Page 89 of Thicker Than Water
We get there quickly, breezing through green lights, slanting sharply through turns, and when Julia pulls into the parking lot, it’s easy to identify which store is Maeve’s. The others have signs, decals, neon OPEN lights, but Maeve’s door, still months from welcoming the public, is blank.
Before I’ve even snapped off my seat belt, Julia’s out of the car.
“Maeve!” she calls, knocking on the glass door.
Inside, Maeve turns, a paintbrush in her hand. She doesn’t seem surprised to see us. Instead, her expression is odd: a mix of relief and impatience, as if we’re late to a party she’s throwing. Still holding her brush, she heads to unbolt the door.
After she opens it, she flicks her gaze between us. “He woke up?” she asks.
Julia’s nod is curt. “He woke up.”
Maeve steps aside, and we file into the store—a small, nondescript space with stained industrial carpet. It’s mostly empty, except for Maeve’s painting supplies and some boxes, one of which is open, revealing stacks of her totes. One bag in particular,embroidered with intricate ivy, rests on the floor, as if Maeve held it up to the wall, imagining how it would look on display. The walls themselves are a dingy white, but the one Maeve walks to now is splotched with different colors: lavender, light blue, forest green.
“You’re painting?” I ask, uselessly, my mind still fuzzy, half of it back at the hospital.
“Color swatching.” Maeve dunks her brush into a cup of water on the floor. “It’s early for it, but I was struck this morning with all these ideas, and I thought, ‘Why not? Why not today?’?”
“Why did you ignore our calls?” Julia asks.
Maeve tilts her head. “You called? I’m sorry—the service is spotty here. But tell me about Jason.” She crouches to fill a tray with another color, a red so thick and vivid I can’t help but think of Jason’s knife in Gavin’s stomach, his blazer spotted with blood. “Is he okay? Is he”—she sets down the paint can, reaches for a fresh brush—“lucid?”
“More or less,” Julia says.
“Oh, thank god. I didn’t want to say this before, but I was worried about memory issues. You see these horror stories on TV, and brain injuries are so scary. But that’s great. Although—did the police arrest him? I know you said they have a warrant.”
“Not yet. The nurses had to sedate him.” Julia pauses, watching Maeve closely. “But before that, he told us some things.”
I can’t help but scoff. Maeve looks up at me, her face quizzical.
“No, just—” I start to explain. “Jason being a killer is hardly ‘some things.’?”
Julia is close enough to swat my thigh, a gesture Maeve notices, despite how quick and slight it was. Still crouched, she lingers on me and Julia, on the space between our hands.
“Wait, so… he confessed?” Maeve asks. “To killing Gavin?”
“More or less,” I say, borrowing Julia’s phrase, bitter between my lips.
Maeve stares at us, mouth open, eyes still and glassy as a doll’s.As if this is news to her. As if she saw Jason stab a man but never concluded he proceeded to kill him.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “We know you saw at least some of what happened.”
Maeve’s mouth snaps shut. With some effort, she swallows, lowering her head. Then she turns her attention to her brush, which she dips into the red paint. As she stands, she sneaks a glance our way. “I take it Jason told you we didn’t really sleep together.”
“Was that the truth?” Julia asks.
Maeve drags the brush down the wall, making a mark the size of a cell phone. Julia’s jaw is steely as she waits for Maeve’s answer.
“Yes,” Maeve admits, scrutinizing the paint. “I never would have slept with Jason. And even if I wanted to—which I didn’t—he never would have cheated on you. Not in a million years. Honestly, I was surprised you believed it so readily.”
Irritation flares beneath my skin. “Of course she believed it, Maeve—you had a whole fucking story. Showing Jason the plans for your store. Kissing him. Fucking on the couch. Who makes up something like that?”
But as I say it out loud, I hear how insubstantial the story really is, how it relies too much on clichés—the sudden, unexpected kiss; the sex so urgent they can’t even make it to a bed. Even Maeve’s reason for Jason being at her house is stupid. Wouldn’t the designer have sent the plans via email? Couldn’t Maeve have accessed them on her phone? The whole explanation was sloppy from the start, but we believed it, of course we did, because who would fabricate a story where they’re one of the villains?
“Why did you even—” I start, but Julia touches my hand, stopping me.
“Jason also told us,” she says, “that you drove Gavin home from the conference.”
It’s almost imperceptible, the way Maeve’s brush stutters. But when she draws back from her second red stroke, the swatch has an errant edge, a notch that exposes an unsteady hand.
