Page 97 of What You left in Me

I leaned in so close our noses could argue. “Say laugh again.”

He blinked, licked his lower lip, which was definitely a nervous tell. “Don’t get sentimental, boy. Your stepmother came to me because she wanted a fresh start. Richard’s a big catch. Some women fish. Some dynamite the pond.”

“And the motive?” I asked, though I knew it; I wanted him to say it so I could use it.

He tipped his head, whistled a tuneless bar. “Money. Status. The right last name on the right invitations. And, if you want the story she’d tell, love. Poor Eleanor. You’d think she’d learn the lesson: chemicals kill, after it killed her first husband. Instead, she learned the other one: chemicals work.” He laughed again, breath hot and rotten. “She’s efficient, though. I like efficient women.”

My mother on the path, ponytail bouncing. My mother on a slab, toe-tagged. In my mind, the two images tried to fuse but they didn’t. There was a gap nothing could bridge. I wanted to put my fist through his teeth and then through the wall and then through time, but violence in that moment would’ve been an indulgence. I filed his words underexhibit A: his mouth, and made a second file forexhibit B: his cowardice.

“I need proof,” I said. “Or you’re just a drunk trying on importance.”

He smirked, pleased to be necessary. “You’re sitting in it, kid. Cash transfers, off the books. I never put my own name on anything that matters, but I keep a memory of kindnesses owed. You think I’ve stayed alive this long because I’m pretty?”He tapped his temple. “Dates. Places. People in the room. If you want a document, well…” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Talk to your computer boy. The gallery accounts? They bled money at just the right time. Fancy people call it an install. I call it the price of a ghost.”

He finished the drink, set the glass down with a click that made my molars ache. Then, he patted the inside pocket of his jacket like he was that asshole in a movie with a tape labeledINSURANCE. I logged the gesture. I would take that jacket off him later, one way or another.

“Why tell me?” I asked. “You could keep bleeding her. Keep calling. Keep collecting.”

“Because your calls pay faster,” he said, easy. “And because I was curious what kind of man you are. Your father’s the type who cries quietly in good suits. You, though?” He looked me over. “You make things stop moving.”

He stood, wobbling, and smiled like we’d had a lovely evening. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Wagner. Tell your stepmother I said hi. Or don’t. Surprises are better, anyway.”

He swayed toward the door, whistling off-key. I watched him go with my hands folded. I waited a count of thirty. Then, I rose.

Outside, the parking lot was half asphalt, half oil slick. The neon sign buzzed like it was holding onto dear life. Waren patted his pockets, found his keys, and the laugh hadn’t left his mouth. He thought he was untouchable because he’d told the truth and still had his legs under him.

I lit a cigarette I wouldn’t finish and thumbed my phone with my free hand. The voice on the other end belonged to a man who only existed when I said his name.

“Make it look like an accident,” I said. “Tonight.”

No questions. That’s why he earned what he earned. I flicked the cigarette into the dark, watched the ember travel like a tiny meteor and then go out.

Waren got into his car. The engine coughed to life. He reversed crooked and pulled onto the road probably still whistling. It was the last song he ever finished. He deserved worse, but I wasn’t in the philanthropy business.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t look away. I stood there until the taillights vanished and the night put its mask back on.

Back at the motel I sat on the bed and breathed through the bile. I texted Eric:We’re done with him. Pull every wire in Rhode Island. I want Eleanor’s origin story threaded and labeled by morning.

He called. “Define every wire.”

“Where she worked before she married him. Who introduced her to the gallery world. Who she fucked. Who she tipped. Who she threatened. I want managers, owners, bartenders, old roommates who hate her because she stole their shampoo in 2008. Find me the bar.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then: “You’re thinking of the story she told about Providence. The temp job at the gallery that turned into magic.”

“I’m thinking of the drunk who told me my mother died because a housekeeper giggled,” I said, rubbing my eyes hard enough to make stars. “She learned the trick there. People don’t invent ruthlessness in suburbia. They import it.”

Eric exhaled. “I’ll get Jim to knock on the right doors. Digitally.”

“Get him to stand in a room too,” I said. “I want faces. Not just metadata.”

“You’re asking my hermit hacker to leave his lair.”

“Tell him I’ll pay double.”

“He’ll ask triple.”

“Then tell him I’ll introduce him to a human woman who knows what sunlight is.”

Eric laughed. “Now you’re promising miracles.”