Pretty Girls

That night, there was no particular boy you seemed to favor. All of your friends told the sheriff that you danced because you loved dancing, not because you were trying to attract men. (So, you weren’t an evil temptress, though the sheriff tried his best to make that part of your story.)

At exactly 10:38 p.m., you told Nancy that you had a headache and were going to return to the dorm. She knows this was the time because she looked at her watch. She asked you to stay until eleven, at which point you could walk back to the dorm together. You told her you couldn’t wait that long, and to try to be quiet when she got in.

The sheriff must have asked Nancy about your level of intoxication, because he writes in his notes that Nancy said you were not showing a high level of intoxication, but that you kept yawning and seemed unfocused.

The last sentence in Nancy’s signed statement simply reads: After 10:38 p.m., I never saw her again.

No one saw you after that. At least no one who didn’t mean you harm.

Nancy’s last sentence is on the last page in your file. There is nothing more we know. As the sheriff might say, we don’t have anything farther.

Here is something the sheriff does not know and that your mother refuses to believe: I remember looking at my watch that night. It was a few minutes later, closer to eleven, most likely the time you were taken.

We were having a late dinner at Harry Bissett’s Grill on Broad Street, roughly five blocks away from the Manhattan. Your mother was downstairs using the restroom. The waiter offered to bring the check. I looked at my watch—­that was when I noted the time. Your little sister was home studying with a friend, but she was old enough to put herself to bed, so I decided to order your mother’s favorite dessert.

I remember watching her walk back up the stairs. I couldn’t stop smiling, because your mother was particularly beautiful that night. Her hair was pulled back. She was wearing a white cotton dress that curved around her hips. Her skin glowed. There was so much life in her eyes. When she smiled at me, I felt like an explosion had gone off inside my heart. I could not possibly love her more than I loved her in that moment: my wife, my friend, the woman who had given me such kind, thoughtful, beautiful children.

She sat across from me at the table. I took both her hands in mine.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

I kissed the inside of her wrists and answered what I felt at that moment was the absolute truth. “Because everything is perfect.”

This is what I know that I am:

A fool.

CHAPTER 3

She had just buried her husband.

Claire kept repeating the words in her head, as if she were narrating a story rather than experiencing the event in her actual life.

Claire Scott had just buried her husband.

There was more, because the ser­vice had been long, with many moving parts that Claire recalled with her cold narrator’s eye.

The casket was gunmetal gray with a blanket of white lilies covering the closed lid. The smell of wet earth was pungent as the machine lowered his body into the grave. Claire’s knees went weak. Her grandmother stroked her back. Her mother offered her arm. Claire shook her head. She thought of strong things: iron. Steel. Paul. It was not until they were climbing into the back of the black limousine that Claire truly understood that she would never see her husband again.

She was going home—­back to their home, the home that they had shared. ­People would meet her there, parking their cars along the curving driveway and spilling into the street. They would make toasts. They would tell stories. In his will, Paul had requested a wake, though Claire had been too hung up on the derivation of the word to call it that. She asked herself: Wake as in, maybe Paul will wake up? Wake as in, the disturbed trail of water left behind a boat?

Claire felt the second wake made the most sense. The calm had been disturbed. She was trapped in turbulent waters. Swimming against grief. Drowning in sympathy.

There had been so many phone calls and cards and flower arrangements and notices of donations that had been made in Paul’s name. Architecture for Humanity. Habitat for Humanity. The American Cancer Society, though Paul had not died of cancer.

Was there a charity for murder victims? Surely this was something Claire should’ve looked into. Was it too late? Four days had passed since that awful night. The funeral was over. ­People she hadn’t seen or heard from in years had already sent their respects. They kept telling her that she was in their thoughts, that Paul was a good man, that they were there for her.

Claire nodded when they said this—­at the police station, at the hospital, at the funeral home, at the graveside ser­vice—­though she wasn’t quite sure where there was.

“How are you holding up?” they asked. “How are you feeling?”

Disembodied.

That was the word that best described Claire’s feelings. She had looked up the definition on her iPad last night to make sure she had it right.

Existing without or separated from the body.

Lacking any obvious physical source.

Again, the second definition fit best, because Paul had been her physical source. He had given weight to her life, tied her down to the world when her natural inclination had always been to float above everything, as if it were happening to someone else.

She had felt this intense disembodiment for the last four days, really from the moment the Snake Man had told them to turn around. And then the police, the undertaker, asking if she wanted to see the body one last time and Claire blanching at the word body and sobbing like a child because she had spent every single second since they had taken Paul from her arms trying to remove the image of her lifeless, murdered husband from her mind.

Claire Scott wanted to see her husband again.

She did not want to see his body.

She stared out the window. They were inching forward in dense Atlanta traffic. The funeral procession had been truncated two lights back. Only their limo stayed out ahead. This wasn’t like the country, where strangers respectfully pulled over to the side of the road to let mourners pass. They ignored the police officers riding ahead on their motorcycles. They ignored the yellow FUNERAL flags that ­people had stuck on their cars. They ignored everyone but Claire, who felt like the world was staring into the back of the car trying to catch a glimpse of her grief.

She struggled to remember the last time she’d ridden in a stretch limousine. Certainly decades had passed since she rode in any type of car with both her mother and grandmother. That last limo ride must have been a trip to the airport with Paul. The car ser­vice had given them an upgrade from the usual sedan.

“Are we going to the prom?” Paul had asked.

They had been on their way to Munich for an architectural conference. Paul had booked them into the Kempinski. For six blissful days, Claire swam laps in the pool, had massages and facials, ordered room ser­vice, and shopped alongside wealthy Middle Eastern wives whose husbands were in Germany for health care. Paul would join her in the evenings for dinners and late-­night strolls along the Maximilianstrasse.

If she thought about it hard enough, she could remember what it felt like to hold his hand as they passed the darkened windows of all the closed shops.

She would never hold his hand again. She would never roll over in bed and rest her head on his chest. She would never see him come down for breakfast wearing those god-­awful velour shorts she hated. She would never spend her Saturdays on the couch with him, reading while he watched football games, or go to another corporate dinner party or wine tasting or golf tournament, and even if she did, what would be the point if Paul wasn’t there to laugh with her about it?

Claire opened her mouth for air. She felt as though she was suffocating in the closed limo. She rolled down the window and took great gulps of cold air.

“We’ll be there soon,”

her mother said. She was sitting across from Claire. Her hand was wrapped around the liquor decanters in the side console because the sound of the rattling glass was the proverbial fingernails on a blackboard.

Her grandmother, Ginny, buttoned up her coat, but said nothing about the cold.

Claire rolled up the window. She was sweating. Her lungs felt shaky. She couldn’t think beyond the next few hours. There were going to be over one hundred ­people at the house. Paul’s partner at the firm, Adam Quinn, had turned the guest list for the wake into a corporate event for Quinn + Scott. A US congressman; several captains of industry and their trophy wives; a handful of hedge fund managers, bankers, restaurateurs and real estate developers, and countless blowhards Claire had never met before and, frankly, had never wanted to, would soon be tracking through the house.