Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“But you remember his voice?”

“Yes.”

“You struggled with him?”

“Yes.”

“What did you feel? Did you grab his hands?”

“I tried to pull them away from my throat,” she said flatly.

“Were they covered with something?”

“Yes. They felt rubbery, like he was wearing latex gloves, and that made me think of Trish… worry about Trish.”

“What about his face. Did you go after his face, try to scratch him? Maybe he had a beard, mustache, facial hair?”

She had to think about it. “Nooooo. I don't remember hitting his face. But he laughed. He spoke. He didn't sound muffled. So I would say he didn't have anything over his head.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I, uh, I got him between the legs. With my hands. I had knit my fingers together, you know, as they teach you in self-defense.”

“Was he dressed?”

“Yes. He had clothes, shoes. I guess he'd already done that much.”

“What was he wearing? You said you hit him between the legs, what did the material feel like?”

“Cotton,” she said immediately. “When I hit him, the material was soft. Cotton, not denim. Khakis, maybe some kind of Dockers?”

“And higher?”

“I hit his ribs… Soft again. Cottony. A button. A button-down shirt, I guess.” She nodded firmly, her head coming back up. “That would make sense, right? For that neighborhood. When he walked away he would be nicely dressed, a typical student in khakis and a button-down shirt.”

“Like Eddie Como was fond of wearing?”

“Exactly.” She nodded her head vigorously.

He nodded, too, though his motion was more thoughtful than hers. After a moment, he twisted around on the bench, looked out onto the water. Sun was high now. The beach quiet, the sound of the water peaceful. Just them and the sandpipers, still trolling the wet sand for food.

“Must be a great place to come on weekends, recover from the demands of owning your own business,” he said presently.

“I think so.”

“Does your mom still come?”

“She likes to sit on the deck. It's a nice adventure for her and Toppi, once the weather gets hot.”

He looked at her sideways. “And Trisha?”

She kept her voice neutral. “She liked it, too.”

“Tell me about her, Jillian. Tell me one story of her, in this place.”

“Why?”

“Because memories are good. Even when they hurt.”

She didn't say anything right away, couldn't think of anything, in all honesty. And that panicked her a little. It had only been a year. May twenty-fourth of last year. Surely Trisha couldn't fade away that quickly. Surely she couldn't have lost that much. But then she got her pulse to slow, her breathing to steady. She looked out at those slowly undulating waves, and it wasn't that hard after all.

“Trisha was mischievous, energetic. She would crash through the waves like an oversized puppy, then roll on the beach until her entire body was covered in sand. Then she would run over to me or Mom and threaten us with bear hugs.”

“And what did you do?”

She smiled. “Made faces, of course. Trisha could tell you. I'm not into water or gritty sand. I take my beach experience on oversized towels with an oversized umbrella and a good paperback novel. That's what made it so funny.”

She turned to him finally, looked him in the eye. “Tell me about your wife. If memories are so good, even when they hurt, then tell me about her.”

“Her name was Cindy, she was beautiful, and I loved her.”

“How did you meet?”

“Hiking up in the White Mountains. We were both members of the Appalachian Mountain Club. She was twenty-seven. I was thirty. She beat me going up Mount Washington, but I beat her coming down.”

“What did she do?”

“She was an electrical engineer.”

“Really?” Jillian looked back at him in surprise. Somehow, she had pictured this phantom wife as someone… less brainy, she supposed. Maybe a blonde, the perfect foil for Griffin's dark good looks.

“She worked for a firm in Wakefield,” Griffin said. “Plus she liked to tinker on the side. In fact, she'd just come up with a new type of EKG before she got sick. Got the patent and everything. Cindy S. Griffin, granted a patent for protection under U.S. copyright laws. I still have the certificate hanging on the wall.”

“She was very good?”

“Cindy sold the rights to her invention for three million dollars,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. “She was very good.”

Jillian stared at him. She honestly couldn't think of anything to say. “You don't… you don't have to work.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Three million dollars…”

“There are lots of reasons to work. You have money, Jillian. You still work.”

“My mother has money. That's different. I want, need, my own.”

Griffin smiled at her. “And my wife made money,” he said gently. “Maybe I also want, need, my own. Besides”-his tone changed-“I gave it all away.”

“You gave it all away?”

“Yeah, shortly after the Big Boom. Let me tell you, if going postal on a suspected pedophile doesn't convince people that you're nuts, giving away millions of dollars certainly does.”

“You gave it all away.” She was still working on this thought. Trying to come to terms with a police detective who must make, what, fifty thousand a year, giving away three million dollars. Well, okay, one point five million after taxes.

Griffin was regarding her steadily. She was surprised he was telling her all this. But then again, maybe she wasn't. He hadn't really needed to come to her home last night in person. He really didn't need to clarify her donation to Father Rondell face-to-face. Yet he kept showing up and she kept talking. They were probably both insane.

“When Cindy first signed the deal,” Griffin said, “first negotiated selling the rights, it was the most amazing thing. For five years she'd been working on this widget, and then, voilà, not only did she make it work, but she sold it for more money than we ever thought we'd have. It was amazing. Exciting. Wonderful. But then she got sick. One moment she was my vibrant, happy wife, and the next she was a doctor's diagnosis. Advanced pancreatic cancer. They gave her eight months. She only made it to six.”

“I'm sorry.”

“When Cindy had earned the money, I liked it.” He shrugged. “Hell, three million dollars, what's not to like? She took to shopping at Nordstrom, we started talking about a new home, maybe even a boat. It was kind of funny at the time. Surreal. We were two little kids who couldn't believe someone had given us all this loot. But then she got sick, and then she was gone. And the money… It became an albatross around my neck. Like maybe I'd made some unconscious deal with the devil. Gain a fortune. Lose my wife.”

“Guilt,” Jillian said softly.

“Yeah. You can't get anything by us Catholic boys. Probably a shame, too. Cindy wasn't like that. Up until the bitter end, she was thinking about me, trying to prepare me.” Griffin smiled again, but this time the smile was bittersweet. “She was the one who was dying, but she understood I had the tougher burden to bear.”

“You had to live after she was gone.”

“I would've traded places with her in a heartbeat,” Griffin said quietly. “I would've climbed gladly into that hospital bed. Taken the pain, taken the agonizing wasting away, suffered the death. I would've done… anything. But we don't get to choose which one of us dies and which one of us lives.”

Jillian nodded silently. She understood what he was saying. She'd have given her life to save Trish.

“So here we are,” she said at last. “I gave my money to a suspected rapist's son to assuage my guilt. And you gave yours to…?”