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EPILOGUE

Three Weeks Later

“Class dismissed,” I say.

They all came to this week’s No Shit, Sherlock class.

The Pink Panthers still huddled together, but tonight they sat closer to the Three Dead Hots podcast girls. Lenny and Gary hung together. Debbie had sat in the back with Raymond, wearing a yellow sleeveless mesh shirt, as he clipped his toenails again.

Now, everyone files by me as they leave. I’ve seen videos online where first-grade teachers greet their students with some kind of complicated handshake before each class. We do something similar at the end with fist bumps.

“Don’t worry,” Gary says to me. “We’ll get him.”

He is talking about Tad Grayson. We seem no closer to putting him back behind bars. There is nothing tying him to Nicole anymore, and the Newark Police have so far drawn a blank on the murder of Brian Powell.

I thank him and move on.

The Three Dead Hots linger and are last to leave. I know why. “We’re going to hit a few clubs on the way home,” their leader, Carrie, says to me.

“How many is a few?” I ask.

“Like, three. We’re going to talk about the upcoming podcast. Wanna join?”

“Hard pass,” I say, but I smile as I do.

“You’re a warrior, Kierce.”

I don’t know what that means in this context, but I thank her for it.

After they exit, Marty calls me. “Where are you?”

I don’t like the tone of his voice.

“Just finished class.”

“I thought that was last night.”

“I’m running an extra track now,” I say. “For new students. Like one is regular No Shit and one is Advanced Placement No Shit.”

“Come by my place.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Can I go home and check in with Molly first?”

“Call her on the way.”

He hangs up.

I don’t like that either.

I get to the subway station and call Molly before I descend. She answers with a happy, “Hello, handsome.”

I will tell you an unpleasant truth. Molly and I are enjoying our life with financial freedom. We are relaxed. We breathe easier. We sleep better. And that sucks. Has the Belmond money influenced what I’m doing in terms of Victoria? Hard to say. Money can warp perceptions though, so this analysis may be too kind to myself.

“I’ll be late.”

“The Dead Hots talk you into clubbing?”

“They tried again, but no, it’s Marty.”

“He wants to see you?”

“Yes.”

“And it can’t wait until the morning?”

“He says no.”

“I don’t like that,” Molly says.

I tell her me neither and hang up. I hurry to the subway and get off at Eighty-First Street and take the elevator up to the penthouse of the Beresford. Marty is waiting for me.

“So what is it?”

“It’s a video from the Victoria Belmond murder scene,” he says.

“Now? It’s been almost a month.”

“I know. I just got it myself.” Marty moves over to the couch. I follow. He tees up the video on his laptop. “So you remember there were kids playing baseball there?”

“Yes.”

“A father was filming his son at batting practice—right before you and Victoria got shot. He didn’t think to hand it over until now because his camera was facing the other way.” He types something on his laptop. “Look at the guy leaning against the backstop on Hudson.”

He spins the monitor, so it faces me.

I expect to see Brian Powell or Tad Grayson.

But I see neither.

Instead, I see Raymond.

Many hours later, I stand in front of the Tranquil Pines hospice center.

I enter. A man behind Plexiglas is playing with his phone. He is surprised to see a visitor at this hour. He puts down the phone and sits up.

“We’re closed,” the man says.

I lean in closer. “Which room is Mrs. Grayson’s? I’m here to see her son Tad.”

There is a voice from down the corridor. “What do you want?”

I turn and I see Tad Grayson standing fifteen feet away. His eyes are red. His face is gaunt.

“She just died,” he says to me. “My mom. At least, she got to see me set free. She can rest in peace.”

I say nothing.

“Why are you here, Kierce?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Tad Grayson shakes his head. “Now?”

I say nothing.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he says. “My mother just died.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m done, Kierce.”

I wait.

“I don’t care if you believe me anymore. I’m done.”

I say nothing.

“I tried to show you the truth. I was framed. And then Powell, I mean, why would I ever be stupid enough to hire him of all people? I just got out of prison, what, a few days before—and I’m crazy enough to call on my own cellmate? So that’s it. I’m done. I don’t care if you don’t believe me anymore. Who are you to me anyway? You can’t see what’s so plainly obvious.”

“What’s so plainly obvious, Tad?”

“It’s the real killer who’s behind this.”

“I know that,” I say.

That surprises him. “You do?”

“That’s why I’m here. I know who did it. And we have the proof.”

I hold out the video still for him to see. He hesitates, but eventually he snatches the photograph from my hand. I let him examine it.

Then I say, “That’s you, right?”

It took Debbie and me an hour to find Raymond. He was staying in a shelter at the Armory in Washington Heights. As he’d promised, Raymond had indeed decided to “fly solo” like an airplane-carrying witch. That meant following Tad Grayson everywhere and videotaping him as often as possible. Raymond had captured Grayson climbing out of his mother’s hospice room window. He had been there when Grayson ducked down an alley to put on the ski mask and black sweatshirt. He had even followed Grayson to a Staten Island landfill, where he dumped the ski mask and clothes after he shot Victoria and me.

When I asked Raymond why he hadn’t shown all this to me, he simply shrugged and said, “You didn’t ask.”

“It was a nice move,” I say now to Tad Grayson. “Hiring Powell—making it so obvious it was you that anyone reasonable would think it can’t be you.”

Grayson smiles as he looks through the photographs. “My lawyers bought it, didn’t they? So did the cops.”

“That they did.”

“Powell did me some good though. He followed you to the park.”

“It’s why you had to kill him.”

“Would have killed him anyway.”

“You killed Nicole. You killed Victoria. You killed Powell.”

“Not sure it will do me any good to deny it.”

“No,” I say. “It won’t. I’m curious though. Were you trying to kill me in the park—or were you aiming for her?”

“Truth?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t sure who to kill. That was the problem. I’ve always wanted to kill you, of course. But then your pain would be over. So I figured that I would kill this other woman who clearly mattered to you first. Then maybe I would kill your wife. Then I would kill your little boy. That would be the best of all. And then, after that, you. But I wasn’t sure if that makes sense. I think that distracted me. Threw off my aim a little.” He grins. “Still, I’m happy to have killed her. She meant something to you, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“And it’s your fault she died,” he says. “That’ll make the trip back inside much easier. I assume you’re taping this.”

“It’s a live mic,” I say, tapping my chest. And then I add, “Okay, guys.”

The cops swarm in, but I don’t wait to see the arrest. I don’t need to. I head out into the cool night. I pull up the collar on my coat. Marty is there. I nod at him, but I have one more place to go. He lets me be. I take the subway to Craig’s and take my car. I drive back up to the recently dug grave. The sun is starting to rise. There is no marker here. I’m sure they ordered a tombstone that would read Victoria Belmond. I don’t know how I feel about that. This is Anna. Anna Marston. But maybe she was Victoria Belmond too. Like I said before. She was Victoria. And she was not.

It’s not my place to decide.

But I need to tell her what I’m doing.

I can calculate it like Archie. I can look at the various angles and odds and try to figure out what would produce the best result. I think about them all—Archie, Talia, Thomas, Madeline, Vicki, Stacy. I think about young Victoria Belmond and how her drunk brother crushed her against a tree and how her father buried her in the woods, and I know that while there has been plenty of anguish, there is no chance for real justice. No one is going to prison. No one is going to get convicted of anything. I don’t know whether they should.

But mostly, I think about you, Anna.

You took on the role of Victoria Belmond. I bet you thought it was the best thing that ever happened to you. After so much heartache, you had a family. After a life of abuse, you found your people. They loved you, and you loved them. I don’t doubt that. I believed you when you told me that you loved them. I believed them when they told me the same about you.

So in a sense, as Archie Belmond told me, it was the best move for all.

Except, Anna, you’re dead.

Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I’m just trying to deflect blame from myself, but I’m wondering right now—if Archie Belmond had called the police that night, if Thomas Belmond had faced the music for what he did—you, my brief love, would probably still be alive. Maybe you would have found your way to a better life without Archie Belmond’s offer. Or not. Maybe if Archie and Thomas had told the truth, everyone would have been worse off. Probably. And that’s the point. There are no guarantees.

Which is why you shouldn’t calculate the odds.

Which is why you should seek the truth.

The truth may not set you free, but it is still the way to go.

That’s what I concluded. Or let’s keep it vague— someone concluded. That someone leaked the information to the Three Dead Hots. They are about to embark on a podcast on the Victoria Belmond kidnapping with a new theory involving her death and replacement. That’s why they asked me to go clubbing. So they can ask me about it.

I’ll continue to give them a hard pass.

I too was left with a terrible choice, Anna. That’s what I’ve been thinking these past few weeks. Not as terrible as the one that Archie Belmond faced. But something similar. But I opted in the end to keep seeking the truth over what the odds might call “better.”

And what about the promise I made to you?

That I wouldn’t hurt them. That I would protect them.

I admit that will haunt me.

But then again, who is to say that the truth won’t be the very thing that finally protects them?

I stand back up and look down at the mound of earth.

One more thing, Anna, before I go.

Your autopsy revealed parturition scars on the pelvic bones. No need to go into details, but that means at some point you gave birth.

So I wonder about that too.

About when you gave birth.

About how Harm Bergkamp told me about that time you took off six months after I left Spain.

Am I reading too much into this, Anna?

Or like too many before us, did you just want to protect me?

Either way, you’ve left me with little choice.

I need to keep seeking the truth now, don’t I?