Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“I don’t think it’s Jameson,” she says, shaking her head. “He’s too much of a wuss. I don’t think it’s Ned’s father either, even though he wanted to meet you that day. He could have found out that you were in Ned’s class from Martindale-Hubbell.”

“But Ned said he keeps tabs on him.”

“That doesn’t mean he has him-or you-followed. Maybe he asked around. People know you. You’ve been in practice for eight years in this city. You went to Penn Law, you even went to Penn undergrad.”

“Maybe.”

“You know, you’re resisting the most obvious conclusion, Mary, and the most logical. It’s Ned.”

“It can’t be.” I shake my head.

“Look at the facts-there’s a pattern here. You date Ned in law school, then you pick up with Mike. You marry Mike, and he’s killed by a hit-and-run. You begin dating Ned again, and a couple of nights later Brent’s killed by a hit-and-run. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“It’s strange, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Why doesn’t it? Ned even sends you a warning after you have dinner with him-watch your step. Read it as a threat to keep you away from other men, even Brent. Look, Ned didn’t know Brent was gay. You remember the rumors that you and Brent were having an affair?”

“That was ridiculous.”

“I know that, but Ned doesn’t. Plus he admits he’s been interested in you since law school. That’s weird, Mare.”

“Not necessarily. He said he’d been depressed. He’s had a lot of problems.”

“Which way does that cut? So he’s hardly the picture of mental stability.”

“I’m surprised at you, to hold that against him. He was depressed. He got help. I give him credit for that, don’t you?”

“That’s not the point. The man has a history of serious mental illness. I’m glad he dealt with it, but that’s the fact. I mean, depressed or not, he hasn’t dated anyone since law school. Pining away for you? Doesn’t that strike you as obsessional? Almost sick?”

“He never said that, Judy. We didn’t discuss other women. You know, if you knew him, you wouldn’t say these things. He’s beautiful, really.”

But she doesn’t seem to be listening. “Look, I don’t blame you for not wanting to believe me, but think like a lawyer. Imagine that you’re the client. What advice would you give?” Her azure gaze is forceful, and it angers me.

“You don’t like him, Judy. You never have. He cares for me, he makes me happy. I would think you’d want that for me, for Christ’s sake.” My tone sounds bitter; my chest is a knot. I can’t remember ever fighting with her this way. “What’s happening to us, Jude?”

“I don’t know.” She leans back against the wall, wounded and hurt. She’s my best friend; she’s trying to help me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s hard.”

She flicks her hair back, dry-eyed. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

We fall silent a minute.

“You know, Mary, you asked me once if I ever worry. Well, I do. About you. I used to worry about your emotional health, after Mike died, but now we’re at the point where I’m worried about your life. It scares me that something could happen to you. It makes me very…bitchy. Bossy. I’m sorry for that.”

“Jude-”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook. I can’t watch you walk into the lion’s mouth. So I’m asking you, for me. For my sake. Follow your head and not your heart. Err on the side of caution. Cut him loose.”

I feel an ache in my chest. “He said he didn’t do it.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

I shoot her a look.

“I’m sorry, that was unkind.” She thinks a minute. “Here’s an idea. Don’t see him for a week. We’ll know a lot more in just a week. Maybe Lombardo will find out something; maybe you’ll get another note. Seven days, that’s all.”

Easy for her to say. I feel like I need him now. I remember the weekend together, how sweet he was, and how open with me. He made love to me, he held me. He said things, things that thrilled me. Things it hurts to remember now. Tears come to my eyes; I blink them back. “You’re tough, Jude.”

“The stakes are high, Mary. I want to win.”

And either way, I lose. Because the ache inside me is telling me something, and it’s too strong to be something else.

I’m in love.

Ifeel like everyone’s watching me the next morning when I get off the elevator and walk to my desk. The secretaries in my area gaze at me bathetically, to them I’m the Young Widow Times Two. A partner glances back at me, wondering whether my billable hours will fall off. A messenger pushing a mail cart hurries by with a sideways glance. His look says, The broad must be some kind of jinx.

Why are they thinking about me? Why aren’t they thinking about Brent?

I feel shaky, disoriented. Nothing seems familiar here, least of all Brent’s desk. There’s a blotter with floral edges where there used to be a friendly clutter of wind-up toys and a rubber-band gun. Brent’s mug-WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE, AN INFORMATION BOOTH?-is gone. A calendar with fuzzy kittens has replaced a portrait of Luciano Pavarotti. The air smells like nothing at all; I can’t believe I miss the tang of Obsession. What I miss is Brent. He deserved a long and happy life. He deserved to be singing his heart out somewhere, for the sheer joy of it.

Somebody’s grandmother is sitting in Brent’s chair. She introduces herself as Miss Pershing and refuses to call me anything but Miss DiNunzio. Her dull gray hair is pulled back into a French twist, and she wears a pink Fair Isle sweater held together at the top by a gold-plated chain. She’s been a secretary in the Estates Department for thirty years. She brings me coffee on a tray.

It makes me want to cry.

I close my door and stare at the pile of mail on my desk. Without Brent, it’s not organized into Good and Evil and totters precariously to the left. Mixed in with the thick case summaries and fuck-you letters are batches of envelopes in somber pastel shades. I remember them from before. Sympathy cards, dispensing a generic sentiment in every cursive iteration imaginable:My thoughts/feelings are with you/your loved ones at this time of difficulty/of sorrow. May you have the comfort/solace of your loved ones/faith in God at this time.

I can’t bring myself to read any of the mail, especially the sympathy cards. They’re only a comfort to people who don’t know anyone who died.

I poke at a pink card on the top of the mail, and the tower topples over. It fans out across my desk, revealing at its center a bulky manila envelope bearing my name scrawled in pen.

Odd.

Miss Pershing’s sheared the top off the envelope, and so neatly that there’s barely any tearing. I open it. Inside is a piece of blue notepaper which saysFROM THE DESK OF JACKIE O at the top and reads:

Mary-

I cleaned out Brent’s desk. Thank you for everything, and for being so good to Brent. You may need this.

Love, Jack

Stuck in the envelope is Brent’s rubber-band gun. I smile, and am trying not to cry, when I remember the notes.

The notes! Brent kept them for me. Where are they?

I ransack my desk, but they’re not there. I rush out to Miss Pershing’s desk, and she watches, aghast, as I slam through the drawers. They’re all empty except for typing paper and Stalling letter-head.

Where are the notes? Brent would have put them someplace safe. He took care of me.

I run back to my office and call Jack, but he’s not at home. I leave a message, asking him to call back. I feel panicked. It doesn’t make sense that Jack would take them, but maybe he’ll know where they are. I still have my hand on the telephone receiver when it rings, jangling in my palm.