Alafair Burke - Never Tell

He recognized his wife’s strengths and weaknesses, and dealing with a problem was not her strength. Making decisions was not her strength. These jobs always fell to him. Even with the studio on Long Island, he had to be the one finally to pull the trigger.

He told her he worked better out there. He told her he was getting sick of the city. But he also was very clear that he would stay in the townhouse if that was what she and the kids wanted. He knew how much she loved the house. He knew the kids still had their high school years ahead of them.

But she had refused to decide. She made endless lists of pros and cons. She talked about her love of the beach. The ease of life out in the Hamptons. Her friends who were spending more time there. She would wonder aloud whether the kids were mature enough to be unchaperoned during the week, but never ventured an answer.

And so he had made the decision. After talking to Julia and Billy-two of the strongest-willed, loudest-voiced children ever created-he had made the call to give up the lease on the recording space in the city and build the studio in Long Island. Two years later, he was still hearing Katherine’s passive-aggressive comments about how much she missed the city.

Now it would fall to Bill once again to fix this problem. She was pushing him away now, but he knew she would never leave. He also knew she would eventually begin to heal, not with those fucking pamphlets and her therapist’s psychobabble, but once they had answers.

He had thought at first they were on the same page. Those police officers had been so dismissive when they’d initially found Julia’s body. He’d never seen Kitty so angry and full of determination.

But when those two detectives had come back later tonight to take another look around, the fire he’d seen in her had dissipated, replaced by anemic hope: They really did seem motivated to find out what happened to Julia, didn’t they? They know what they’re doing, right?

More than fifty percent of couples split within three years, the therapist had warned.

Well, not them. Not after all these years.

Bill knew how to fix this. He walked downstairs to his office and made the phone call.

Even from the hallway outside her apartment, Ellie could hear the television blasting.

“Holy hell,” she said, pushing the door closed hard behind her with her hip, the extra effort needed due to the many layers of old paint around the frame. “Mrs. Hennessy always said that rock-and-roll music of yours would make you deaf. Do I need to schedule you an appointment for a hearing aid already?”

Jess was barely visible on the sofa, his face peering out from beneath the comforter that she’d last seen on her bed. She heard a moan of some kind, followed by the sight of the remote control at the blanket’s edge. The volume decreased.

“That crazy biddy also said my music would lead me to Satan’s altar.”

“And I’m sure if she were still alive, she’d say New York City was close enough. You’re still home?”

“I think I’m sick.”

“Great. Remind me to wipe down that remote with rubbing alcohol.”

“You’re back early.”

“Technically I get off work at four o’clock, remember?”

“Yeah, right. You mean the way technically this apartment is occupied by the granddaughter of Mrs. Delores Macintosh?”

Ellie’s rent-stabilized sublet wasn’t entirely aboveboard. The fact that Jess had been the one to hook her up with the deal probably explained his comfort with long-term tenancies on her sofa.

“Don’t knock my overtime. How do you think I can afford your IQ-destroying basic cable? I thought The Hills was your drug of choice,” she said, glancing at the television screen.

“You are so 2009. I had a brief addiction to Toddlers and Tiaras, but it was actually too depressing, even for me, the way they tart those girls up. No offense, sis.”

“Please don’t compare me to a five-year-old with waxed eyebrows.” Ellie had briefly made the rounds in Kansas beauty pageants-a phrase that Jess often called an oxymoron-but strictly for the scholarship money. Even with a couple of runner-up prizes, she could only swing part-time classes at Wichita State. She had less than three semesters of credit by the time she left.

“I’ve since moved on to those impeccable arbiters of domestic modesty and taste, the housewives. They’re real, you know. One hundred percent authentic, real housewives. Because fake housewives just won’t do. Any city will suffice, but I am currently imbibing those lovable divas of our very own two-one-two.”

“From college girls to New York City cougars. I’ll choose to take the development as a sign of maturity. No work tonight?”

“I called in sick.”

“I would think your germs would blend in just fine at the Booby Barn.” With his current job at a strip bar, her brother had beaten his longest record of employment four-fold. The so-called gentlemen’s club on the West Side Highway was named Vibrations, but she and Jess preferred to conjure up their own pseudonyms.

“You planning to see Captain America?” he asked. “I can scram if you need me out of here.”

Jess had been referring to ADA Max Donovan as Captain America since she and Max had first met. She was convinced that they could marry and celebrate their fiftieth anniversary and Jess would still be calling him Captain America.

“He got called out to Rikers.”

“Want something to eat?”

The invitation usually led to Jess choosing the take-out place, Ellie paying, and Jess eating most of what arrived.

“I’m not hungry yet. You want me to get you something? Chicken soup?”

“No, I’ll call the deli when I’m ready.”

“I had a callout today to Bill Whitmire’s house.”

“Are you kidding me? The Bill Whitmire?”

“His house has an elevator.”

“He’s Bill Whitmire. His house should have an elevator, a water slide, and strippers in every room. Please tell me you slipped him a demo of Dog Park.” No matter where-or whether-he earned a paycheck, Jess’s true calling was as lead singer and guitarist for his band, Dog Park. Ten years ago, Ellie had moved to the city when she sensed that Jess’s phone calls home to Wichita-filled with allusions to always-imminent but never-actual “big breaks”-were a cover for serious trouble. What she found instead was that Jess had managed to carve out something of a life for himself, albeit not the one he described to their mother. Since then, she’d done the same.

“Right. Because I carry your demos around with me. Not to mention that his daughter killed herself last night.” She gave him a brief run-down of her day. “The girl’s mother couldn’t handle it. Says the girl would never do something like that. She kept begging me to believe her.”

“You all right?”

She was losing track of the number of people who’d asked her that today. “Yeah. Fine. You didn’t come home last night.” Yesterday seemed like such a long time ago. “You stayed over at that bartender’s place?”

“Rebecca. Bartender slash actress slash singer slash superfine hottie.”

Just like Jess was a titty-bar bouncer slash rock god, the people he knew usually had multiple professions. Most recently, he had been spending multiple overnights per week with a victim on one of Ellie’s cases from last fall. That particular woman was an artist slash prostitute, but she’d vowed to get out of the life after it almost got her killed. Ellie had only just gotten past her worries about the relationship when it finally ran its course, as relationships with Jess always seemed to do.

She tried joining him in front of the television, but watching the real housewives fight over who drank more pinot grigio made her want to arrest somebody.