Page 120 of It's One of Us

“You have to understand, they would have sent me to jail.”

“Maybe they should have,” Perry says darkly, his voice raw with emotion and loathing, and Olivia holds up a hand.

“So you called the tip line?” she asks. She is determined to get to the end of the story before Perry blows up entirely.

“Yeah. Crime Stoppers. Untraceable. I used a burner I bought in St. Louis and got rid of it immediately.”

“Good to know your job has given you the ability to avoid detection in a criminal investigation,” Perry says.

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop being such a Pollyanna. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Technically, criminally, yes, you did. Morally? You absolutely did.”

Park deflates. “Well, the moral high road has never been my battleground, so you might as well go ahead and turn me in now, brother.”

“And the flowers? On Melanie’s grave? Explain that to me.”

“Flowers? I don’t know anything about that,” Park says with a sigh.

“Really? A florist in Chapel Hill gets an envelope of cash every year, with instructions to put a bouquet of lilies on Melanie Rich’s grave. There are regular withdrawals from your bank account in the same sum every year on the same date.”

“Coincidence.”

“The florist kept the envelopes, you know. The police have them. They’re doing a DNA analysis on the adhesive. Will it match you, I wonder?”

Park shakes his head, though Olivia is shocked by how he pales.

“No. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Melanie. I swear it. And I have no idea who is sending her flowers.”

“After what you’ve just admitted to, how am I supposed to believe you?” Perry puts an arm around Olivia, pulls her close to his body. “How are we supposed to believe you?”

“Honestly? Believe me, or don’t. I’ve made my peace with all of this.”

A slow clapping sounds from the corner of the room. The doors to the deck are open to let in the sultry breeze, and a young man emerges from the boardwalk, a gun in his hand.

“Hi, Dad,” Peyton Flynn says. “Good to know I got it honestly.”

47

THE HUSBAND

When a lion circles its prey, it seems almost playful. A big, silly cat, toying with a mouse. A mouse it will later rip apart.

Peyton Flynn might look like roadkill, but he is the hunter. He has the three of them at a major disadvantage, and he knows it.

Park stands.

“Peyton. You’re Peyton, right?”

“Very good. The resemblance is clear, isn’t it?” He’s being ironic; the bandage covers half his face. No one can get a good look at him, but he’s smiling, and Park can’t think straight.This is my son. My son has a gun pointed at me. Don’t shoot, son.

“Hi, Liv.” The gun stays trained on Park, which is good. He can’t let Peyton hurt Olivia.

“My name is Olivia,” she says, voice shaking.

“Never, darling. You’ll always be Liv to me. That’s what he calls you. It suits you. Olivia is such a proper name. And you aren’t a proper kind of woman. Not formal, I mean. You aren’t formal.”

“What do you want?” Park asks. He can sense Perry shifting next to him; he played enough ball with his brother over the years to recognize the muscles tensing. If there was ever a moment for their childhood ability to speak without speaking to one another like they did during games, now is the time.