Page 92 of The Accomplice
Just a fucking bird.
Kate took a moment to think. She had to get the hell out of here.
And she had no idea how to do it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Extract from the Journal of Carrie Miller
June 5
There was only one person I thought I could trust.
My parents have passed on. I don’t have siblings. Since Daniel and I had been together, I’d seen less and less of my friends. He always encouraged me to go visit them – have ‘girly nights’ as he called it, but they kind of petered out. Clare, Vanessa, Suzanne, they were all still in New York. Still in the same shitty apartments. With the same shitty jobs. When I pulled up in the Tesla, I could see their hearts sink. When I paid for dinner, or settled the bar tab, I saw it eating at them. They never said anything, but it was there in the corner of their forced smiles and thank-yous. There was a wedge between us. Money hadn’t changed me, but it changed things. Soon, they stopped calling. I didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable, and I tried talking about it, especially with Clare. She said it made no difference, in fact, she was happy for me. But I saw it different. And it felt different.
Daniel didn’t have a social circle. Not really. We went to movie premieres, charity balls, cocktail parties, gala dinners at the social club – the kind of parties, places and people I’d only ever dreamed about or seen on TV. None of them were friends of ours. People went to those events to be seen there and to make small talk with the people they thought were powerful.
There was no one I could call about this. No friends, anyway.
So, I called someone who I knew could keep a secret. Someone who told me I could reach out to them at any time. Someone who had to keep a secret because it was their job.
Otto’s firm looked like a high-end art dealership. The furniture in the waiting room was old and very beautiful. I didn’t have to wait long before his receptionist showed me into his office. It had oak paneling on the walls, antique book cases, green bankers’ lamps scattered around the room and a beautiful walnut box on his desk filled with fine cigars.
At first, Otto was wary of talking to me without Danny being there. He said something about a possible conflict of interest as Danny was his client. I told him it was important that he knew this about Danny too. I told him I had to tell someone – that I couldn’t go on keeping this bottled up inside.
Maybe it was something in the way my voice fractured as I spoke. Maybe it was the pleading tone. Maybe it was the look on my face. Whatever it was, Otto dropped the lawyer façade, reached his two hands across the desk and took mine.
He asked me if Danny was beating me. He’d probably heard enough stories from clients, done enough cases to know, almost instantly, the secrets people hold.
I told him. I told him everything. The late nights. The cop coming to the house. Danny lying to the cop, and then making me lie as well. The van I didn’t even know existed. Taking showers in the middle of the night. The earrings he’d given me and the picture I’d seen of Margaret Sharpe wearing those same earrings. The two rings, and then him doing laundry for the first time at three a.m.
His mouth opened then, but no words came. I could see the possible responses tumbling across this face, like the reels of a slot machine, and for as long as he was unsure what to say, or how to say it, his jaw remained slack. He licked his lips as the slot reels slowed.
I could see that what I’d said had hit him, hard. But it hadn’t sunk in. Not yet. Because he said he didn’t believe Danny was a killer. I told him that a month ago I wouldn’t have believed it either, but there was just too much here to ignore. I told him I could be living with a killer.
I took out this journal, showed it to Otto, and told him the dates that he gave me the jewelry after being out all night, it was the day after the Sandman had killed someone else. This caused Otto to pause again.
He asked if I wanted to go to the police about this. I asked him what he thought about that – I was here for his advice. He said he didn’t know what do to, because of my prenup. Part of the prenup is a mutual-respect clause – basically, if I falsely accused my husband of anything, I would lose my right to a share of the marital assets.
I told Otto I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t think about anything else. This was driving me mad.
He got up and came around the desk. Put his hands on my shoulders and did his best to console me, whispering softly and gently rubbing my upper arms. There was an antique mahogany chair at the wall behind him, he picked it up, placed it beside mine and sat down.
He tried to calm me. I felt stupid. Stupid, afraid and selfish. I took a Kleenex from my pocket and wiped away the fresh tears. I said that I look at my husband now and I ask myself if he killed all those people, and I don’t know the answer. I just don’t know. I can’t live like this.
I remember staring into Otto’s face. The poor guy. He dealt with nice, wealthy people whose only problem was making sure they didn’t have to give so much of their money to the IRS. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need me coming into this office, crying all over his desk. Being stupid. Hysterical. He seemed genuinely concerned. And I could tell he wanted to help. But he didn’t know how to handle me.
He said he had a private investigator who would look into this, in secret. And if they found something he would come to the police station with me. He was concerned when I’d told him I’d lied to the police. He kept referring back to this, asking why I’d said that. I just told him I didn’t know what it was about, and right then I didn’t suspect Danny of so much as a parking violation never mind being a serial killer.
He got up and approached a steel filing cabinet in the corner. It was a large, heavy-duty, fireproof thing that looked like it weighed a ton. Probably used to hold property deeds and other important original documents. He took a key from the chain in his waistcoat, unlocked the file and opened the second drawer. He took out what I thought was a bright yellow toy gun.
He said he hated guns, but for insurance purposes they insisted he have some kind of personal protection, so he had this. It was a taser gun. He said he wanted me to have it, and that it might make me feel better. He also said he would feel better if I had it. I took the taser gun, felt the weight. It was surprisingly heavy.
I thanked him.
He said he would be in touch. I left Otto’s office thankful that I’d taken the plunge. At least someone else knew. At least, if something ever happened to me, Otto would know I’d told the truth.
Someone would know.
