53
“Spencer, you weren’t kidding. These clothes smell like rotting fish.” I had just pulled Spencer’s camp laundry from the dryer, and every single item was still saturated in the same putrid scent. “Seriously, how is this possible?” I threw them back into the washing machine for a second tour, adding another capful of detergent.
Spencer had come home from camp two days earlier. His presence, more than anything, made the house feel as close to normal as I could remember in the last month. I had told him that Jason had been charged with a crime, but the case had been placed on hold to reach a settlement. It made it all sound so nice and neat, like an ordinary transaction to be resolved by contract.
To be safe, I had also mentioned that “the woman” had apparently “gone off the grid,” and the police had “come by” to make sure that Jason’s whereabouts could be accounted for the night she’d been seen last. “Your dad and I had an argument Wednesday, and he stayed with Uncle Colin for the night. I didn’t want the police to read into it, so I said he was here at the house when you called. But he was with Colin, so it’s the same thing.”
Spencer seemed to take it all in stride. He was more upset at the thought of moving, but I had enlisted him in searching Zillow and StreetEasy for a rental apartment he might like. “It has to be walkable to school. And I was thinking we should find something pet friendly. Maybe it’s time we got a dog.”
Cliché, I know, to offer my kid a puppy to make up for a divorce, but I was willing to try anything.
When he asked me how big an apartment we were looking for, I realized I still pictured a home office for Jason and enough closet space for both of us.
“Let’s just get a two-bedroom, since it’s temporary.”
Spencer had immediately volunteered to transfer to a public school if we needed to save money. I fibbed and told him that I was only keeping our rent low because rent was “money down the drain.” Once we were ready to buy, I assured him, we’d get something better.
I had hit the wash button on the machine when Spencer came rushing from his room, iPad in hand. “Mom, that lady’s missing.”
“I told you that, Spencer. With all the media attention, she probably took a break for a while.” God knows I had thought a few times about running off to a beach on the other side of the world until this all blew over.
“No, but it’s in the news now. You need to read this.”
“It’s better to ignore that stuff.” In truth, I was fairly certain I had read every single article, tweet, post, or comment written on the Internet about Jason since I first heard Rachel Sutton’s name. My skin had gotten no thicker as a result. “They never know what they’re talking about.”
“No, they do know. Listen to this: ‘Despite Lynch’s role as the complainant in the pending sexual assault case against renowned economist and author Powell, law enforcement sources say that the current investigation does not implicate Powell as a suspect in Miss Lynch’s disappearance. In fact, the ongoing investigation has cast doubt on the veracity of Miss Lynch’s original claim against Powell.”
“What?” I stood next to him and read the article myself. An unnamed former boyfriend of Miss Lynch was believed to be the last person to see her and had invoked his right to silence rather than answer police questions. The article closed by noting that the New York District Attorney’s Office still had a case pending against Jason Powell, but quoted ADA Brian King as saying, “We are taking a close look at developing facts that may affect our decision making. For now, we want to make absolutely clear that Dr. Powell is not a suspect in the investigation currently ongoing on Long Island. His whereabouts on that night have been accounted for.”
By me, I thought, completing the sentence. Spencer was running toward his room. “I’m calling Dad to make sure he knows.”
It occurred to me that my son hadn’t stopped—even for a second—to worry about what had happened to Kerry Lynch. Was empathy developed by nature or nurture? I pushed away the idea. Despite his biology, Spencer was nothing like Charles Franklin.
A few minutes later, he was back in the laundry room, cell phone in hand. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
“Hey, did you see it?” I asked.
“Olivia just texted me about it right before the phone rang. They called her for a comment earlier today about Kerry’s disappearance, but she decided it was better to say nothing. She sensed that the tide was on our side.”
Our. I didn’t know who that was anymore.
“Congratulations.” It was an awkward response.
“I don’t want to get my hopes up, but this might actually be over. Maybe she blackmailed her boss and got enough money to start over somewhere new.”
“Without telling anyone?” Spencer hadn’t seemed worried about Kerry, but Jason obviously was. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He sounded sad. “I miss you, though. Spencer said he wanted to see me, so that’s good news.”
I was tracing the herringbone pattern of our oak floors with my big toe, wondering how much longer we’d have this amazing house.
“Do you want to come over for dinner? I can cook.”
“Really? I would love that.”
“That should be okay, right? It’s for you to see Spencer.”
“I think it’s perfectly normal for two separated coparents to meet for dinner with their son.”
“Good. We’ll be here.”
I went to Agata & Valentina and bought lamb chops, his favorite. On the way home, I called Susanna to cancel our plans to get takeout and watch the next two episodes of Billions. We were binge-watching together. She was rooting for Axe, while I was on the side of the government.
“And this has nothing to do with that article in the Long Island Press?” she asked.
I couldn’t put anything past Susanna. “Jason’s coming over. For the record, Spencer’s the one who invited him. He hasn’t seen his father for more than two weeks. He seems ready to forgive him.”
“He’s ready to forgive, or you are? Angela, please tell me you’re not rethinking this.”
“I told you, we already filled out all the paperwork and have a rough agreement sketched out. That lawyer’s crunching the numbers. You wanted me to protect myself and Spencer, and I am. We’re getting divorced. The house is for sale. And I haven’t forgotten what Jason did to me. But I never said I didn’t love him.”
While the lamb was roasting, I put on the pale-yellow linen dress that Jason had bought me last summer as my anniversary gift, hoping he’d recognize it.
He had told that woman—a horrible woman who had been willing to destroy his life and mine—that he would leave me for her. Maybe it was cruel, but I wanted to make him want me.
By the time he arrived for dinner, he had gotten another piece of good news: the district attorney’s office was dismissing the charges against him.
IV
Angela
54
Five Weeks Later
That day’s appointment with Dr. Boyle was a joint session, without Spencer. We all had individual sessions, in addition to our couples therapy, and the occasional joint family discussions. Basically, we had been living in Dr. Boyle’s office for the last month.
We were also living in two apartments in adjacent towers on Mercer Street. His two-bedroom was in 250 Mercer, mine in 300. Spencer had rooms in both.
Our most recent couples session had been spent going over finances. If all went according to plan, we’d close on the carriage house next week. Jason referred to the thirty-year-old buyer, who was paying cash with his hedge-fund money, as Satan. All I cared about was that, after a bidding war, he was paying $250,000 more than asking. We’d walk away with nearly $2 million in cash, after the mortgage and taxes.