Page 54

Chapter Fifty-Three

ERIKA

I get in my car by nine in the morning, and I’m on my way to pay a visit to Marvin Holick. Given I haven’t called him, I recognize there’s a reasonable chance he might not be home. But I go anyway. I need some time alone, and the drive will clear my head.

You think I’m a murderer.

I can’t stop picturing Liam’s face as he said those words. He looked hurt. I always believed nothing ever got to my son but maybe I’m wrong. But I have this feeling that his hurt expression is yet another act. After all, Hannah and Jason believe he is innocent, and I’m the only one who can still see through him. He needs to win me over.

While I’m driving, my phone rings. I see my mother’s name pop up on the screen and I almost let it go to voicemail. But at the last moment, I send the call to the car speakers.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Erika!” Mom is talking much too loud, which is what she usually does on the phone. She doesn’t seem capable of controlling the volume of her voice when she’s on a cell phone. “Why didn’t you call me? I just found out from Jeanne during our bridge game that my grandson was arrested!”

“It’s okay. He’s home now.”

“Okay? You know what they’re saying he did, right?”

“Nope. I have no idea what crime my son has been charged with.”

“Erika…”

“We’re dealing with it, Mom. He’s got a good lawyer.”

“But… God, they’re saying that he…”

“It will be okay,” I say with confidence that I don’t feel. But at least I can keep my mother from worrying. “It’s all blown out of proportion. Our lawyer says it will be fine.”

“He does?”

“Yes.” If by fine, I mean the lawyer thinks he’s guilty and should show the police where the body is. But I already lied to my husband today. Might as well lie to my mother too. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

“Will you call me if anything else happens?”

“Yes. ”

Wow, another lie. I’m on a roll.

The address Frank gave me is an apartment building. It looks more like a tenement, with graffiti scribbled all over the brick walls, and a small awning covered in holes. Just looking at it makes me want to clutch my purse tighter to my chest. Then again, it’s understandable my father couldn’t afford a nicer place to live coming right out of jail. It’s unfair to judge him. At least, not for where he lives.

According to the scribble on the paper lying on the seat next to me, my father lives on the second floor. I pull into a parking spot right in front of the building, and sit there, trying to work up the courage to go see him.

I have to do this. I have to do this today.

I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I walked unsteadily to the building, glad I wore my ballet flats for the trip, because I’d probably face-plant in heels. There’s an intercom at the entrance, but I happen to arrive just as a man is leaving, and he holds the door for me to go inside. And just like that, I’m in.

I walk up the two flights to get to the second floor. When I emerge into the hallway, there’s an odor of urine, the paint on the walls is peeling, and the light above is flickering. My father’s apartment is 203. I walk down the hallway until I reach the doorway. The numbers 203 are etched into the paint. Before I can lose my nerve, I reach out and ring the doorbell .

Then I wait.

I wait a minute. Two minutes. By the third minute, the butterflies in my stomach are settling down. Obviously, Marvin Holick is not here right now. I’ll return to meet my father another day.

But then the door is yanked open.