Reputation(21)

“Maybe they can find out what he was stabbed with. They didn’t find the murder weapon, right? Or maybe to see if he’d taken any medications. If he was drunk.”

“And what, stabbed himself?” I sigh. “The thing that’s the hardest? I’m still so angry with him. Those e-mails.”

Willa averts her eyes. I feel embarrassed, though I know I shouldn’t. Everyone’s read them, probably even my ninety-two-year-old grandmother in the nursing home. “What did Greg say about it?” she asks.

“That he’d never seen them before. His theory is that someone hacked into his account—a spammer or something—and planted them in his deleted messages.”

Willa looks skeptical. “May Greg rest in peace, but I bet every guy who’s been caught in an affair says that exact same thing.”

“I know. But I’m not sure I blame him for cheating. Our marriage had hit a rough patch.”

Willa blinks. “Really?”

“Lately, all we did was roll our eyes at one another. All the things I found adorable about him at first became annoying. He was just so cynical. Nothing was ever right. It was with everyone, everything. The attitude began to wear on me.”

“Huh,” Willa says.

“But I sat with my irritation for months. It’s not like I said to him, ‘Hey, Greg, you’re really negative, and that needs to change.’ I just . . . quietly seethed. It wasn’t until Philly that I had a moment of clarity. I knew I had to snap out of it.” I sigh. “But I guess it was too late.”

“Philly? What happened in Philly?”

I feel drunk. Jesus, I can’t tell Willa about Philly. “Just a wake-up call in the form of too much to drink,” I hedge. “I came home even more committed to fixing things. Or at least broaching the subject with him again—I brought up therapy a few months ago, but . . .” My eyes lower. “And then I saw those e-mails. So . . .” I shrug.

“God, I can’t imagine what this is like for you.” Willa’s spine is bent. “I mean, to be mad when everyone expects you to be sad . . . it’s a roller coaster.”

“Exactly.”

A motor starts on the street. Mr. Leeds, one of our dad’s neighbors, is off to work. The reporters jog alongside his car. I wonder what Mr. Leeds is saying about me.

Willa takes a breath. “So what happened that night? I mean, you went to the benefit. I had some missed calls from you. Greg didn’t go, I guess? And then I got a message where you sounded kind of . . . drunk.”

I forgot about calling Willa until this very moment, but now it rushes at me like a freight train. It had been after I’d seen Patrick at the gala. I had thought, fleetingly, that maybe I’d book a plane ticket to LA and head straight to the airport. Disappear for a little while. So I’d called Willa in the ladies’ room, but when her voice mail came on, so did the pressing need to vomit. So I dropped my phone, and . . . I can’t remember the rest.

“I actually didn’t have that much to drink,” I say. “But it was like I was suddenly bombed. Nerves, I guess.” I sigh. “The next thing I remember is waking up on my powder room floor, and it was hours later. I was back home.”

“How’d you get home?” Willa looks horrified. “Did you drive?”

I stiffen. “I’m not proud of it. But yes, they have me on a surveillance camera driving my own car out of the museum parking lot.” I don’t like to think about that. The idea of operating my car while wasted is terrifying.

“But you don’t remember anything else from the benefit?”

“Not really.” I stare at my fingernails. “Talking to donors, stumbling, feeling paranoid. Everyone knew about Greg’s affair, and I was so embarrassed. I hated that my daughters were going to read those e-mails, too—everything just felt hopeless. I remember wanting to leave, and looking around for Dad to see if he’d give me a ride. But I couldn’t find him. And I think I remember sitting in my car before I left . . .”

I definitely remember sitting in my car, actually. I was sobbing. About what, I wasn’t even sure. The messed-up state of my relationship. The building fury in my chest for what Greg had done. The humiliation of seeing Patrick with Lynn Godfrey.

“What happened after you woke up on the floor of your powder room?” Willa asks.

I lick my lips, explaining how the house seemed eerily silent. “I walked into the kitchen . . . and found Greg.”

“I’m sorry to ask, but . . . did Greg . . . say anything to you?”

I shake my head. I walk her through calling 911 and the EMTs coming, and running upstairs to see that Aurora was still okay—I hadn’t yet known she’d gone to a friend’s. I don’t tell her the weird relief I’d felt after the ambulance took Greg away. Or the nagging feeling that I’d brought on Greg’s death.

“Did the police find forced entry into your house?” Willa asks.

“I don’t think so. But I’m not sure. They’re checking.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“The cops had me look around when I went back to get some clothes. My jewelry was still there. Everything was in the safe. They didn’t take any TVs or computers.”

Willa jiggles her leg nervously. “Maybe the Lolita person killed him?”