The Rule of Three, page 16
“Please,” he blusters. “Nichols isn’t going to come over here and disrespect my house again.” He polishes off the last of the beer before setting the empty bottle on the countertop and cracking his knuckles. “He only pulled that shit in the first place because he knew that Mathers was there to break it up. Otherwise, I would have wiped the floor with him.”
“Or the lawn?” I offer.
“What?” he says confusedly.
“You guys were out in the yard,” I explain. “So, I don’t know, maybe ‘raked the lawn with him’ would be a better expression?”
His eyes narrow, but I catch one corner of his mouth perk up. “Well, you’re just a regular Kathy Griffiths today,” he says, seemingly unaware that he’s mangled the name of the comedienne. He steps out from behind the island and approaches me, setting his hands on my hips and pulling me close. His sour breath does him no favors, and I wrap my arms around his back and lay my head against his shoulder as an excuse to avoid the face-to-face. Just as we’re settling into a sweet moment, I feel his right hand leave my hip, followed by a sharp smack to my ass.
“Well, that was almost nice,” I say, straining to keep it playful.
“Play your cards right,” he says slyly, “and we can fool around on the pile of money I’m gonna take off these guys after you get back from your little book club tonight.”
“ ‘Play my cards right’?” I say, raising an eyebrow as I gently shove my husband away. “A poker joke, eh? Who’s the comedian now?”
“Baby,” he says, “when I’m finished with these clowns, I’m gonna be the only one who’s still laughing.”
I take in his face, and something in the expression transports me. I’m suddenly seeing Terry again on our first date, all those years ago; the look of confidence, the gleam in his gaze, the air of assuredness that reeled me in and left me reeling. The set of his jaw, which I first took for certitude, and which, over the course of our time together, has morphed before my eyes to reveal brashness, arrogance, cocksureness, all the while masking a deep, childlike insecurity. I see him now as I saw him then, and the complicated layers of tumult and strife melt away, and we are who we were before we did all the things that have brought us to this moment. I take his head in my hands and plant a deep, lingering kiss on his lips before I let him go.
“Wow, babe,” he says, eyes widening as he sizes me up. “What was that all about?”
I brush his cheek with my fingertips and offer a smile. “Go get ’em tonight, champ.” And then I return the favor, reaching around to swat him on the butt.
He laughs as he sets his hands on my hips, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Oh, don’t you worry about that, Vic.” He smiles a victorious smile. “Those two aren’t even gonna see me coming.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LAURA
“Terry’s on a warpath,” Vicky says as she refreshes her glass of sangria. My sister is the first one of us to break through the obvious tension sitting between us.
We are sitting in Monica’s backyard admiring the night sky and enjoying the sporadic amateur fireworks. Kingsland’s residents have outdone themselves this year, and the sky has been bursting with sparkling color for hours.
As we’ve been silently watching and nursing our drinks for most of the night, we’ve let the beautiful weather and explosion-filled sky take the space of our usual endless weekly conversation. The holiday edition of our book club this evening is anything but celebratory.
Monica offers me more in my glass but I look at the time and wave her off.
“Well, this was the first annual Barnes cookout where he got choked out. He must have some strong feelings,” I reply.
“I think it’s safe to say that the mood at tonight’s poker game is going to be tense. I was relieved to walk out of my house this evening.”
“Maybe they’ll tear each other to pieces and solve all of our problems,” I say, and watch their eyes widening.
“Spencer’s more angry than I’ve ever seen him. He was in rare form this morning,” Monica says gravely.
A firefly hovers between Vicky’s and my chairs, illuminating every few minutes like a tiny warning signal.
“What did he do?” Vicky asks, concerned.
“He told me to start packing,” Monica says seriously.
“Well, we know that that just isn’t going to happen,” my sister says.
“Exactly.”
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replies.
“And how did he take it?”
“As well as Terry took being choked.”
Vicky and I nod and sip our drinks.
“How was Gil?” Vicky asks me.
“We haven’t spoken since the incident in Libby’s room,” I say bitterly. “We ignored each other at the cookout. I’m sure he feels like a real hero after yesterday.”
“I can’t believe he just tore everything down without talking to you,” Vicky says angrily. “What was he thinking?” She swats at something in front of her.
“He was thinking about himself,” I snap.
“He is so selfish,” Monica adds.
“I’m just going to put it all back the way it was.”
“Good for you,” Monica says. “So, you didn’t talk to him before you came over tonight?”
“I haven’t seen him all day. I don’t even think he came home last night.”
“Really?” asks Vicky. “What is that about?”
“Who knows? Clearly, I have no idea who my husband really is. He appears to be shopping for my replacement on an international dating site.”
“No,” Vicky says angrily.
“I saw it with my own eyes. It was forwarded by none other than Terry.”
I glance at Monica to gauge her response. Her eyes are closed and she looks like she’s in pain. I see that her hands are gathered into tight fists in her lap.
The crickets seem to increase in volume as the night grows later. There is a gentle breeze running through the trees that sounds like the tide rushing in. I also shut my eyes and try to hold on to the fleeting sense of peace it brings.
“I just want this to be over,” Monica says quietly.
“This is probably our most somber book club. Can we try and muster a little excitement for the evening?” I say.
“It feels kind of hard to be upbeat about anything right now, given the current state of things,” Monica says.
Vicky clears her throat. “Should we . . . talk about the book?”
Monica and I both stare at her, surprised.
“And break our tradition of never actually talking about the book?” I say. “I thought we agreed never to do that.”
“We did.” Monica slaps at something on her arm.
I check the time again, ready to have this night over and done with.
Another round of starburst fireworks illuminates the sky and I can see the lights reflected in Vicky’s and Monica’s faces.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Vicky smiles, and I realize how long it has been since I’ve seen my sister happy. The round of explosions dies down and we are shrouded in cricket-filled darkness again.
“Makes me miss the summers from our childhood,” I say.
“Mmm. Me too,” Vicky murmurs.
“Did you guys see that?” Monica says as she straightens up in the Adirondack chair.
Vicky stands and we follow. “See what?”
“I thought I saw someone move over there,” Monica replies nervously as she points to the darkest part of her property.
I pull the flashlight up on my phone and wave it in the offending direction. The light sweeps across the grass and the trees. “I don’t see anything.”
Vicky shakes her head. “Me neither.”
The three of us stand in tense silence for a few long minutes, waiting.
“It was probably just shadows from the fireworks,” Vicky finally says.
“I guess I’m jumpy,” Monica reasons. “I really thought I saw someone.”
“Maybe slow down on the sangria,” I say.
“It has been a stressful few days,” Vicky says. “We’re all on edge.”
“More like a stressful few years,” I say.
Victoria’s phone dings and she takes her attention away from us.
“They’re finishing up,” Vicky says.
The edginess we’ve been feeling all night feels the most palpable in this moment.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave,” Vicky says.
“I’m going,” I say determinedly. “I’m tired of sitting. I need to move.”
Monica looks back at me and then at Vicky. “I guess we should call it a night, then.”
Vicky finishes her drink and smooths her hair. “Yes, I guess it’s that time.”
The blast of a particularly loud and bright eruption causes us all to look upward, and we watch the red cascade in the summer sky fall all around us.
We hug each other tightly and head to our respective destinations, moving slowly in the dark, reassuring ourselves that we are ready for whatever awaits.
PART THREE
PRESENT DAY
The only way to realize your true desires is to wish, believe, and act.
The Rule of Three, Sawyer Selwyn
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WOLCOTT
“Spencer?” I ask.
“Spencer,” she repeats, a twinge of annoyance visible on her drawn, gaunt face. After receiving a call from the hospital staff alerting us to the fact that Gil Mathers had awoken from his coma, Silvestri and I arrived during the early morning bustle in the hopes of interviewing him, only to have it explained to us that Mr. Mathers, after a short exchange with his wife, had promptly returned to a state of unconsciousness. My partner and I had finally managed to sneak in a few hours of sleep prior to being rousted by the call, leaving us considerably more well rested than Laura Mathers, whom we now have the pleasure of speaking with in the hallway outside her husband’s hospital room.
“And you’re sure that was the last thing he said before he went under again?” I wait for her response, notepad flipped open, pen at the ready.
“Uh, yeah,” she insists, wearing an expression that suggests she’d love to give me a good whack with the designer purse she’s clutching desperately, the veins on the backs of her hands practically bursting through the skin. She seems at once wired and overtired, as if she’d gotten a second wind that’d managed to dovetail nicely with the caffeine from the hospital coffee and the adrenaline roller coaster she’s undoubtedly been strapped into. “It was just before he fell into what I thought was cardiac arrest, so it kind of sticks out in my mind.”
“Just making sure we’ve got it all laid out clearly,” I explain. “Gives my partner and me a better chance of piecing the puzzle together.”
She blinks for a long moment as she exhales, and her eyes return to mine slightly softer. “I understand. And I apologize. Haven’t been sleeping much, and this has all been pretty jarring. The uncertainty with Gil is the worst part.” She leans in closer, offering Silvestri and me a conspiratorial look. “And between us, I really fucking hate hospitals.”
“We’re with you on that,” I say. “And we’re trying to keep this as painless as possible, I assure you.”
“Thank you,” she manages wearily.
“Now, do you have any idea why your husband would have mentioned Spencer Nichols in that moment?” I ask.
“I mean,” she says, the look of frustration returning to her gaze. “Not to do your jobs for you, but it all seems pretty straightforward, no?”
Silvestri leans toward her and tilts his head, a polite smile forming from his lips. “We can be a little thick sometimes, he and I. Mind walking us through it?”
“Jesus Christ,” she says, teeth gritted, her calm respite having been relegated to the back burner. “Okay, look. My husband . . .”
I hear the squeak of rubber on linoleum and look over Laura’s shoulder to see a passing nurse eavesdropping on our conversation. She catches my glance before dropping her eyes to the floor and continuing down the hallway. “Sorry,” I say, returning my attention to Laura Mathers. “You were saying?”
“Look,” she begins, newly conscious of her volume. “My husband was found wandering around with a bullet in his head in the vicinity of where they recovered Spencer Nichols’s body, right? And this was shortly after the guy they’d been playing cards with was shot to death?” She flips her palms open and nods by way of clarification. “Maybe you guys don’t like pieces coming together cleanly or something, but it sure seems like a home run to me.”
“It’s interesting that you bring that up,” I say, allowing for a pause as I assess her expression. She appears already to have decided that whatever I follow up with is going to be the dumbest thing out of my mouth yet, and braces for the inanity.
“Why’s that?” she humors me.
“Well, when my partner and I initially spoke with Monica Nichols, she seemed more concerned that her husband was liable to harm himself than someone else.”
This draws a loud guffaw from Laura. “Oh, she was, was she?” She shakes her head. “Unreal.”
“And how’s that?” I ask.
“Here’s the thing about our Monica, okay?” She seems to have even less patience for her friend at the moment than she has for Silvestri and me. “I wouldn’t exactly take her impression of her husband as objective fact.”
“Hmm.” I nod. “And what do you mean by that?”
She sighs and looks off to the side, taking a beat before answering as she seems to measure the weight of the words she’s considering. “Monica isn’t very self-assured, not very confident. She’s kind of meek, especially when it came to her husband. Very deferential. And I just don’t think she has a clear sense of what he would or would not have been capable of.” She scans the hallway before continuing, then leans in closer. “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Spencer was kind of an asshole.”
“Okay.” I nod.
“I mean, look. We’ve all had different challenges with our husbands. Terry could certainly be a handful, and Lord knows my husband can be pretty arrogant.” She rolls her eyes as she says this, but her expression is also mournful, nostalgic. “Spencer, though. He was one of those guys who was just really passive-aggressive and controlling. Super manipulative. Gaslit her, that sort of thing.” The eye roll comes back for an encore, this time stripped of any tenderness. “She once told me that he’d hired a behavioral coach for her, to help get rid of her accent and ‘smooth away her rough edges’ or some fucking thing. I’ll tell you this: If my husband had ever pulled that with me, I’d have . . .” She catches the thought before it escapes her tongue, and her face goes sour. “Well, you know.”
“Sounds like a real piece of business,” volunteers Silvestri.
“I’ll say.” She shifts her eyes to my partner as she loosens a kink in her neck. “And I don’t even know what Monica’s talking about, with all of this ‘self-harm’ nonsense. Has she conveniently forgotten how her husband attacked Terry at the cookout?”
This catches my attention, and I flip the notebook to a fresh page. “This is the first we’re hearing of this,” I say, tossing my partner a look to confirm that we’re synched up with our info. “Go on.”
“God, this suddenly seems like a lifetime ago.” She shakes her head in disbelief, marveling at the tricks time has a way of playing. “So, every year since we’ve been in Kingsland, my sister and her husband have hosted a cookout for the Fourth. It’s mostly a big ego trip for Terry. He ruins a bunch of meat and serves his bitter home-brewed beer, and everyone kisses his ass and compliments Vicky on their big, beautiful house. This year, our husbands are out in the yard talking about something or another when suddenly I look over and see Spencer with his hands around Terry’s neck, looking like a man possessed.” She crosses her arms in front of her, the recollection jarring her senses. “Gil had to physically pull the two of them apart. It was pretty scary, actually.”
“Huh,” I say, looking again to my partner before settling back on Laura. “And you wouldn’t have any idea of what set their tempers off?”
She averts her eyes for a second before settling on a far-off spot. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “The three of them had been acting funny before this all happened. Kind of cagey, secretive, you know?”
“Okay,” I say, taking notes. “And was that unusual, in and of itself?”
“Not particularly,” she answers. “None of them are exactly world-class communicators, at least not in their marriages, except when they find an opportunity to congratulate themselves on some feat or another—big egos, like I’ve said. But this was more . . .” She shakes her head as she mulls over the thought. “Yeah, it was the secrecy that stuck out, I guess. And they’d just been kind of tense around one another lately, or even when they were referring to each other in conversation. Paranoid, maybe. Very weird energy.”
“I see.” I flip the notepad closed, cap the pen, and replace them in my inside jacket pocket. “Well, thank you for talking us through everything. We certainly appreciate it.”
“Happy to help,” she answers distractedly, her expression betraying the words she’s spoken.
“And thank you for setting us straight on Spencer Nichols,” I say. “Sounds like he was perfectly capable of violence.”
A series of high-pitched beeps suddenly emanate from a room on the other end of the hallway. Within seconds, a flurry of hospital workers whisk past us to attend to whatever’s going on down there. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Laura wincing before she returns her attention to Silvestri and me. The sudden fracas seems to have rattled her, and the words come out shaky. “I’d say he’s plenty capable.” She narrows her eyes defiantly. “And if you’re still unsure, maybe go in there and get a good look at my husband’s skull.” She taps the side of her own and smirks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detectives, I really need to go get some fresh air.” And with that, she turns on her heels and storms down the hallway, leaving the two of us in her wake.
