A Good Marriage Read online

Zach did provide me with a few physical descriptions of people from the party who might be able to attest to his departure time: Guy with the jester’s hat? Old woman in pigtails? Bald guy, Wellfleet T-shirt? I asked him several times about this walk on the promenade, which was perhaps the weakest alibi in the history of all alibis. It sounded like a lie on its face. Who left a party to go out walking alone at that time of night in a place that was a cab ride away? Yet Zach insisted that was exactly what had happened. Could someone have seen him? I’d asked. “Sure, maybe,” he’d said, but not in a way that made me feel like I should send Millie searching for witnesses. There was the driver of the cab Zach claimed to have taken to Brooklyn Heights, for instance. He’d hailed it from the street, though—there was no record of it. But why would Zach be lying about his alibi and yet be unwilling to take the one Maude had offered him?

  Amanda’s father—viable alternate suspect no. 1—remained our best defense. We—or ideally somebody other than me—needed to find him and prove he’d been in Brooklyn that night. Otherwise, I had a bad feeling that Wendy Wallace’s very well-crafted story would bury Zach alive.

  And I didn’t want to be responsible. I needed to go back to Paul and tell him that we should hand Zach’s defense off to someone now, well before trial. I could say that a murder trial would interfere with my other matters, all of which were also Paul’s. He might even be happy for an excuse to drop the case; he’d been able to see Wendy, maybe he’d already gotten it out of his system.

  “Here you go,” the guard said when he returned, handing back Zach’s signed power of attorney. “You know, you should tell your client to be careful. He’s going to get hurt for real one of these times.”

  “I know,” I said, relieved and surprised that a guard was acknowledging the assaults. “Is there something we could do, or I—I could do to help him? Maybe some advice, or someplace he could be moved?”

  The guard tilted his head, like he was sure I was messing with him.

  “Uh, how about you start by telling him to stop bashing his own head in.”

  Grand Jury Testimony

  KENNETH JAMESON,

  called as a witness the 7th of July and was examined and testified as follows:

  EXAMINATION

  BY MS. WALLACE:

  Q: Thank you for being here, Mr. Jameson.

  A: Yes. Okay.

  Q: Can you state your job title for the record, please?

  A: Senior New York City crime scene analyst, Second Department.

  Q: And how long have you been a crime scene analyst?

  A: Twenty-five years. I’ve been a senior analyst for fifteen years.

  Q: Did you visit the scene at 597 Montgomery Place in the early morning hours of July 3rd?

  A: Yes.

  Q: And what did you observe at the scene?

  A: There was a deceased female. Extensive blood spatter.

  Q: Could you determine the cause of death at that time?

  A: I made a preliminary determination. Cause, homicide. Method, blunt-force trauma.

  Q: Have you identified the murder weapon?

  A: Not definitively. We are waiting for final test results.

  Q: Have you made a preliminary assessment?

  A: Yes.

  Q: And what is that assessment?

  A: That Mrs. Grayson was struck with a golf club.

  Q: How did you reach this conclusion?

  A: First, it was found at the scene right next to the body. Second, it was found to have blood on it matching the victim’s.

  Q: Anything else?

  A: She had a defensive wound to her arm. She held it up to block the blow.

  Q: Anything else?

  A: The blood spatter patterns in the area of the body are consistent with that object being used to strike the victim repeatedly.

  Q: Can you elaborate, please?

  A: You can tell from the shape of the blood drops and their pattern the manner in which they were left. Blood spatter provides a blueprint for the way a particular crime was committed.

  Q: And what did you discern from the blood spatter pattern in this case?

  A: That Mrs. Grayson was struck multiple times about the head.

  Q: Anything else that points to the golf club as the murder weapon?

  A: Preliminary analysis suggests that the wounds are consistent with the size and shape of the golf club.

  Q: Meaning?

  A: I believe she was struck with a golf club about the head when she was standing, then again several times after she had fallen. Her being at different heights as the attack continued accounts for the various locations and the variety in the type of blood spatter.

  Q: So, in layman’s terms and based only on your preliminary analysis, of course, what is your professional conclusion as to the manner and cause of Mrs. Grayson’s death?

  A: That she was beaten to death with a golf club while at the bottom of the stairs in her home.

  Amanda

  TWO DAYS BEFORE THE PARTY

  Amanda awoke later than usual the day after Kerry’s birthday dinner, her body beginning to acclimate to her child-free days. Almost as if Case had never even existed. It frightened her a little. But at least Amanda hadn’t had the dream again, had she? That was something. Maybe getting used to Case being gone wasn’t the worst thing.

  It was 8:15 a.m., the bed next to her long empty. Zach was always up and out at 5:30 a.m. to the gym and then to work. He did not believe in idleness.

  What was he doing, though, she wondered, at this exact moment? And why was he always at the office so late, and so early? Did he really need to work quite that much? Kerry was a lawyer and Sebe was a doctor and a tech start-up entrepreneur, and neither of them put in hours like Zach. Or was he not really working the whole time he was gone? The thought had, of course, occurred to Amanda before. She was not stupid.

  But when Case was around, Amanda always had more important things to worry about. And their life moved more smoothly when she held her tongue. Amanda thought back to the last time she’d forgotten that. They’d been in their second home in Davis and Zach had been complaining again about his most recent boss—he was not as smart or talented or hardworking or insightful as Zach. And Amanda was pregnant and so nauseous at the time. It was like their entire reality slipped her mind.

  “You never like anybody,” she’d snapped at Zach. “Have you ever thought about whether the problem is you?”

  Zach’s eyes had flashed. But then Amanda watched his face shift like he’d just decided something. Calmly he set down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Just glaring at her. In silence. Amanda had squirmed in her chair. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.

  “What did you just say?”

  Zach was looking at Amanda like he despised her. Like he wanted her dead. No, like she already was dead, and all that remained was the disposing of her body.

  “Nothing,” she’d said quickly, wrapping her hands around her belly. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Even now, Amanda felt queasy remembering. But she couldn’t risk staying silent. Certainly not about her dad. Case would be back in a few weeks. Amanda needed to find her voice immediately.

  She could even start right then, but with something small. She could call Zach at work and tell Taylor she needed to speak with him directly. Then she could do that simple, ordinary thing other wives did every single goddamn day: ask her husband if he would be home for dinner. And she could act like she was entitled to the answer.

  Full of purpose, Amanda rolled over and grabbed her phone. But there was already a new voice mail. Not from an unknown number, luckily. This was a 212 area code. She tapped to listen.

  “Hello, Mrs. Grayson, this is Teddy Buckley, your accountant from PricewaterhouseCoopers?” he began. “We had an appointment this morning? I’m at your office, and no one is answering. I don’t know if we got our signals crossed, but I really do need to meet with you as soon as possible. I’ll come back t
omorrow.”

  Shoot. Had she really just forgotten, though? Or had it been more deliberate than that? But leaving Teddy Buckley waiting outside the foundation’s office at such an early hour was rude, not assertive. Amanda was going to need to be a lot more precise in how she stood up for herself if she was going to get Zach to listen.

  The phone lit up with another call. Carolyn.

  “Hello?”

  “How was the dinner party?” Carolyn asked. The sound of a busy Manhattan street was in the background—horns, voices—and Carolyn was breathing hard, as though she was walking quickly. “Did Sarah give you shit about Zach not being there?”

  The “shit about Zach” role belonged to Carolyn. She got territorial.

  “It was a little awkward,” Amanda said. “But they were all really sweet and understanding in the end.”

  “Hmm. Sweet,” Carolyn said skeptically. “Just don’t get too sucked in. You know how those women can be.”

  “Those women” were any of the wives and mothers Amanda had become friends with in any of the towns they’d moved to over the years. To Carolyn they were all the same. But Amanda believed that Sarah and Maude were different. They were real friends. They cared about her. She didn’t want Carolyn to undermine that.

  “Hey, could you meet for a run after work?” Amanda asked. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said—what you’ve been saying—about Zach.” Amanda sucked in a breath. It was amazing how scary it was, admitting just that.

  “And?” Carolyn sounded cautiously optimistic.

  “I want to talk to you about it when I see you.”

  “Um, okay, sure.” Carolyn sounded disappointed now. “But I can’t tonight. Tomorrow?”

  Amanda resisted the urge to press. “Great. See you at the usual spot, eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

  When Amanda got out of the shower, there was a text from Sarah: Coffee? Maude and me. In 15 at Blue Bottle. They often met at the café on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Third Street before starting their day. Amanda used to go to Blue Bottle even more often, to read in the afternoon, before things with the foundation began heating up. She’d loved sitting there, watching the neighborhood writers at work—Park Slope had so many—like the young, shaggy-haired dad with the 26.2 sticker on his computer who always seemed so focused. Amanda could feel it in the air, the magic of all those stories being built. Sometimes, she imagined asking that dad what he was writing, or how many marathons he’d run. But of course she never had.

  Yes! See you there, Amanda replied.

  It was amazing that Amanda and her friends all had the flexibility for late-morning coffee dates. But then both Maude and Amanda were their own bosses, and Sarah was technically an employee, but only of Amanda’s. Sarah did like mentioning that at every opportunity, though. Not in a hostile or resentful way, more like she wanted to be sure that Amanda knew she hadn’t forgotten. Sarah didn’t need the paycheck, of course. She’d taken the job at the foundation to give something back to parents who really needed it—a break from the ungrateful contingent of the Brooklyn Country Day PTA.

  Amanda dressed quickly in one of her casual, quirky summer dresses, the kind she’d finally learned were exactly right for daytime summer in Park Slope (when paired with pricey but “minimalist” sandals). She headed down the hallway feeling almost cheerful. It had been nearly twelve hours since the last call. More than two days since she’d last thought Daddy was following her. She knew better than to get her hopes up, but there was the chance that he’d slithered back into his hole.

  Amanda was about to turn down the stairs when she caught sight of Zach’s open office door up on the third floor. Zach didn’t usually leave the door open when he wasn’t home. His office was his private space. Even Amanda didn’t go in unless she needed to do something specific like fix the closet (finally scheduled for next week). This had been true in every house they’d ever lived in, once their houses were big enough for luxuries like an office.

  “Zach!” Amanda called up. Maybe he’d gone to work early but stopped back home on his way to the airport or something. Often Amanda had no idea he was scheduled to travel until he’d come and gone. She took a couple steps back and aimed her voice more directly. “Zach!”

  The house was utterly quiet.

  Amanda made her way up and toward the open door with a rising sense of dread. But what exactly was she afraid of? She’d lived for so long—always, really—by such a clear set of rules. There had been the rules for surviving back with Daddy in the trailer—hide, lie still, run. There were the rules for avoiding conflict with Zach—don’t complain, don’t ask questions, don’t be where you’re not supposed to go. Simple, really. Considering breaking any of them—intentionally—was bound to feel dangerous. Amanda was holding her breath by the time she finally reached the top of the stairs and peeked into the office.

  An empty room. She exhaled.

  Three massive computer screens, wrapped around like a cockpit on Zach’s sleek midcentury modern desk. The shelves were lined with the books that Amanda was sure Zach had never read. She’d been there, back in Palo Alto, when the “personal library curator” had selected the books to give the precise intellectual impression Zach desired—not that he ever had anyone in his home office to appreciate it. It was too bad. The books did paint a convincing picture of someone who was adventurous and curious, a casual athlete and an open-minded traveler. A person who was interested less in the finer things in life and more in a life well lived. It was an appealing idea of a man, just not one that had anything to do with Zach.

  The only thing that Zach had ever cared about, as far as Amanda could tell, was success. And not even for the money—which she might have understood better—but for the pure satisfaction of coming out on top. Winning for winning’s sake. Zach didn’t just want it. He needed it. As if without it, he’d have vanished into thin air.

  Amanda had never cared before about Zach’s obsession with success or those pretend books. But today, all of it grated. Amanda thought about those novels she’d pored over so longingly at the library, the stories that had saved her life. And yet here was Zach, thinking he could have all that just by laying down some cash. But then, why not? After all, he’d bought her.

  Amanda’s face felt hot suddenly. Her heart was throbbing in her ears. No. She was not a thing that belonged to Zach. Of course she wasn’t, and neither was Case. This was her home, too.

  Amanda felt a little rush as she stepped inside the office, arms crossed tight.

  On the floating shelves on either side of Zach’s desk was a scattering of the framed photographs that had been taken over the years by an assortment of paid photographers Zach had insisted Amanda hire. The pictures, displayed throughout the house, were lovely. But Amanda longed for family photos like Sarah’s, with mussed hair and chocolate-covered faces and closed eyelids. Even Maude and Sebe had these kinds of pictures—of life in all its perfect imperfection. For Zach, that kind of thing simply wouldn’t do. For him, their family had always been an airbrushed abstraction, something to be put on a shelf and admired from a distance.

  But what did Amanda want out of her family, her marriage? She’d never seriously considered the question. To be able to tell her own husband that she was scared. She wanted at least that much. And she wanted him to care.

  Amanda made her way over to Zach’s desk chair and sat down. When she put her hand over the mouse, the computer screens came to life. Yet another photo of the three of them, taken by a photographer in Sunnydale, where they’d lived until Case was a year old. Outlined in light, they were standing by the window of their loft apartment—which looked far more glamorous than it had actually been. Zach had Case cradled in his forearms. Amanda stood behind them, her hands on Zach’s shoulders, gazing down at Case. As if this was a thing they did: touched each other, gazed adoringly.

  When Amanda swiped the mouse again, a password
request popped up. She tried her birthday and Case’s together, halfheartedly. As she expected, the password was rejected. It was too demoralizing to consider other possible alternatives.

  Instead, Amanda pulled at the drawer to her right. To her surprise, it slid open, unlocked. Inside, were several manila folders, crisp and neatly stacked. Amanda lifted them out and set them on her lap. The top was labeled Case Camp. There were brochures for several of the camps they had discussed, including the one that Case had ultimately attended. Amanda maintained all the files for Case—school, camp, activities. She’d had no idea Zach ever kept anything.

  Amanda flipped to the next file, Case Activities. There was a brochure for the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, where Case took guitar lessons, and for the DUSC Soccer League. Case School had copies of Case’s Brooklyn Country Day report card, the school newsletter they’d gotten at spring parent-teacher conferences (the only one Zach would probably ever attend—he knew the minimum that was required), and the student directory. Looking at all of it, Amanda felt such a strange mix of confusion, guilt, and sadness. Like she’d stumbled upon some rebellious teenager’s secret collection of well-loved toys. Was this the true Zach? Was this what he really wanted? To be more involved. Maybe he didn’t know how to ask for what he needed, any more than Amanda did.

  At the bottom of the stack was something she’d never seen before: emails from the Brooklyn Country Day headmaster’s office to Zach’s personal email. Three of them, to be exact, all with the exact same text, though slightly different formatting—there’d been an unfortunate incident involving Case that Country Day needed to discuss as soon as possible—followed by details about how a meeting could be set up, with what was probably a drag-down selection of dates. Three such messages over the past three months, starting about a month after they’d arrived—April 24, May 19, June 5.

  Of all the clerical mix-ups, Country Day had emailed Zach about something so important? They might as well have flushed the emails straight down the toilet. She couldn’t even blame Zach for ignoring them. He would have assumed that Amanda had gotten them, too. That she was dealing with the “incident” as she ordinarily would have, completely and thoroughly and alone. The messages were maddeningly vague, too. Were they about something Case had done or something that had been done to him? Was he the problem, or was it a problem he was having?