Comfort? I wouldn’t use that word. I wouldn’t even say I’m happy about what I did. Or unhappy. Virtually every moral code and penal code would condemn my actions. I analogize it to the law of war, instead. My father and Lauren declared war on my mother and me. They killed her, and I killed them back. Soldiers aren’t prosecuted for killing other soldiers. They’re prosecuted only for killing innocents. Lauren and my father were the furthest things from innocents. I don’t require approval, nor do I accept disapproval, for what I’ve done.
Did I know that the Grace Village P.D. would fingerprint Lauren and take a DNA sample? Sure, they always do that, if for no other reason than exclusion, differentiation from other prints and DNA found at the scene. Did I know that they’d enter this information into FBI databases? Of course—standard protocol. Did I know that this newly submitted information would find a match in the databases for the champagne bottle and plastic flute found at my father’s crime scene? I hoped so. I couldn’t be sure Lauren’s prints or DNA would be on that bottle or those champagne flutes. But a guy can hope.
And did I time this entire thing so that St. Louis would be in a position to declare its investigation solved and closed only weeks before I had to stand here before this committee and answer questions?
Well, let’s just say the timing worked out okay.
“I’m just glad to put it behind me,” I say, looking squarely at Dean Comstock as I do.
105
Simon
The forest preserve outside Burlington, Wisconsin, where Vicky stashed her post-Halloween burner phone to communicate with me, seems as good as any place to meet. I get there early, having the longer drive and not wanting to be late. The habit of timing things perfectly with Vicky, so critical over the summer and fall, is hard to scrub from my DNA.
I assume there isn’t much of a need to be careful anymore. The day after Jane Burke visited me with the news about Lauren’s fingerprint on the champagne bottle, Grace Village P.D. announced a solve in the murder of Lauren Betancourt. Nicholas Caracci, aka Christian Newsome, killed her in a jealous rage after she rejected his advances and then took his own life out of remorse. I watched the press conference, which featured Jane Burke standing behind the chief, looking as happy as someone with hemorrhoids.
Through the light snowfall, Vicky walks up the trail in a new, long wool coat and matching hat.
I wonder how she’ll approach, arms out for an embrace or hands tucked in her pockets and keeping a distance. It’s no secret that we have very different feelings about our relationship, that I want far more than she does. That made it awkward on occasion over the months that we plotted our scheme. It wasn’t easy executing this plan. It was scary and stressful. At times, we clung to each other for comfort—a hug, a peck on the cheek, a quick rub of the back.
But there was an undeniable intimacy to sharing secrets like we did, to knowing that it was us against the world, that we could trust no one but each other. We’d lie together, up on the roof in lounge chairs, on the couch in the living room, working through everything. We argued about some things, mostly about Vicky sleeping with Nick, an unbearable thought to me and the last thing on earth Vicky wanted to do, but she insisted (“It’s his routine, his scam, it will make him comfortable that his scam is working like it always has.” “How else will he and I ever be close enough to make this work?” “I can handle it. I know how to shut off and just perform the act without it meaning anything. I have years of experience”).
I quizzed her to keep her sharp (What was my mother’s middle name? What day were we married? Where did I go to high school?). We’d go over the next day’s text-message exchange (“Be playful, you’re still in the honeymoon phase.” “Maybe be a little cranky tomorrow; everyone’s cranky sometimes, right?” “Tomorrow, you start showing signs of hesitation, second thoughts”). She’d read the journal I was writing and offer critiques and suggestions (“Mention I’m from West Virginia, but do it like a throwaway comment.” “You need to be freaking out a little—you’re falling in love with Lauren and you’re married to me!” “You have to show a little self-doubt, like this is too good to be true”).
I admit, it felt like some kind of bizarre, rekindled courtship. But I always noted caution in Vicky, a fear of encouraging me, of giving me the wrong idea. All her talk about what would come afterward, for example, how much she looked forward to living in Wisconsin with her nieces, was her way of reminding me, in her subtle way, that nothing was going to change between us.
No, I had to keep reminding myself. Vicky’s not falling in love with me. She’s just being affectionate. She just likes me a lot.
That, and we’re plotting a double murder together.
Her smile breaks wide as she approaches. Something inside me breaks as well. I’ve never seen her like this. And I thought I’d seen every version of Vicky. I’ve seen her bitter and full of venom. I’ve seen her despondent and lifeless. I’ve seen her focused and determined, channeling that rage. And yes, for a while—before I screwed up everything by falling so hard for her, proposing marriage, pushing her—I’ve seen her content, what I thought was Vicky being happy.
But that wasn’t happy. This, Vicky today, is Vicky happy. A glow to her face, a bounce in her walk. As beautiful as any woman I’ve ever seen.
I put out my arms and she sails into them, holding me for a long time, moaning with pleasure. I close my eyes and drink it all in, the smell of her, the feel of her, the warmth of her, quite possibly the last time I will hold her like this.
“Ooooh, I’ve missed you, fella,” she whispers.
Not as much as I’ve missed her. But I don’t say that. I won’t make this hard for her.
“Merry Christmas,” I say when we pull back from each other, enough to see each other’s faces. She takes my hands in hers.
“Merry Christmas, indeed,” she says. “Santa was very generous. Very. You should’ve seen the look on Miriam’s face, Simon. She was crying. She was screaming. She counted the money like ten times. She just kept shouting, ‘A million dollars! A million dollars! Who would give us a million dollars in cash?’ I didn’t say anything, of course. Though I wanted to.”
I seesaw my head. “Better it stay anonymous. Just in case anyone’s still watching me and sees that I gave some random domestic-violence shelter in Wisconsin a bunch of cash. It could lead to you.”
She nods. “You don’t really think anyone’s still watching, do you?”
“I don’t. But I was always more paranoid than you.”
“Good thing you were.” She searches my face. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. Give us that money.”
“Hey, what am I gonna do with a million dollars? I already have heat and A/C.”
She rolls her eyes. “You could’ve kept a little of the money Ted left you.”
“You could’ve taken some of it, lady.”
I offered it to her. All of it. She said no. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much. She’s been poor her whole life, she scrapped and pinched and sold her body to support herself, and here a guy is willing to fork over twenty-one million dollars to her, gratis, and she turns it down. The shelter, okay, but she wouldn’t take a dime personally.
She’s in rebuilding mode, and she wants to rebuild on her own terms.
“Oh, speaking of loads of money,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to ask—did you get the full professorship?”