An imperfect plan a nove.., p.30
An Imperfect Plan: A Novel, page 30
Emily’s voice was forcefully chipper. “And after lunch I got something for you, so bring the sweats and I’ll pack these.” She threw a pair of Hunter rain boots into an empty canvas bag that was hanging in the mudroom.
Emily reached for Greta’s waistband, trying to tug her sweats off and help her put on the jean skirt. “I’m taking you out to lunch; you need some real food. Come on, put this on and I’ll get you a steak at MacDuff’s.”
“God no, we could run into Jack. And why do you care if I wear Patrick’s sweats to a restaurant? This town has made you all so insane.”
Emily ignored her insult. She pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her pocket and rubbed it on Greta’s lower lip. “Your lips look dry. I thought you guys were friends. Has he not been supportive? I saw his wife at Pilates and—”
Greta held her hand up to stop her. She buttoned the jean skirt. In some ways, it was nice that Emily was making small decisions for her. “I’m just such bad company,” she confessed.
“You need vitamin D,” Emily said, pulling on Greta’s arm. Emily dragged her out the front door and into her new BMW. She buckled her in and said, “Where can we get you a steak? A drink, we need a drink.”
“Can we go to L’Escale? Hopefully it’s all out-of-town tourists. I can’t deal with people. I’ve never hated this town so much.”
“Okay, we’ll go there, but none of this is your fault, and if anyone even looks at you otherwise, that is their problem.”
“Thanks. I just don’t have the energy. And it’s not just seeing people. Every time I go out of my house, I see things that remind me of Brayden. I went to CVS to pick up my prescription. I had a scarf around my face, oversize sunglasses because I was so worried about someone seeing me and offering condolences while they secretly judged me, and then I saw a bag of Chessmen cookies, Bray’s favorite, and had to run back to my car.”
“I would have picked up your scrip,” she said, putting her hand on Greta’s knee.
When they got to the restaurant, Emily said, “Let’s self-park so you don’t have to answer if the valet guy asks how you’re doing.”
“Yes, and maybe we should get it to go.”
“Let’s sit outside and see how you do. The sun will be good for you.”
“Okay.” Greta sighed. She had known this day of leaving her house would come, but she hadn’t realized how hard it would be to sit through one lunch.
Emily held her hand, practically holding her upright, and then whispered to the waitress as if she were sharing that it was a kid’s birthday. A young hostess escorted them to a table in the sun, and the waitress came over with two drinks and quickly took off, as Emily had likely instructed.
“To one step at a time,” Emily said, lifting her glass. Greta lifted hers too. A tear rolled down her face. She was touched by the effort Emily was making.
Greta chuckled. “I didn’t even know I owned a jean skirt.”
“So what’s up with Jack? Is he upset you left work? He’s got to understand you need to focus on your family. Mom worries that you’re not sleeping. She’s been so worried about you, honey.”
“Well, I wish she’d come by more, or call Logan, instead of asking me if I need a pedicure where she knows I’ll see people.”
“She’d take you to a New York spa if that’s the issue. She’d totally get it.”
“Oh God, Emily, it’s more than that. I’m working morning, noon, and night on the trial. I’m just sick of the rat race, and now that I know that Jack’s the one that ruined Dad’s career, I’m done with him. I’m not going back to work after my leave of absence.”
Emily gasped as Greta continued. “I figured it out when I was putting my open client files into Jack’s desk. He admitted it, but I was so consumed with Logan, I practically just let it go.”
“What an asshole,” Emily said.
“This solidified the end of our friendship,” Greta said as Emily continued nodding in disbelief.
“It’s not important now,” Emily said, her maturity impressing Greta.
“I know, right? My life looked so fucking perfect, and then it just blew up!”
“Greta, don’t say that, and stop shutting Mom out,” Emily said, tears now making her perfect makeup drip down her face. “You are going to get through this.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose. I mean, what would you do if Connor was in a jail cell? Would you just go get a pedicure with Mom?”
“Greta, I know it sucks, but Marshall says you have a good chance.” She put her hand on top of her sister’s.
Emily ordered chilled lobster, mussels Provençal, and oysters for them to share along with two more drinks. She slurped up the rest of her first one, exhaled, and asked, “Does Mom know Jack tipped off the Feds?”
“No, I’m not giving her the satisfaction of being right. I guess he was involved in the corruption, too, and likely took a plea bargain. But can you believe he had the nerve to show up at the derby party when he knew Dad was going down?”
“I’m so glad you guys didn’t get married.”
“Me too, but I cheated on Patrick with him,” Greta said. She was surprised she was sharing this with her sister at a time like this. “Makes me sick to my stomach that I did it.”
“Oh my God! Were you and Patrick having problems? When? I’m shocked.”
“Not everyone has to be having problems to do stupid, hurtful things, Em. I used to justify Dad cheating on Mom with Bianca because they had problems and Mom never showed him appreciation, but I think sometimes people do stupid things for no reason. I still can’t believe that Dad had a kid with Bianca.”
Emily buried her face in her hands and then said, “I know. I feel like we never talked about it much after you told me at Dad’s funeral. I can’t believe Bianca had the nerve to come. That was crazy. Poor Mom.”
“Mom’s always alluded to her being pretty aware of Dad’s secrets. Maybe she’s accepted her.”
“Yeah, I’m not talking to Mom about it. And all of this has put it in perspective too. I’m letting it go. I’m putting my energy on my nephew, and you.” Emily squeezed both of Greta’s hands.
Something was shifting between them. At first Greta was just getting things off her chest, but now she was glad she’d chosen Emily to reach out to. After facing tragedy, she was grateful to still have a sibling and wanted to reestablish a more genuine connection.
“Years ago, Dad asked me to hide some paperwork for him, and I noticed an extra 529 fund and thought it was suspicious, but he was in so much trouble with the law I never brought it up. Then I tried to just focus on my own family and issues and pushed the suspicion away, and then when Dad was dying I saw that he was still in touch with Bianca, and he admitted that her daughter, Valerie, is his.”
“I’d heard Bianca had a kid. I just never paid attention to who she was.” Emily slapped her hand on the table. “Have you met her?”
“No, I saw her name in the will. But now I have too much on my mind to even care,” Greta said, chugging down her second drink. She was second-guessing telling Emily about knowing for so long. The last thing she wanted was her sister angry she hadn’t shared sooner when she needed to put all her energy into freeing Logan.
“Absolutely. Focus on Logan.” Emily touched her forearm as the waitress set plates of food in front of them. “Is there anything I can do? Marshall might be able to help. Anything?” Emily squeezed a lemon over an oyster and held it up to her sister. “I know you haven’t eaten well in months.”
Greta muttered “Thank you” and then said, “Emily, maybe Marshall can help, but you are going to be completely shocked when I share something with you, and the only person who knows is Audrey. It’s just that I need your advice.”
“What is it?” Emily’s face flushed, and she looked genuinely concerned as she leaned in.
Greta looked to her left and right, and then, in a low monotone voice, she began to spill her entire hidden past. “Remember Dad’s derby party when he was arrested? I’d just gotten back from Sweden . . .”
She explained how she was already pregnant, and how on her second date with Patrick, he had explained he would never adopt.
“I was just so in love and so scared to lose someone who seemed like so much fun, and anyway, one lie led to the next and I told him it was his, and then after I miscarried, we were just cursed with infertility from then on. After the pregnancy loss, I was never attracted to him sexually, and our whole marriage felt like a sham.”
“Now you’re exaggerating because you’re grieving,” Emily said, holding her cloth napkin across the table and wiping a tear on Greta’s face. The waitress approached their table, and Emily snapped, “Everything’s good,” to get rid of her.
Greta continued to pour out her secrets perhaps as a subconscious practice run; she knew she might need to confess to Patrick soon. “Well, nothing worked. We had failed IUIs, failed IVFs, and I think it was God telling us we shouldn’t have . . .”
“Greta, I knew you had help, but don’t blame infertility for what happened. Lots of my older friends have had help. You and Patrick will get through this.”
“No, you don’t understand. I used donor eggs.”
“You did? Why didn’t you just tell me? What’s wrong with that if you couldn’t get pregnant? It makes sense that you’d do what you need to do to become a mom. You could have told me this.”
“No, I couldn’t. Because when I broached the subject to Patrick, he said, ‘No way,’ so Dr. Erikson and I did it behind Patrick’s back. He could probably lose his medical license, and Patrick would one hundred percent leave me if he knows I’ve been lying to him our whole life, and now this lie feels like it’s destroyed our family.”
“This wasn’t your fault,” Emily reiterated.
Greta sighed. “I know, but it feels like it. I mean, I’m not the mother you are, but I saw so many things about Logan, especially, that I questioned. He was obsessed with counting things, obsessed with fire detectors, wiggled his hands weird, and I saw him being more and more aggressive as teenage hormones kicked in. I knew something was off with him. He pushed Brayden skiing, was getting into fights, you saw him on your boat . . .” Greta pressed another cloth napkin to her eyes as tears streamed down her face.
“My God, it’s not your fault. And this might have nothing to do with you using a donor.”
“But what if it does?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to ask Marshall? Do you know who the donor is?”
“No, it was an anonymous donor. I’m planning on confessing to my lawyers. It could be what saves Logan from being sentenced.” Greta pressed on her temples. “Should I tell Patrick?”
Emily looked straight into Greta’s eyes. “Feels like a bad idea with Patrick’s grieving. It’s too much. Marshall said you guys need to present as united, loving parents, and this might make him aloof. It might not be the right time.”
“Oh my God, I agree.”
Greta wasn’t sure if she wanted to try and save her marriage, but she knew she wanted to save her son.
“I get it,” Emily said. “I know everyone thinks he’s a great guy, but I knew you weren’t happy. I’m sorry you were married to someone you had to be fake with.”
Greta sighed again. “You don’t think I’m horrible?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve always looked up to you. Especially now!”
Emily flagged the waitress over, handed her a credit card, and wiped Greta’s eyes one last time before she lifted her up and guided her back out to the car.
“Trust the lawyers, and let’s just keep praying for Logan. I know you are working your ass off, and I’ve always admired how smart you are. You can do anything you put your mind on. I have a really good feeling you’re going to win this case, honey.”
Emily popped open her trunk. She pulled a pair of leggings up under her skirt and slipped on boots, then hopped into the driver’s seat and handed Greta the canvas bag so she could change.
Greta wasn’t sure what was going on but obliged her sister. She was feeling so much lighter after confiding in Emily about everything.
“I’m taking you somewhere, to get your mind off the upcoming trial, just for an hour.”
“I can’t. Lunch was good, but I need to get home and work on more research,” Greta said, pulling down the visor and looking in the mirror. “Oh my God, my eyes are still so swollen.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Emily said.
Greta pulled the Hunter boots on, still curious about what her sister was up to. When she looked up, she realized they were pulling into Kelsey’s stables, where they had both ridden horses growing up.
“Em . . . ,” Greta said, feeling touched.
“I thought it would be therapeutic to ride, get you strong for the trial. Breathing is good,” Emily said. “I called, and Kelsey said we can take a trail ride for as long as we want.”
Greta saw the owner from afar. Kelsey had grayed but still had the same gentle smile as she approached them. “It’s good exercise for the horses,” she said, and Greta was happy she didn’t bring up anything else.
Greta liked that she was helping Kelsey’s horse get exercise, and she knew the horse would help her in return, clearing her head.
Emily eagerly hopped out of the car, ran around to open the passenger-side door, and handed Greta a riding helmet. She pulled Greta out and up to the stable entrance.
Emily saddled up two horses, and they mounted and began to ride off into the woods, which were a deep, lush green.
For the first time since she had lost her son, Greta smiled and took in nature. She remembered that she did have one happy memory from childhood: riding horses here with her little sister. She had been envious of Emily, never knowing the envy was reciprocated until today. Her jealousy transformed into appreciation. She felt relieved to have someone—at least one person—on her side.
This support allowed her to believe she could still save her son. She’d carried him, given birth to him—she wouldn’t turn her back on him now.
Chapter Thirty
COLETTE
2020
Colette could barely keep her eyes open. She had gotten through the meeting at the police station on pure adrenaline and hadn’t slept well since. The cloud of grief and horror that had filled the room, the eeriness of the boy and his silence, the guttural sobs and pleas coming from his parents—it had all hit her like a ton of bricks. She was haunted by that fleeting moment when she had stared into the boy’s eyes and seen something so familiar, but she knew she was suffering from lack of sleep.
She had gotten to the office that first morning, bleary eyed, barely able to see straight, and gone right into Frank’s office. Frank had been peering at his computer screen with a stricken look on his face.
“What is it?” she had asked, sensing his despair.
“This kid . . . the whole thing was caught on the club’s surveillance camera. He is totally fucked,” he said, leaning back and running his hands through his thinning hair. “You have to watch this. I’ll send you the file. He fucking fried his brother in the sauna on purpose. The poor kid cooked to death at the hands of his twin brother.” He shook his head with disgust.
“So if it’s caught on tape, then case closed—he pleads guilty, right?” Colette had asked, having no idea just how complicated the case would become.
“First off, I’m assuming they’re going to petition the judge to have him released to his parents’ custody while awaiting trial, and then they’ll ask to have him kicked back down to juvenile court.” Most juveniles were released to their parents during trial rather than having to stay in a juvenile detention center, Frank explained; this case, though, wasn’t like most offenses. “If we stay in criminal court—and I hope we do—I’m betting they’ll plead not guilty by reason of insanity so the kid can go to a mental health facility instead of spending the rest of his life behind bars. You’ll be spending all of your time going forward researching this kid and proving that he is violent and killed his brother.”
The overwhelming sadness Colette had felt for the defendant’s family since day one had only increased daily as she immersed herself in the case. Frank had shared that the family hired Manny Cashvan, a colleague of Frank’s with a lot of extremely wealthy clients. But he hadn’t tried many cases of manslaughter, and none involving children, which made Frank hopeful about winning.
“I don’t think even the Walshes’ money can buy his freedom when our evidence is this clear cut,” he said, tossing a bunch of files on the desk toward her. “Here are the preliminary statements and the police paperwork. Dig into medical records to be sure there isn’t a history of mental illness.” Frank had been talking a mile a minute that first morning, and Colette’s anxiety bubbled.
“I have a bunch of other casework to do,” she said, trying to avoid the assignment, but Frank wasn’t having it.
“You’re off all other cases for now, and we’ll file continuances to buy time or I’ll give them to some of our more junior prosecutors so we can focus on this. It’s a huge case; it’s on every news channel, including national news. We need to win this, Colette. This could be the biggest case of our careers. The pressure is on.”
Sick to her stomach just from anticipation, Colette had reviewed the surveillance video right away. The images were jarring, and she sometimes wished she had never seen them. It was grainy, but she watched as Logan carried a fireplace poker toward the sauna. He casually stuck it through the door handle and then, seemingly calmly, waited. After a few minutes, Brayden’s face appeared in the small window—at first looking annoyed, then screaming, begging, going from angry to terrified to desperately banging on the glass on and off for, according to the tape, approximately twenty-five minutes. She was grateful the video had no sound.
