Page 14 of Thicker Than Water
“Phone was off,” Lou says. “Last data they can pull has him in the area of the Marriott, around that same time, eight thirty.”
I shoot an annoyed glance at Jason in his bed, trying to ignore the protruding tube. “It must’ve died. Wealwayshave to bug him to charge it.”
“Right,” Lou says, “I’m sure it was something like that. But I’ll be honest: the police could use it to build a case for premeditation. They’ve got three hours unaccounted for, and now they can say he switched off his phone upon leaving the hotel because he didn’t want his location to be traced.”
I scuff out a laugh. “I don’t think Jason even knows his phonecanbe traced. It’s basically a paperweight to him.”
“Be that as it may,” Lou says, “the best thing you can do for him right now is to determine where he was from eight thirty to eleventhirty the night of the murder—and to do it as soon as you can. I’ll keep a line open with the police and update you accordingly.”
There’s something different in his tone now. Gone is the friendly buffer from earlier this morning; instead, his words are edged with gravity, urgency, like someone whose client is actually in trouble.
When Lou and I hang up, I turn to Julia, hunched over her laptop.
“Find anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head, twisting strands of her dark caramel hair. “I checked his personal credit cardandthe one we use for household purchases and there’s nothing from Friday night.”
“Okay.” I take her hand to keep her from knotting her hair. “That’s… not ideal. But look, this won’t even matter once the blood comes back.”
Julia blinks at me, eyes big and anxious, and I squeeze her palm—maybe a little harder than I intended to, because it annoys me, that anxiety, like she thinks the case against Jason is careening toward an arrest.
Then again, maybe she’s right to worry this much. Don’t I know, as well as anyone, that justice isn’t guaranteed, that it’s as slippery as oil, that police and prosecutors and legal systems can easily fuck things up? I’d expected Clive Clayton to be sentenced to the state maximum of ten years, but when the judge saidthreethat day in the courtroom, my shock and anger flashed so bright I stopped seeing the wooden bench, the attorneys’ tables, the back of Clive’s head. Jason tried to wrap his arm around me, but he couldn’t protect me from this unfathomable knowledge: you can choose to drive drunk, you can crush someone’s parents—literally crush them—and in the end, the number of years in your sentence will barely exceed the number of people you killed.
I grip the hospital chair as my stomach plummets.
Justice failed us then. What if it fails us now, too?
A knock, gentle and tentative, snaps my attention to the doorway. There’s a woman there—tall and glossy with long, red hair and a chic, slim-fit blazer.
“Maeve!” Julia says, jumping from her chair.
I blink, surprised to see her here, cut from her usual context: grumbling with Jason about colleagues, laughing about hijinks at Integrity Plus. Maeve Dorsey is Jason’s best friend from work. I’ve only hung out with her on a handful of occasions, one of which was last Thanksgiving, when a snowstorm canceled her flight to her sister’s, but I know enough to like her. She has a cool, easy confidence that, at first glance, makes her seem unapproachable, but she nerds out with Jason all the time, the two of them using their lunch breaks for “competitive crosswording” or crafting things out of office supplies—a cabin from pencils, a coat from packing tape and Post-its.
Julia bounces to the doorway and stands on tiptoes to hug Maeve.
“I’m on my lunch break,” Maeve says, “so I can’t stay long, but I wanted to— Oh god.” Her eyes latch onto Jason over Julia’s shoulder, and she drops her arms, takes a step back. “I know you saidcomain your text, but this—” She gestures to my brother, whose bruises are more waxy than shiny today, a marginal improvement. “I didn’t picture his face looking so… wrecked.”
I nod, understanding her shock. “Come in,” I say, but she lingers at the threshold, as if unwilling to see Jason up close, his wounds even ghastlier beneath the room’s harsh lighting. “Or we could talk in the family lounge?” I offer.
We move down the hall to the dim, unoccupied space with stiff couches and too many tissue boxes. Maeve plops her canvas bag beside her, and I recognize the design as one of her own creations, a mix of hand-painted leaves and embroidered petals. For years, she’ssupplemented her work as an office manager with an online store where she sells totes and wallets, shirts and scarves. Her pieces are beautiful. Classy and stylish, like Maeve herself. The first time we met, we connected over the design aspect of our jobs, though I envy Maeve’s florals and ivies and intricate patterns, all more elegant than the flashy web pages most of our clients want.
“How’s your store coming along?” I think to ask. At Thanksgiving, Maeve mentioned she was working on transitioning from an online shop to a brick-and-mortar store. But it was taking more from her than she’d realized—time, money, energy—so the process had been slow.Guess you’ll be stuck with me at Integrity a little longer, Jason had said, smiling at her over a forkful of mashed potatoes.
“That’s sweet of you to ask,” Maeve says. “I don’t know if Jason told you, but I finally secured a space.”
“Oh, wow—where?”
“In Hillstead, so I can zip back and forth between there and my house. It’s in that little strip mall, near the Barnes & Noble, between a salon and yoga studio, which I think will be good. There’s reno to be done—I’m going to HGTV the hell out of it—but I’ve got my fingers crossed for an August launch. I was going to contact you both about some branding work, but”—she gestures to the walls around us, the dull beige paint, the same anonymous art you’d see in a motel—“this isn’t the time to talk about that.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’d love to set up a meeting, once Jason’s better.”
“And congrats,” Julia adds. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Maeve fidgets with the strap of her bag, an anxious gesture that’s out of sync with her usual poise. “Do they think that’ll be soon—Jason getting better?”
“The doctor told us on Tuesday she expected improvement over the next few days,” I say. “But it’s been two days already and nothing’s changed, so: it’s agonizing.”
“I bet,” Maeve says. “I still can’t believe it. Jason wasfineon Tuesday, and now— God, hisface.” She shakes her head. “This has been the craziest week.”
