“Paula, I found out about this a few minutes ago when I saw it on the news. I don’t even know what to say.”
“So you do know the kid? It’s not some crazy coming out of the woodwork?” she asked.
“He was a patient, and I might know how to handle this. He may have misconstrued something. I mean I can’t talk to you about his case obviously, but I need to contact him, and...”
“I don’t think you should do that just now. This is...really fucking bad. You have to make this go away,” she said in a curt tone I’d never heard her use with me before.
“I will. I really think it’s nothing, and that he’s not altogether stable. It should be easily cleared up.” I was gaining confidence as I said it.
“Well, the details are pretty...damning. I hope you’re right, but get a lawyer.”
“What details?” I asked. “All I heard was that he said something sexual happened a few years ago...which, of course, it didn’t.” My confidence was gone as quick as I’d acquired it, and I noticed my hands trembling again.
“You don’t know?” she asked.
“No. What? What’s he saying?” I practically yelled into the phone.
“Well, you’ll find out in about five seconds if you look at any local papers or news today, so...” She stopped and took a pause that made me uneasy. “He says you tried to touch him, and he was scared...and...” She sighed.
“What? Is that all he said?” I demanded.
“This isn’t easy for me, Faith. He said you were concerned about his drug use and were going to recommend him to chemical dependency treatment.” She stopped.
“Yes. I was. And?”
“And he didn’t want to be sent away again, or have his parents find out about his drug use.”
“Okay, that’s all true, so what then?” I was growing impatient. Then she blurted it out.
“He said you wouldn’t make that recommendation on the condition he gave you...ah...certain sexual favors. Oral sex were actually the words he used.” She cleared her throat, uncomfortable.
“Paula. Oh my God,” I said in almost a whisper. “I...”
“Did you by any chance make the recommendation to chemical dependency treatment? Please say you did so we can sweep this under the rug,” she said, hopeful.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“Goddamn it!” She cut me off. I heard something bang on the other end, like she’d thrown or punched something.
“I told him he needed to prove he could stay clean, and I gave him a few weeks before I made any moves. He did. He proved he could stay away from drugs, and he was really doing well. Jesus! How could he say that? Paula, this is—” I didn’t even know what it was, how to describe it, process it.
“I’m sure the kid’s a quack,” she interrupted. “But you have a book coming out next month, and we need to make a public statement. Make it go away as soon as humanly possible. So, talk to a lawyer and work with the police,” she said firmly.
“Police? Are you kidding me? Police?” I said defiantly. I looked up at Liam, who simply closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He dumped the rest of his coffee into the sink and started to walk out of the room when there was a knock at the front door. Through the slim glass panels on either side of it, I could clearly see who it was.
The police.
SEVEN
NOW
The condo is on the fifth floor with a view of bustling shops below, a café with burnt coffee and an owner with body odor that’s pretty much stunk out all his customers, and, lucky for me, a pub called Grady’s. I stab the key into the lock of the condo door, and I don’t want to look around. It feels better than the house, but I’m not going to stare at photos of us on the wall and then imagine him the way he was in that photo, the same wide smile and pale eyes, his chest and shoulders buttery with coconut sun block, standing on a beach in Cabo. For all I know, he’s there right now with his arm around some other woman.
What wouldn’t be the same are the orange swim trunks he was wearing. His favorite. He didn’t take clothes. He didn’t pack anything. Maybe a reminder of this life he apparently wanted to escape so badly. Maybe just because he had money, why have luggage weigh down his elaborate plan? He really would start over completely.
I don’t even open the blinds. I place a key under the mat and call Merry Maids. Once they cleaned and took down the photos that I didn’t want to touch at the moment, I would order groceries and booze for delivery, and stop by a Macy’s down the block for new bedding. I might be able to work with the place then. For now, alcohol.
On my way out, I stop in the lobby. I remember Lettie and how I was able to help her. That seemed like another lifetime ago. I wonder if she stayed in Chicago after she left the shelter or left town to escape the ex. Just then, I see a woman trying to push open the door and balance a moving box on her hip. I hold open the door, and she rushes in. She is short and a bit disheveled, with wild hair and sweatpants. Not the usual sort of tenant the building attracts. It’s on the higher end of amenities even though it’s a historic building. It’s in a sought-after neighborhood; lots of young professionals who get dressed up just to go to the grocery store live here, so she stands out a bit.
“Oh my God. Thank you, thank you,” the woman says, out of breath. I notice that there is a cat in the box she’s holding. Before I can say anything, she holds her hand out. “I’m such a fan.”
“Oh.” I shake her hand, taken aback.
“I see you in the news, and I just want you to know there are a lot of people in your corner. It’s terrible what happened to you,” she says.
“Thanks.” I just want to be done with the conversation and have a drink in my hand.
“I’m just moving in. This is Mr. Pickle.” She nods to the cat in the box. “And I’m Hilly.”
“Well, welcome, Hilly. You’ll like the neighborhood, I’m sure.” She still stands there, staring at me. I notice a guy sliding some sort of flyer into the top cracks of each mailbox on the wall. He gives me an eye roll, seeming to understand how awkward this is as the woman stands there, too close I might add, smiling at me like I’m Beyoncé or something. He hands her one of the flyers, coming to my rescue.
“If you need any help with computer repair or set up in your new place, I’m at your service.” He puts a flyer in the box, next to her cat.
“Oh. Thanks. Say, can you replace a cracked screen?” she asks, backing out of my personal bubble and into his.
“I can do everything from turning the power on to hacking the Russian government.”