“What?” I say. My voice comes out a squeak. That seems risky.
Will holds up a hand, smiling. “If they were not prepared to charge Josh with something, we were out of there. Of course, they have, as we say in the legal world, zippo evidence against Josh. So we left. Case closed.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Me wrapped around Josh. Josh staring into nowhere. Will scoots his cordovan briefcase closer to the wall, its metal feet sliding across the scuffed tiles.
“Watch this, will you?” he says. “I’m getting more coffee for the road. You two?”
We both shake our heads as Will heads back to the remarkably decrepit excuse for a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. The same frizzle-headed guy has doled out miserable coffee and weak tea and little bags of chips and packets of stale red licorice for the past thirty years. He must have photographs of someone important.
“Well. I’m glad that’s over,” Josh says. “That sucked.”
I almost burst out laughing, even though I know Josh has been through hell and nothing about it is funny. Josh never says sucked. Instead of laughing, I snuggle a little closer. But then, because Josh is fine and Will isn’t worried, I can’t resist asking one question.
I pull back, still not letting go completely, and look up at Josh.
“Honey? Did they ask where you were when Dorothy was ‘murdered’? I mean, did they say the word murder? For Dorothy or Alethia? And did they say anything about Dorothy’s tox screen?”
Josh blinks, considering. “No. No, they didn’t. They did talk about Alethia’s fall, though. All the time I was keeping my mouth shut, they were yapping, one after the other, trying to goad me into responding. Seems like it was Alethia’s fall that’s got them concerned. One of them said it turned out, her briefcase and purse were still in her office. So I suppose they were wondering why she was outside.”
I nod. “Good question, actually. Though how would you know?”
“Problem is, as I told Will. I don’t have alibis for the nights of either death. Remember? I took you home then went back to campus the night of the Head’s party. I was working late the night of Alethia’s fall. You can see how that makes me a prime suspect.”
“But we know that’s absurd,” I say. “And they do, too. They let you go. You have no motive whatsoever. Besides, dozens of people were at the school the nights of the murders. Some we know. Clearly, some we don’t. And that’s who killed them.”
Josh raises an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say. “Killed them. That’s what I think. Hey. You should call Penny. Leave her a message, in case she comes to your office when classes are over.” I zip open my purse, digging for my cell. It’s disappeared, somewhere down into the black hole. I pull out a file folder that’s blocking my search. “Hold this.”
“How you ever find anything in that suitcase-” Josh begins. He looks inside the folder. “What’s this?”
“That’s the fundraising list, the one I told you about. From Dorothy’s study,” I say, my face half-buried in the tote bag. “You know. With the circled names.”
Josh is silent.
I look up from my search. “What?”
“Well, this report.” Josh flips through the pages. “It’s not distributed yet. We received several boxes of them from the printer. But until they’re mailed out, the Head’s storing them all. Some in his office, some in Ebling’s. So from his point of view, there’s no way you could have gotten a copy. Ebling didn’t mention that?”
“No, but as Penny would say, no biggie, right? Are the boxes all sealed or something? I mean, lots of administrative types must have the report. Maybe Ebling thinks I got it from you. Or the bursar. Or the Head. Here’s the phone. Call Penny. Tell her you had a meeting.”
Josh hands me the report, shrugging, as he takes my phone. He flips it open, and smiles as he sees himself in the St. Bart’s photo. “No, the boxes aren’t sealed. Anyone at Bexter could have them. I suppose you’re right.”
“As always,” I say. Which reminds me. I look across the room as Josh begins to leave his message. Will is in deep discussion with the coffee guy. Both are waving their arms, making gestures that look like football passes.
“Sweetheart?” I say. “After Will leaves? We should talk.”
“It’s a crosswalk, moron!” I point an accusing gloved finger of the hand that’s not intertwined with Josh’s as we almost get nailed by a driver who’s actually texting as he careens onto Cambridge Street. The moron almost takes out both of us. And just as I was getting to the crucial part of my speech. Once across the street and though the tree-lined pigeon haven called Cardinal Medeiros Park, we’ll be at the front door of Channel 3. I better get to the point.
We dash across the painted white lines and arrive at the circle of snow-covered benches surrounding a snow-covered mound of earth in the center. Three months from now there’ll be daffodils, and workers eating brown-bag lunches in the sun. Now the circle of grass and bricks is bleak, white and empty.
“And so,” I continue, stepping carefully down the three steps to a curving stone pathway, “Kevin’s offer is a tempting one. And basically a dream come true.”
“If you want to go,” Josh says, smiling quietly, and taking my other hand, too, “I can deal. We can deal.”
“But wait. Here’s the deal I’d like to offer,” I say. “How about, I put my condo on the market. Can you make enough closet space for me on Bexter Drive? And then, let’s go back and taste the wedding cakes again.”
I feel, absurdly, as if I should be going down on one knee. Like Josh did in St. Bart’s.
“There’s no dream come true that’s more important than being with you,” I say. “When you were in that office, when I knew the stupid D.A.’s cops had actually taken you away, and then stupid Monica would not let me see you and I didn’t know if you had a lawyer, and no one would…”
My eyes fill with tears of anxiety and leftover worry. I might have lost Josh forever. Not only because he might have been accused of murder, which is ridiculous, but because I might have chosen to turn my back on a real once-in-a-lifetime offer. Josh’s offer. Of high-level battles over breakfast cereal and calamities of missing socks. Of sharing closets and sharing secrets.
I’m a reporter. I’m devoted to my career. I can’t imagine giving it up. But I can’t be two places at one time. And I only want to be here. With Josh. From now on.
“Sweets?” Josh says. He puts an arm across my shoulder and pulls my plaid scarf away from my face. His leather-gloved finger tilts my chin to look up at him. “It’s fine, honey. I’m not in jail. I’m not accused of anything. It’s all over. Over. Why are you crying?”
“Because you might have been. What if I had been in New York? What if you had been in trouble? What if Penny had been left alone?” My voice rises, high-pitched, and a couple of steel-gray pigeons skitter away at the sound.
“It’s over, honey. Nothing’s going to happen.” Josh pulls me close, our heavy wool coats and gloves and mufflers keeping us uncharacteristically far apart.
His words puff into clouds of winter white, then dissipate as we stand silently. I’m having a daytime nightmare about what might have been. And how we escaped it. A siren screams by and horns blare from the intersection. I tuck myself in as close as I can to Josh’s warmth. He’s right. It’s over.
When I look up into Josh’s hazel eyes, I see something new. It’s the road ahead. I know this will turn out to be a moment we remember. An illustration of how the worst of days can become the best of days.
One tear makes its way down my wind-chilled face. At this very second, part of my life is over. And a new part is beginning. I have no doubts about what I’m about to say. I take one step back from Josh so I can look at him full-on. Then I head into our future.