“If you pour me one of those,” she says, pointing to the glass next to him, “I’ll tell you all about it.”
49
NOW
On Saturday morning, Aimee wakes up for the third day in a row in her childhood bedroom. She rolls over and looks at the other twin bed in the room, the way she did so many times as a girl when a friend slept over, but it is empty. Noa must already be up.
The house is too quiet, she thinks as she descends the stairs. In the kitchen she discovers why. Deb has left a note on the counter that Aimee’s dad is at work but she’s taken the kids out and they’ll be back after lunch. The coffeepot is full and being kept warm. Aimee pours herself a cup and takes it out to the large screened-in porch in the back. From here, it is a quick walk down to Gunpowder River, which empties into the bay. Her mother had been an avid birder. She used to head out in the predawn hours to watch the sun rise over the water, keeping track of all the birds she saw. She’d draw them, adding dabs of watercolor, and leave them on the porch to dry, then tack them up to the wood railings with a thumbtack. None of that is left. All traces of her mother are gone.
Aimee curls up on the wicker love seat, cradling the coffee mug. She had thought Scott experienced that same loss of his mother, but it turned out to be a lie. Her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she puts her coffee down to answer it.
“Good morning, this is Detective Salazar. Do you have a few minutes?” His voice is brusque, as if he’s walking fast. Aimee sits up.
“Yes, I have time.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday, but I thought you’d want to know—”
“Did you find Scott?”
“Actually, your husband turned himself in. He is being processed at the Montgomery County Detention Center right now.”
“Is he going back to California?” Aimee asks. “Will he stand trial?”
“He is going back to California, whenever transport can be set up. I don’t know when. We’ll find out more tomorrow. I just wanted you to know.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not today, I’m afraid. Maybe Monday, after he’s been arraigned. I’ll see if I can set something up before he leaves for California.”
“What about Lisa Greco-King? And Gwen? Can you tell me anything?”
“I guess everything I am about to tell you will be in the public record soon enough. We found trace amounts of Anton’s blood on the front of Lisa’s car, and on the underside of the front wheel. Clearly someone had tried to clean it but didn’t do a great job. We believe she was responsible for Anton’s death.”
“Oh my God.” She turns this over in her mind, flashing back to Anton’s and Lisa’s conspiratorial whispering on her back patio on the day that Anton died. “And Gwen? Is she being charged with anything?”
“No. Not at this time.”
“I can’t believe Lisa killed Anton. Was it to keep him quiet?”
“Well, that’s the theory. That he was starting to crack under the pressure of blackmailing your husband. He was heading to Villain & Saint to talk to Scott. That must have spooked Lisa.”
“So, what—she saw him following Scott, and drove there to cut him off?”
“We’ll never know exactly how it went down, but that’s the idea. We’re closing the case.”
On Monday, Aimee wakes up early to drive to the Montgomery County Detention Center in Rockville, about an hour from her parents’ house. She dresses appropriately—after a little researching online she knows to wear a bra without an underwire and to bring a clear bag to hold her car key and ID. After going through a metal detector, she is led into a large modern room with metal tables and stools bolted to the floor. Small groups gather at the tables while guards stand at the periphery, watching. She sits at an empty table and waits, thrumming with anxiety. She slept terribly last night, waking constantly with panic attacks about how she would raise three children with Scott gone. The hour between threeA.M.and fourA.M.was spent wide awake, staring at the Maryland Men’s Basketball 2002 NCAA Championship poster on her wall from high school as she went over how to make the mortgage work without his salary.
Finally, Scott enters the room wearing a maroon jumpsuit and heads straight over to her. She knows she’s allowed a short hug at the beginning and another one at the end of the visit, so she rises.
They embrace for a few moments. She clutches his shirt, fighting back tears. She never thought she’d see him again, and here he is. He came back, after all. She pulls back, touching his face. “You shaved.”
“Yeah, for court.”
They both sit on the metal stools, holding hands atop the small table. A guard starts to walk over, and he pulls his hand away. “Sorry. We can’t touch.”
She nods, pulling her hand into her lap. “How did it go in court?” It seems easier to ask a logistical question than to pose the one she really wants an answer for—Why did you change your mind?
“It wasn’t a real hearing. It was on video. I’m going back to California.”