a writer, but a literary figure. But I still can’t believe he didn’t even tell me.”
“He was probably embarrassed. Maybe he was worried you’d think less of him.”
Gwen leans back and watches a semi whiz past them. If that was the case, he couldn’t have played it any worse. There was achance, however slim, that telling her the truth years ago would have brought them closer. But Anton couldn’t even be honest with himself, much less her. “I guess both of our husbands were hiding who they really were.”
“Is that what’s in the notebook? Something about Scott?”
Gwen knows that if she answers this question, she will risk her friendship with Aimee. Their bond is already on life support, and what she’s about to tell her might be the fatal blow. In the best outcome, Aimee will view Gwen telling her what she found as a show of solidarity. As confirmation that they are in this together, no matter how bad it gets. More likely, however, Aimee will be so upset by what she hears, so horrified by what Gwen has to say about Scott, not to mention what Anton was doing, that she will take her anger out on Gwen.
After all, a few hours ago, as Gwen pored over these interviews that Anton conducted, and then read Anton’s fictionalized version of these events, she wanted to throw up. Her husband was mining a woman’s grief, opening her wounds, and stirring up the ugliest feelings inside of her in the name of his art.
“Where should I begin? Basically, twenty-eight years ago, two guys in the fall of their senior year of high school went on a backpacking trip into the mountains of California. Neither ever returned. One of them was named Dexter Kohl, and the other Michael Finch. Anton somehow tracked down Dexter’s mother and interviewed her. She is convinced that Michael killed her son on that trip and disposed of the body. She thinks that he fled the state and started over by changing his name. And she thinks the person he became is Scott Crowder.”
Aimee pulls over and slams on the brakes. “What are you talking about? Scott’s never been to California. He didn’t live there.”
“There’s more. The mother’s name is Cathy Stocker.”
Aimee lets out a guttural scream. She slams the steering wheel twice with her palm. “Shit! Shit!”
Gwen sits very still, unsure of what to do. She’s had her own earth-shattering revelations recently and knows there is really nothing that can be done. All she can do is stay and witness it, and help Aimee process it when she is ready.
“I am such a goddamn idiot.” Aimee leans her head against the steering wheel.
“You’re not an idiot. How could you have known? She had everyone fooled.”
Aimee picks her head up. “To think Noa was there.” She shudders. “What does she want from us?”
“Here, let me read you some of this.” Gwen opens the book. “I have to warn you it’s kind of choppy, because Anton is obviously jotting down notes as he is talking to her, but here goes.Michael and Dex friends at the beginning of tenth grade when Michael and his mom move from New Mexico… inseparable from the beginning… both played on the baseball team.” Gwen looks up at Aimee, who is staring straight ahead, her hands gripping the wheel tightly.
“Okay, so what?” She sounds defensive, and Gwen doesn’t blame her. She’s always put Scott on a pedestal, and now she’s learning he’s not as perfect as she thought.