Things You Won't Say (11 page)

Simon took a few more turns, heading toward Georgetown, then pulled up in front of the Four Seasons Hotel. He gave his car to the valet, and as he stepped out, Christie noticed he was carrying pink roses. The bouquet was enormous. Her throat tightened.

She gave the cabdriver a ten and climbed out, keeping a steady twenty yards behind Simon. He wasn’t checking in to the hotel after all, she realized as he passed the reception area.
He walked through the lobby toward the Bourbon Steak restaurant. He spoke briefly to the hostess—Christie couldn’t overhear the exchange—then was led away. Christie waited until he’d disappeared from view, then she entered the restaurant.

“May I help you?” a passing waiter asked, but Christie batted her hand at the man. “I’m meeting someone,” she said.

She glanced around and saw Simon leaning down to kiss a dark-haired woman on the cheek before handing her the roses and taking the seat next to her. She couldn’t glimpse the woman’s face; her back was to the door. Christie stalked toward them, feeling the glances of other diners. She stood next to the table, but Simon was engrossed in conversation and didn’t notice her.

“How’s work?” she asked sweetly.

Simon’s head snapped up. He blinked a few times, then his brow creased. “Christie?” he asked.

She glanced at his date and was struck by the fact that the woman was at least twenty years older than Simon. There was a blue Tiffany box on the woman’s plate. What was going on? Could he possibly be proposing to this old crone?

But no, the box was too big. It might’ve held a bracelet, but not a ring.

And Simon and the woman weren’t alone, Christie realized. They were at the end of a table filled with people of various ages. From her vantage point across the room, Christie hadn’t noticed they were all together.

Simon stood up, his manners apparently so ingrained that they stuck with him even when he was unexpectedly confronted by a wig-wearing lover. “This is my mother, Eleanor. Mother, this is—this is Christie.”

“Your mother?” Christie echoed.

Why hadn’t Simon simply told her he was going to dinner with his mother?

“And my younger brother, David, and his girlfriend, Morgan,” Simon said, gesturing around the table as everyone
looked up, naked interest spreading across their faces. “Our dear friends the Griffins . . . the Simpsons, who are longtime neighbors . . .”

“Chrissy, was it?” Morgan asked. She was one of those too-thin women who seemed like they filled their leisure hours with horseback riding and bridge games, exactly the kind Christie had imagined Simon had previously fallen for.

“Christie,” she corrected. Her name hung there for a moment as everyone looked up at her.

“Are you on your way to a costume party?” Simon finally asked.

Simon’s mother appraised her coolly as Christie slowly became aware of how she must look: her makeup smudged, her wig askew, her armpits sweating so profusely they’d stained her trench coat with dark, sticky patches.

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh! Well, have fun,” Simon said. “We’re celebrating my mother’s birthday, so . . .”

He obviously expected her to walk away. But this wasn’t an intimate dinner; there were ten people at the table. A few weeks earlier she’d introduced Simon to the most important person in her life—Henry. They’d watched
The Matrix
and had shared a giant bowl of popcorn. Yet obviously, Simon wanted to keep her removed from his family.

Everyone else had gotten a description when he’d introduced them, she thought as she felt her cheeks burn. Dear friends. Longtime neighbors.
A girlfriend
. But she was just Christie, someone who could be an acquaintance—a secretary at his office, a waitress at one of his regular restaurants. Maybe he’d hoped everyone at the table would draw that conclusion.

The knowledge slammed into her: Dorky, premature-ejaculating Simon was ashamed of her.

She felt her fury gather as she wondered what transgressions had relegated her to outsider status. Had he seen her checking her iPhone during the play? Maybe she’d used a
wrong fork, or had walked on the outside of the sidewalk instead of the inside.

“Let me escort you out,” Simon said.

“Escort me out?” Christie’s voice rose, and she could see people swiveling to watch. She picked up the nearest beverage and tossed it at Simon. He gave a little girlie screech and reared back. “Screw you, Simon. Because you sure won’t be screwing
me
again with your little dick.”

A waiter hurried over. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. “You’re disturbing our guests.”

“Don’t bother,” Christie said. She pointed at Simon: “And don’t ever call me again.”

She’d meant to deliver her exit line in a chilly tone, the one the rich people on
Downton Abbey
used when they were upset.

But instead, her damned voice broke.

Chapter Five

THE CALL CAME IN
at 2:05
P.M.
on the hottest afternoon of the year.

Earlier that day, a thunderstorm had unleashed its power and temporarily washed the heat out of the air. But now the sun was blazing, seemingly furious that it had been blotted out by the storm clouds, acting as if it was trying to make up for lost time. Jamie was in the kitchen, reaching into a shopping bag for the milk she’d just picked up at the grocery store, when the phone rang.

Their air conditioner, which they’d used only sparingly until today, had been blasting away—until it suddenly stopped. Jamie had called the HVAC company and wasn’t reassured by the receptionist’s response: Everyone had started using their air conditioners full force today, meaning that all the electrical issues that had quietly developed over the past few months had exploded. A technician probably couldn’t be there for two days, the receptionist had said.

“Two days?” Jamie had said. “We’ve got kids, and a dog . . . please, is there any way he can come sooner?”

“I’d go to a hotel,” the receptionist had advised, unhelpfully. “One with a pool.”

Jamie had begged a little longer, and the receptionist had promised to call back if there was an unexpected opening. So at the sound of the ring, she snatched up the receiver, hoping for a miracle.

“Mrs. Anderson?” The voice was male, unfamiliar, and official. “This is Officer McManus. Am I speaking to the wife of Mike Anderson?”

Her knees almost gave way before she remembered: If Mike had been killed in the line of duty, officers would’ve appeared at her door instead of calling. She’d know instantly when she glimpsed their faces; there would be no need for them to utter a single word.

She gasped for breath. “Yes,” she said. “Mike. Is my husband okay?”

“He’s safe, ma’am,” the officer said.

Her head spun; the officer’s voice wasn’t reassuring. Was Mike hurt, then? She thought about the blood on his uniform at the hospital, that black band on his badge, his late-night drifting around the house. He shouldn’t have gone back to work; he wasn’t ready. Why had she let him? His reflexes were too slow. He didn’t even hear his own children calling him. Suddenly she was certain he’d missed a threat, one he would’ve spotted just a few months ago. She thought of Ritchie in the rehab unit, struggling to eat, and she staggered forward and clutched the kitchen counter.

Please,
she thought, her lips forming the word.

“What happened?” she asked, and she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could cushion her from what would come next. Even when Mike had been stabbed by the junkie, there hadn’t been an official call. Mike himself had phoned from the hospital just before he’d gotten stitched up.

When the words finally came, they bounced off her without penetrating. It was as if the officer was speaking underwater, or in a foreign language, or through a scrambled radio trans
mission. She could hear the sounds he was making, but comprehension eluded her.

“Mike shot someone in the line of duty. A teenage boy,” the officer said. “He’s at the station now.”

Jamie gasped. “Did Mike get shot, too?”

“Mike wasn’t injured,” the officer said. His sentence seemed to dangle there, with the most important part unspoken.

“The boy,” Jamie said. A teenager. Was he close to Henry’s age? “You said he was at the station.”

“No, ma’am,” the officer said. “I meant Mike is at the station.”

“Should I come there?” Jamie asked.

“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” the officer said. “There are still some . . . formalities to go through.”

His tone was telling her something his words weren’t. Jamie leaned forward, resting her head against the door of a cabinet, feeling her throat thicken. “Is the boy. . . ?”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. But she didn’t need to; she knew the answer before the officer spoke in a voice that seemed heavier than it had been a moment before.

“He’s dead, ma’am.”

•••

Lou was measuring out the elephants’ evening meal when her cell buzzed in her pocket.

“Hey, Sis,” she said, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder while she threw another armful of leafy greens onto the industrial-size scale.

“Lou.”

Jamie’s voice sounded strangled. “Mike . . .” she began, then her voice trailed off into a high-pitched squeak. Lou’s heart began to pound.

Nononononono,
she thought, the words building like a scream in her mind. Not Mike. Please not Mike.

“He shot someone,” Jamie whispered.

Lou’s mind swam as she fought for clarity. “Mike. He wasn’t hurt?” she finally asked.

“No,” Jamie said. “They told me he was safe . . .”

“Good,” Lou said. She tried to unknot her thoughts. “That’s good, right?”

Jamie’s breathing was ragged, as if she was running hard. “It was a teenage boy— Lou, I don’t know what kind of state Mike is going to be in. He’s never hurt anyone before.”

Lou slumped down on the hard floor. Mike had shot a teenager?

“It’s so hot . . . I can’t breathe,” Jamie said. “The air-conditioning. I thought they were calling about the air-conditioning.”

Jamie didn’t sound like herself. Could she be in shock?

“Do you want me to come over?” Lou asked. Her shift was ending soon, and she’d already treated Tabby’s tail, which seemed to be healing.

“I—I don’t know,” Jamie said. “Mike might want to be alone . . . I don’t know when he’s going to get home. And I need to— The milk is spoiling. I was just putting everything away. Oh, God, Lou, he wasn’t hurt. He’s safe.”

Lou listened to her sister sob and tried to think of the right thing to do. “I think I should come over,” Lou finally said. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

She stood up and reached for a pad of paper and, with a shaking hand, scribbled a note detailing the rest of the work that needed to be done for the elephants. She found another keeper and gave him the piece of paper. She saw him read it and nod, then she ran for the exit, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.

“The kids,” Jamie said. Lou could hear her blowing her nose. “I put
Finding Nemo
on after the call . . . What am I going to tell them, Lou?”

“I don’t know,” Lou said, wishing she could give her sister the right answers.

“Maybe I should wait for Mike to talk to them,” Jamie said.

“That sounds like a good idea. I’m going to take a taxi,” Lou said. “I’m on Connecticut Avenue, so I should be able to hail one pretty fast.”

“Do you think Mike will need to stay a long time?” Jamie asked.

“I don’t know,” Lou said again. She spotted a taxi and waved it down.

Jamie’s breathing still sounded jagged and she made a little whimpering sound. “I can’t believe this happened. Mike’s never going to get over this. And that boy . . . his family . . .”

“I’m coming as fast as I can. I love you,” Lou said before she hung up. “Just take some deep breaths, okay?”

She climbed into the cab, leaned back against the vinyl seat, and closed her eyes, then opened them again when she felt a sudden rush of hot wind on her face from an open window. The cabbie was looking back at her and wrinkling his nose.

She closed her eyes again and tried to follow the advice she’d just given Jamie and breathe, but then a breaking announcement came over the radio.

Lou caught the first few words and leaned forward. “Can you turn that up?” she asked.

The radio announcer’s voice filled the small, enclosed space: “. . . breaking up a gang fight when the shooting occurred. The deceased’s name is currently being withheld pending notification of his relatives, but he is described as a fifteen-year-old Hispanic male. Sources say the Metropolitan police officer who fired his weapon was the partner of Officer Ritchie Crawford, who was seriously injured in a shooting outside police headquarters just a few months ago.”

The taxi was still moving, but Lou felt as if it had slammed into a concrete wall.

The cabbie shook his head. “These police, they shoot too much. Out of control.”

Lou thought of Mike on the couch, his arm slung around Henry, ruffling the boy’s hair as Mike teased his son about liking a pretty girl in his class. She could see Mike charming Eloise out of a temper tantrum by quacking like Daffy Duck, and tossing Sam in the air and pretending to bobble him after he caught him. Then she remembered Mike with the dead eyes, leaving his car keys in the refrigerator.

Lou wrapped her arms around herself and bowed her head.

The report cut to a sound bite from someone—Lou didn’t catch the name: “How many times does a young man of color need to be murdered by police before we as a country demand that it stop? Police are there to protect all of our citizens, especially the vulnerable. Especially the young. Tonight a family is grieving for no reason other than the actions of a trigger-happy police officer who decided to be the judge, jury, and executioner when he saw a brown face.”

“Turn it off!” Lou shouted.

The cabdriver obeyed without a word. The silence pressed down around her.

Lou reached for her phone again and dialed Jamie’s number.

“Lou?” Jamie’s voice was thick with fresh tears.

“Did you hear it?” Lou blurted.