Page 27 of The Perfect Divorce

“Did you think Bob did it?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” I lean forward in my seat. “For the longest time, I actually thought it was Sarah.”

Pam gives me an amused look, waving a hand at me. “Why? Because it’s always the wife?”

“No,” I say with a small but serious grin. “She had motive. The victim was sleeping with her husband after all. But Ryan ruled out opportunity.”

“How?”

“Sarah was out for drinks in DC at the time of the murder with her assistant, Anne.”

“And that was corroborated with a bar receipt, security or traffic cam, or other witnesses like a bartender or a server?”

“No,” I say, staring into my glass. I’m embarrassed at how sloppy our police work was. Everyone thinks because we have protocol, that means we always follow it. Yes, we take an oath, and we wear a uniform—but underneath that uniform, we’re human just like everyone else. We’re flawed. We make mistakes, sometimes accidentally, sometimes intentionally. It’s clear what Ryan did was deliberate. He saw Adam as a slam dunk, and he needed that investigation closed as fast as possible so no one would ever find out about his affair with Kelly. I even question how Adam was able to escape from jail following his arrest. It never made any sense to me, but maybe Ryan set him up, gave him the opportunity to run. It would make Adam look even more guilty, and it did—because innocent people don’t run.

“What about fingerprints on the murder weapon?” she asks.

“It was never found.”

“That’s convenient,” Pam says, tilting her head. “Do you really think Sarah could have set Adam up for the murder of his mistress?”

“She represented him in court. It’d be quite the play. But Kelly was stabbed thirty-seven times, so I find it hard to believe that a woman could do that to another woman.”

“I’ve learned that anyone is capable of anything if they think they’re doing it for the right reasons. Look at Ryan. He withheld and tampered with evidence, failed to recuse himself from the investigation, and didn’t disclose his relationship with the victim. He must have thought he was doing it for the right reasons.” Pam swigs the rest of her beer and sets the empty bottle on the table.

“Like covering for himself?”

“Those would be the right reasons for him.”

“I could kill Ryan right now.”

She reaches her hand across the table and rests it on my balled-up fist, her touch instantly relaxing it. “No, you couldn’t, Marcus. Your reasons are right because they’re moral, not because they’re what’s best for you.”

“I hope that’s true,” I sigh.

“I know it is.”

I bring Pam’s hand to my lips and kiss the top of it. She has more faith in me than I’ve ever had in myself, and I don’t know where she found it.

“The only thing I know,” I say with a determined look on my face, “is that you and I are going to figure this out, and we’re gonna do it right this time.”

SEVENTEEN

UNKNOWN

Something slaps against the concrete floor, jolting me awake. An even louder item thuds near me, bouncing several times, before it hits the wall, rolls, and settles into place. A door slams. It sounds like it’s about ten feet above me and a little off in the distance, like a basement door at the top of a set of stairs.

“Hello?” I say cautiously to the dark room. “Is someone there?”

Loud, heavy footsteps stomp across the ceiling. They sound like work boots, the kind a man would wear at a construction site.

I search for the objects that were tossed down to me, hoping it’s food and water again. I’ve received them twice before. One I found shortly after I first woke up here. The other was tossed down a while later. I think I’m provided them each day, but I’m not sure on the timing because there’s no light. I find the object that bounced into the wall. It’s a plastic bottle. Unscrewing the cap, I smell it first, just to be sure. It smells like nothing, so I know it’s water. My throat is parched, and I chug the entire thing in seconds. Immediately, I regret drinking all of it because I’m still thirsty, and I’m not sure when I’ll get more.

Rummaging around, I find the other object. It’s about eight inches long, soft and squishy with a layer of plastic wrap on the outside. It’s a sandwich, but what kind? I peel away the plastic, and the scent of it takes over, painting a picture for me. Bread, mustard, onions, tomato, lettuce, and I think ham. The last one was roast beef, which I’m not a fan of, but I ate it anyway. Kidnappees can’t be choosers. I take a bite, confirming the meat is ham. I nearly choke from eating so fast and have to remind myself to slow down. I chew until each bite becomes a paste, and then I swallow. I really wish I hadn’t drunk all the water.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here because I mostly sleep, and when I’m not sleeping, all I can think about is how I wish I was asleep. I gave up screaming for help because no one’s come, except for whoever tosses the food and water. But they’re clearly not helping me. They’re keeping me alive, and I don’t know what for.

I searched around for a while, trying to find something that could help get me out of here. All I have to show for that is a sliver lodged in the palm of my hand. It throbs, and I’ve tried to push it and bite it out, but I can’t see it—so I guess it’s a part of me for the foreseeable future, just like the thick metal chain cuffed around my ankle.

---