Phillip wants to be clear that Belina was a renter. She was pretty but poor, working for a family in the right kind of East Side neighborhood while she lived on the wrong side of Hope Street.
The male anchor is full of theories, noting on the map how a boat could have come up the river if the cemetery were closed. They’ve obviously never been there. There are at least a half dozen ways someone could get to where Belina was murdered, including two walking paths. But, yeah, maybe a boat.
The blonde anchor asks, with a deep, serious voice, who would want to harm a nanny. That’s the moment I see something click for Phillip. He needs a villain.
“If she had a lot of boyfriends, as some suggest,” he begins, pushing his black-framed glasses up his nose, “one of them may have been jealous.”
I nearly throw my computer. It’s bad enough that internet trolls are lying about Belina and Alec, but we certainly don’t need our journalists gossiping on air. Phillip knows better.
You’re so arrogant to assume you know anything at all.
On to the last segment, with the breaking news of a tape. Working with the media was a small part of being an attorney in DC, particularly when I was working a high-profile case. Best guess, this tape got Phillip the meeting with the Good Day RI executive producer. But the end goal would be to parlay this local half-hour segment into an advertisement for national news producers about what an excellent guest Phillip Hale could be. This could be very good news for both of us.
I’m impressed with this move. Phillip may have been forced out of the media game for a little while, relegated to being a basement blogger with a few hundred clicks a week, but now he is back.
He’ll come for you too.
After a short lead-in, the video plays. It’s dark, and the time stamp reads 6:07 p.m. The footage is slightly grainy and mostly dark colors, giving the effect of The Blair Witch Project. If Phillip had somehow been given the choice of full-color HD, he’d still have gone with this version.
There is a woman in the distance at the center of the shot. She strolls across the frame toward a side road. I’m holding my breath because I don’t need to see her face to know how she stands, the way she tosses her long hair as it blows in the wind.
And you’ll never see her again.
Phillip’s voice-over begins, his tone serious and solemn. Neither anchor interrupts; it’s now his show.
“Belina Cabrala entered Swan Point Cemetery on the East Side of Providence after it was closed for the night. She wandered alone in the growing dark. Here we see Belina walking toward a gazebo that overlooks the river. It’s a quarter mile from where she will be murdered within hours.”
Murdered and alone.
You could have done something once.
She trusted the wrong person.
The camera zooms closer, and she is standing at the center of the gazebo. Her silhouette is dark against the setting sun’s brightness, fading into the long line of the riverbank in the distance. Her hair continues to blow in the wind until she tucks it inside the jacket she’s wearing. It’s oversize on her shoulders, and I know she didn’t have it on when I saw her that afternoon. In fact, I’ve never seen her in it before. It was so warm that day. Why wear it? I see her nuzzle the shoulder, and then it clicks. That’s Alec’s jacket.
Phillip continues. “We’ll never know her final thoughts before she met her death. Belina seemed to have had a lonely life or, at the very least, a mysterious one. Most of her life was in Newport, living with her mother off and on while her father was never in the picture. Her social media had no photos of friends, and none have come forward since her death. Some say she had many boyfriends, but they also remain elusive. Who would a young woman meet in a secluded cemetery after dark? What kind of encounter did she expect? Why would they need such privacy?”
I roll my eyes at his lazy reporting, the “hot nanny” narrative being picked up even by him.
The footage continues, and Belina turns to face the camera, her jaw set, her eyes determined as if she’s made a choice. She stands up straighter, heading toward the river. Where she’ll die.
She wanted your help.
You didn’t even try to stop her.
Tears slide down my cheeks, and I have to hold my breath to get control. I fight these emotions. Fight this voice. Ester and exhaustion give them dominion again.
It takes a bit of focused breathing, but I’m back to the video. The segment cuts to the wide-eyed anchors, visions of New England Emmy Awards dancing in their heads. Phillip, in his nice suit and tie, hipster glasses, and deprecating grin, played this all just right.
I head to my whiteboard and add Phillip to my growing list of areas of inquiry. But not as a suspect. As my only way forward.
Across a bridge you burned.
Before I return to my desk, I text Phillip, asking to meet. Preferably at our old spot.
Chapter 7
It’s completely dark in the house when I open my eyes, which are burning from too little sleep. A key is turning in the back door lock, and Jack’s shoes echo on the hardwood floor.
He’ll know what you’ve been up to.
Breaking your promise.
Obsessing over cases again.
I slowly sit up on the couch in the living room, where I moved to give Ester a bottle. She fell asleep on my chest, and I joined her soon after.
I whisper for him to be quiet as he turns on a lamp. His shoes thump onto the floor, and he heads over to us. After first kissing my forehead, he gently takes Ester and disappears upstairs. Most evenings, he puts her to bed. She falls asleep much easier for him. If only she’d stay that way for more than a couple hours at a time.
It’s almost eight p.m., a little late for dinner, but Jack texted he’d be hungry, and I said we’d make something together.
I head to the kitchen because cooking is the right place to channel my anxiety about Alec. It’s also where Jack and I fight, and that’s coming too.
I turn on the lights to illuminate our kitchen, nicely updated but not especially big or modern. Everything is within a few steps, except the small alcove with a table and two chairs. I can see an older Ester there whizzing through her math homework, a brother and maybe a sister pestering her as they fight over the last slice of carrot cake, freshly baked.
Belina will never have that family.
You could have helped her, but you didn’t.
I stare at the ceiling light, blinking back tears, trying to focus on how to bring up Alec’s problems. With him in mind, I ask Alexa to play Radiohead, Kid A.
As the soft opening beats of “Everything in Its Right Place” thrum, I take the garlic from the window ledge. I crack off five large cloves and smack each of them harder than required with the side of a large knife before slicing them thin. What I don’t use in the sauce I’ll drop into butter I’m melting for the garlic bread.
I fill our spaghetti pot with water. Jack walks into the room as I turn up the flame. He’s changed into sweatpants and a ratty Georgetown hoodie. When I saw him in it for the first time, we were in law school, and he showed up at my apartment in the sweatshirt, then brand new, bright navy-blue with letters white and crisp. I rolled my eyes, explained wearing your own college’s shirt is like going to a concert with the band’s shirt on.
He frowned, and I said, “Anyway, what’s the big deal? It’s not like we’re at Harvard.”