Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

“Look at you,” Addie said, swallowing past the sadness in her throat.

“Yeah.” Her father laughed, twirling like a beauty queen. “Go figure.”

“First time I up and leave, you go . . . you go . . .” That was as far as she got, and then the tears came. Exhausted, tired from putting on a brave face for Jack, she moved into her father’s embrace, which had always been the softest spot in the world.

“Ah, Addie,” he said. “I’m sorry about him.”

Addie drew back. “He’s innocent, Daddy.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because,” Addie said, “I’m the only one who thinks so.”

Roy walked to the stove, then poured her a bowl of potato leek soup. This he set down in front of his daughter with a spoon. “Eat,” he ordered.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He lifted the spoon to her mouth, made the soup trickle down the constriction of her throat. “Isn’t that fine?”

Addie nodded and lifted the spoon herself. Meanwhile, Roy moved around his kitchen, heaping potatoes and steamed carrots, breads and stuffings and gravies, all onto a tremendous platter. He piled it high with starches and placed it in front of Addie.

This time, she didn’t even hesitate. She tucked into the meal with a hunger she had not even known she’d had, until her belly swelled. “Better?” he asked.

Addie realized she no longer hurt inside. She imagined all these soft foods, rices and puddings and couscous, forming an extra barrier within. Her father had filled her, because he knew better than anyone that the best way to prevent a heartache was to cushion the coming blow.

“Relax,” Gillian said, looking at each of her friends. “They don’t know anything.”

They were sitting in a small garden behind the Duncan household, one hidden from public view by a thicket of roses. “My dad is gonna kill me,” Chelsea said. “If he finds out there were drugs there-”

“Why were there drugs there?” Whitney demanded. “I’m a little curious, Gill, since you were the one responsible for bringing the refreshments.” The others looked at Gillian, too. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have tried it . . . but I would have liked to have had the choice.”

“Whit, don’t be such a priss. It was a pinch of stuff, so little that it wouldn’t even affect you. God, you’d have gotten more of a buzz from a wine cooler.” Gillian stared intently at the others. “Think hard. Do any of you remember getting high that night?”

“I was dancing around without a shirt on,” Whitney hissed.

“Before you drank a damn thing,” Gilly pointed out.

Meg’s eyes were dark, striped with betrayal. “My dad says it screws up the case.”

“Matt Houlihan doesn’t think so,” Gillian said.

“Only because you told him that the drugs were mine. If a jury hears that you were stoned, they’re not going to believe anything you say.”

“I wasn’t stoned, Meg. No more than you were.”

“Then how come I have to be the fall guy?”

Gillian narrowed her eyes. “Because if you don’t, it’s going to hurt all of us.”

“Says who?”

The other girls shrank back at Meg’s response. You didn’t cross Gilly. Everyone knew that.

“Look, Meg, this isn’t about you or me; it’s about sticking together so that our stories match. The minute that starts to fall apart, so does everything else.” Gillian swallowed, her throat working.

“You aren’t the only one who can’t forget that night. But the difference between us is that you don’t want to.” Meg’s hands closed into fists. “You are so fucking full of it, Gillian. If I tell my father I never saw the thermos before, you think he’ll assume we’re witches? No, he’ll believe exactly what I tell him . . . that you brought it so we could get high.”

Gillian went white. “You wouldn’t, Meg.”

“Why not?” Meg said, pushing her way out of the rose arbor. “You did it to me.”

“That,” Matt sighed, “is heaven. Do it again.”

In her stocking feet, Sydney Houlihan gingerly stepped on the small of her husband’s back. He grunted, his face ground into the carpet. Beside them, in her baby seat, Molly clapped. “I don’t think this is the smartest thing for her to see,” Sydney said.

“What? Mommy walking all over Daddy? She’s a little young for metaphors.” Matt grunted as Sydney hit a particularly sore spot. “You know why I married you?”

“Because I was the only woman who agreed to this kinky stuff?”

“Because you weigh exactly the right amount.”

Sydney carefully stepped onto the carpet and sat down cross-legged. “So what was it this time?”

“What was what?”

“Your back always gets pretzeled when you’re stressed out about a case.”

Matt rolled over. “Married you for your ESP, too.” He drew his knees up, stretching muscles along his spine. “Gillian’s friends were taking drugs the night of the rape.”

“And Gillian?”

“Said she wasn’t.”

Sydney shrugged. “So?”

“Well, no matter what, it’s exculpatory. I have to turn it over to the defense.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that she was raped, does it?”

“No,” Matt said slowly.

Sydney raised her brows. “You think she’s lying to you.”

“Ah, hell.” Matt got to his feet and started pacing. “I don’t know. She said it was her thermos but that Charlie’s daughter brought the stuff. And that she didn’t drink anything that night because she wasn’t thirsty. I can probably get Meg to admit to procuring the drugs when I put her on the stand. But still . . . there were five cups there with residue in them-one for each of the girls and one for St. Bride. McAfee is going to be all over this.”

“Maybe it was poured for her but she didn’t drink it.”

“Maybe.”

Sydney was quiet for a moment. “Do you think she was lying about the rape, too?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got too much evidence. The blood on her shirt, the scratches on his face, the semen.”

She wrapped her arms around Matt’s waist. “You never liked sharing your toys.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re growling because you have to turn over something that hurts your case.”

“But it doesn’t,” Matt argued. “Sure, it doesn’t make Gillian look like an angel . . . but I can still get St. Bride convicted.”

Sydney leaned up and kissed his chin. “Don’t you feel better now?”

To his surprise, Matt realized he did. His back wasn’t aching, and for the first time all day, he was itching to just get this case to trial already. “That’s the third reason I married you,” he said, and stamped a kiss on her mouth.

“Five cups don’t mean squat, Jordan,” Selena argued.

“Reasonable doubt. All I have to do is plant the seed.”

“I don’t care if you plant a whole frigging tree. You can’t say that just because a cup was there that a kid drank out of it. Your car’s in the garage. Does that mean I drive it?”

Thomas looked up from the kitchen table, where he was struggling through a trigonometry proof. “Could you two take this somewhere else?”

But neither Jordan nor Selena paid him any attention. “If I say that Gillian lied about taking drugs, it suggests that she lied about a number of things. Including this rape.”

“Jordan, listen to yourself! Matt Houlihan could drive a freight train through the holes in that argument.”

“You got anything better?” Jordan snapped. “Because I don’t. I have a client who says the victim came onto him, but he can’t offer us any more details. I have proof that the victim is into some pretty strange shit, but discrediting her isn’t going to acquit Jack. Which means, for God’s sake, that if all I have to throw at Goliath is a fucking pebble, I’m going to wind up my arm as best I can.”