“It was so weird to see you from the surveillance room,” Tenley was saying. Catherine could tell her daughter was playing something back in her mind. “You looked up at the camera, right? How’d you know where I worked? What room, I mean?”
“You told me.” Brileen also seemed to be communicating a private message. “Don’t you remember that, either?”
“Huh,” Tenley said. “So who was the guy in the black car? And why were you coming to see me, anyway?”
Catherine cleared her throat, waved away the hovering waitress. No more chitchat. “Tenley?” She half smiled, tried to, at least, and got the show on the road. “Although your friend and I have never met, she knows very well who I am. I’m not sure why you wanted us to do this, honey, but we’re here now. Because you asked us to be. I have five minutes.”
“Brileen.” Tenley fussed with her water glass, turned it, moved it a fraction of an inch. “Mom thinks you were having an affair with my father.”
“What?” Brileen’s skin went white under her freckles, the pale brown spots suddenly highlighting her smooth skin.
Catherine saw Brileen’s eyes fly open. Those stubby fingernails, deep lavender, went to her lips. She clutched the laptop to her chest.
Yeah, well, that’s what happens when the truth finally comes out, Catherine thought. She never considered she’d actually meet this girl. Surely with Greg’s death-Greg’s death-she’d figured this sordid chapter would become part of a history she’d somehow learn to ignore. But there was a grim satisfaction in seeing justice done. You didn’t get away with anything, sister.
Brileen looked straight at her. And laughed, a pealing, lilting, incongruous laugh. Her head thrown back, her slender throat showing, her hand clamped against her chest.
That’s it, Catherine thought. What could possibly be funny? Funny? She gathered her purse, shaking her head, her skin tightening at such a disrespectful and insolent reaction. “Tenley!”
Tenley, looking at Brileen, put up a hand. Wait.
Brileen’s laughter faded. When she looked toward Catherine again, her eyes were wet with tears.
Had she laughed so hard she was crying? Catherine could not put up with this for one more second. Or maybe the girl was hysterical.
The waitress arrived with two white ceramic mugs, coffee steaming, on a battered circular tray. Instantly silent, the three women flinched back against the upholstery, each side as far away from the other as possible. The waitress placed one, then two mugs on the table, the china clinking against the plastic. She laid out a napkin, then another. Then two spoons. Then the sugar container.
“Anyone need cream?” She paused.
“No,” Catherine said, trying to telegraph go the hell away. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Siskel.” Brileen grabbed a paper napkin, blotted her tears as the waitress finally left them. “I am so sorry. I am so, deeply, deeply sorry.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes, trying to parse what she meant. Sorry about being a selfish, beautiful, husband-stealer? Sorry about laughing in her face?
“Lanna must have talked about me, Mrs. Siskel,” Brileen said.
“She mentioned you.” True enough, but only in passing. They were school chums, right? Which is how Brileen had latched on to Greg. Obviously. If she’d ever been to the Siskel home-please, no-it had been while Catherine was at work. Which, sadly for all involved, was often.
“So you know I loved Lanna,” Brileen said.
“You did?” Tenley said. She scratched her head, like she was trying to figure this out.
“Oh, Tenley, no. No. I loved her like a sister. Like you did.” Brileen touched her arm with one finger. “I’m with Valerie, have been for years. Done deal.”
The din and hubbub of the restaurant seemed to wash over Catherine, fried food and burned coffee and the whir of ceiling fans, her brain struggling for equilibrium. So if this girl was… no. Facts were facts, and what she had seen in e-mails and heard on voice mail was real.
“Then why were you calling my husband?” Catherine leaned forward, accusatory. “Why did you e-mail back and forth? Why did you meet him? Even the day he-”
Catherine stopped. Even the day he died, there was a message from you, Catherine was about to say. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t say Greg was dead.
“Even yesterday, you e-mailed him,” Catherine said. “Yesterday morning.”
“I know.” Brileen took the laptop bag from over her shoulder and placed it on the seat beside her.
“You did?” Tenley said.
“You admit it?” Catherine felt her back stiffen, her eyebrows go up. That was easy.
“But yesterday morning, you and I hadn’t even met,” Tenley went on as if she hadn’t been cut off. She spun her coffee mug one way, then the other, batting the handle with her forefingers. The ceramic scraped against the table surface. A dark droplet splashed onto the table. “So how would you even-I mean, why-”
Brileen laid her left hand over the top of her own mug, then her right hand over that. She removed them, quickly-the coffee looked hot-and stared at her palms.
“Brileen?” Catherine said. “My daughter is asking the perfect question. Why?”
The girl was clearly stalling. She must be, what, twenty-six? At the most? Twenty years younger than Greg. What could she possibly be considering so intently?
The steam from the coffee in front of her rose, dissipated, disappeared.
“I had to protect Valerie. And then Lanna. But now I’m done. Yes. This has to end.” Brileen laced her fingers together, hands clasped under her chin. She leaned forward. “You have to understand. I-your husband and I-we were trying to protect you,” she whispered.
“Protect me?” Catherine said.
“Not only you, Mrs. Siskel,” Brileen said. “You and Tenley.”
“What?” Catherine could not process this.
Brileen put one hand flat on the table, moved it closer to Catherine, almost touching her. “I’ll tell you the whole thing. But first, I am so, so, so sorry. And so sorry for your loss.”
53
The surveillance room was empty. Jane closed the metal door behind her. Scoped the place out.
How different could all this equipment be from the edit booths and microwave trucks that Jane had worked in for years? The computer console with its array of controls and lights might has well have been edit room 4 at her old TV station. It looked exactly like Marsh Tyson’s office. Or Editing 101 at J-school. Which Jane had aced.
She felt watched, even though no one else was in the room. Probably because you’re trespassing, she thought. But wasn’t this where Beefy and Co. had wanted to bring her anyway? She dropped into the ratty swivel chair, its stained upholstery snagged and worn, and rolled herself up to the main console.
Five rows of video monitors spanned the wall, a flickering grid of black-and-white images. Hallways, elevators, vending machines. Stairways, supply rooms. Kitchen, pantry. Closed doors, some with the room numbers showing. Wonder if guests knew their every move was watched and recorded? Some screens were dark, like black holes in the video grid.
The second row of monitors all showed the lobby. Front door, concierge desk. She saw the concierge on the phone for one second, then the screen shots changed and new images swam up. The registration desk. Empty. The palm tree where she’d encountered Gracie. On the lowest row, the five screens were larger, images constantly changing. A pretty expensive setup. She watched, feeling strangely omniscient.