Page 20 of Kill Your Darlings

“You’re either a very nosy person, Stan,” Wendy said, “or you’re a very mediocre private detective.”

He laughed, and she realized it was the first time she’d seen him open his mouth that wide. His teeth were stained yellow by a lifetime of smoking. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re prying. And because you’re being very obvious about it. I’m going to guess that you were hired by my ex-sister-in-law,

and that you’re looking into the death of Bryce Barrington.”

She watched him think about how to answer, and then he said, “Did you know that your current husband was in Austin, Texas,

on the weekend that your previous husband drowned in his pool?”

Her chest tightened, and she hoped that her voice sounded normal as she said, “So you are a private detective. Did Sloane

hire you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose my client, but, yes, I will disclose that I’m looking into the death of Bryce Barrington. My

client believes there’s significant new information to warrant reopening an investigation.”

“Is this new information that Thom, who I didn’t know at the time, happened to be in the same state when Bryce drowned?”

“Not just that. And you did know him already.”

“Not at the time,” Wendy said, alarm rising in her.

“Weren’t you at school with him in Ringwood, New Hampshire?”

Wendy, somewhat impressed, said, “Yes, we knew each other when we were fourteen, but I didn’t know him at all when I was first

married. We met again long after my husband died. Do you think my husband fell in love with me in middle school and then flew

to Texas to murder my husband so he could have me all for himself?”

“I don’t really think anything at all,” Stan said. “I’m just trying to figure out any and all possibilities. For instance,

maybe the two of you did stay in contact with each other after you were kids, and because no one really knew that you two

knew each other, he was the perfect person to come and murder your husband while you were out of town.”

“My husband wasn’t murdered. He drowned in his own swimming pool.”

“What about Alexandra Fritsch?”

Wendy said, “I don’t know who that is.”

“She died the same night as your husband did. She was a college student who was stabbed to death in downtown Lubbock. She

was also part of the Caprock College prostitution ring. You remember that whole scandal?”

Wendy had been jarred by the fact that this hired detective had figured out that Thom had been in Texas when Bryce had died,

and knew that Thom and she had attended the same middle school, but now he was talking about a college prostitution ring and

she realized that he probably had nothing. “None of this is ringing any bells for me, but it wouldn’t surprise me if my husband

had some connection with prostitution. It was not a good marriage. I’m sure you know that. He was out drinking every night

without me. I’m sure he wasn’t faithful.”

“So you wouldn’t say that your marriage to Bryce Barrington was a happy one.”

“I’m not sure any of that is your business, but, no, it wasn’t happy. And, no, I didn’t kill him. Did you tell my husband

who you really were?”

“I thought I’d get to know him first before divulging that. He’s a very nice man.”

“He is. Look, Stan... What’s your full name, by the way? Is it even Stan?”

“Stan Benally. Nice to properly meet you, Wendy Eastman.” He put out his hand, and Wendy, despite wanting to refuse, found

herself automatically shaking his hand again, surprised once more by how warm and dry his palm was.

“Look, Stan. I’m happy you’re being paid by one or another Barrington for this fishing trip, but you’re not going to find

anything, because there’s nothing to find.”

“You know, Wendy, I’d agree with you about that, except that when I asked your husband if he had ever been to Texas, he insisted that he hadn’t.”

A surge of annoyance at her dim-witted husband went through her, but Wendy simply said, “Honestly, he’s a little forgetful

these days.”

“Why’s that?”

She took a deep breath, hoping Stan could tell how irritated she was getting. “He drinks too much and sometimes he forgets

things. Look, I’m getting pissed off at you right now, so I’m going to go home. I assume you’ll pay for my drink.”

“I’ll put it on my expense account,” he said as he slid a business card along the bar to her. She almost left it there, but

took it just in case.

Walking home under a canopy of particularly bright stars, Wendy considered calling her husband on his cell and telling him

to come right home. But he’d already be relatively drunk, and she wanted to talk to him when he was sober. It could wait until

the following morning. When she got home she poured herself a glass of wine and went out and sat on their screened-in porch,

despite the cold night. She didn’t know what was more stupid, the fact that Thom had lied about being in Texas, or the fact

that he hadn’t figured out that his new friend at the bar was the world’s most obvious private detective.

A car pulled into their drive, its headlights passing across the screen of the porch. She heard a door slam and Jason yell

out “Thank you!” He came in the back of the house and Wendy shouted out to him that she was on the porch. He joined her, telling

her all about the film he’d seen, something called Once that was apparently about Irish singers.

ii

Thom’s only class on Friday was in the afternoon so he was planning on sleeping in a little, but Wendy had shaken him awake and told him that they needed to have a talk before she left for work. He dressed, his mind flipping through the assorted possibilities of what he’d done wrong.

“Am in trouble?” he said, sliding onto a stool at their kitchen counter. Wendy was eating toast with jam, her everyday breakfast.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” she said, and something in her face alarmed him. She looked nervous.

“I should get myself a coffee first,” he said.

“Stay there. I’ll get it.”

As she handed his mug over to him, she said, “Your friend Stan from the Tavern is a private investigator. He’s looking into

Bryce’s death.”

“What?” Thom said.

“How did you not figure that out, Thom? It was pretty obvious.”

“Seriously?” Thom said. “How did I not figure out that the random guy at the bar was investigating me for something that happened

twenty years ago?”

Wendy lowered her voice and said, “We always knew we would need to be vigilant our entire lives. We always knew that we needed

to assume we were being watched. We talked about this.”

“I am vigilant.”

“Apparently not.”

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

“You told him you’d never been to Texas.”

“Right. What’s wrong with that?”

“Because you have been, Thom, and he knows that. Apparently, there are records that you flew there, or else he talked with

your friends in Austin. Who knows? It doesn’t matter, but he knows that you lied to him.”

“Jesus,” Thom said. Bile suddenly rose up in the back of his throat and he thought he might be sick. He swallowed some of the bitter coffee. “I didn’t even think anything of it. He’s from Texas, and when he asked me, I mean, I’d forgotten...”

“Look, forget about it. I’m going to take care of this, Thom. Don’t talk to him again, okay? Even if he approaches you here,

or at your office. Or go ahead and talk to him, but don’t say anything. Just tell him you forgot you were ever there. That’s

what I told him.”

“When did you even talk to him?”

Wendy told Thom about the whole conversation the previous night. As she spoke, he found himself fixated on the cords of her

neck, particularly prominent either because she was mad, or because she’d aged and he was just now noticing.

“But they won’t actually find anything?” he said, when Wendy was done, hoping he didn’t sound like a child looking for reassurance.

“Of course not. We always knew the family would suspect me. But they can’t prove anything. There’s nothing to worry about,

so long as you don’t say anything stupid.”

Thom’s stomach roiled and he got up, told Wendy he was going to the bathroom. He felt terrible, although that might have been

the result of the celebratory whiskey sour he’d drunk the night before when his trivia team—the Goose Life—had a come-from-behind

win. That seemed like a hundred years ago.

When he came back into the kitchen, he apologized to Wendy, who was putting on her coat to go to work.

“Maybe you should drink at home for a while,” she said.

“I’ll drink less. Or not at all. I need to anyway. What are we going to do about this guy?”

“I’m going to take care of him. And now that we know who he is, we can just refuse to talk with him. There’s nothing to worry

about. Besides, I don’t think it’s that big a deal that you were in Texas at the time. To him either. He’s more interested

in a dead woman that Bryce was probably sleeping with.”

“What?” Thom said.

“Sorry, I forgot that part. Alexandra Fritsch, I think. She was a college student who was possibly even involved in prostitution

who died the same time as Bryce did. I have no idea what that might have to do with anything. You okay?”

“I’m fine. I drank too much last night.”

“I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”

After Wendy had left, Thom went to the bathroom and was violently ill.

iii

The first thing Wendy did when she got to her office was cancel the all-staff meeting—a brainstorming session for the new

mission statement—a meeting that could easily be put off for a while. Instead, she closed her office door, opened up her laptop,

and tried to remember the name of the woman Stan the detective had been talking about. She put in a search for “Fritsch” and

“Lubbock,” and the story came up. Alexandra Fritsch had been a student at Caprock College who was stabbed to death on August22,

1992, the same day that Bryce had drowned. Her mind reeled with possibilities. Was Alexandra somehow with Bryce the night

he died? It didn’t make any sense. She had died in Lubbock, while he had been home in Happy Lake.