CHAPTER 1 - Molly

CHAPTER 1MollySOMETIMES I WANT TO CAPTURE A HAPPY MOMENT TO KEEP FOREVER. Not like a picture or a video, but a feeling. A feeling that I want to relive for the rest of my life. (Why is it that nightmares insist on the same treatment?) I shudder and move away from the dark hallway and into the light of the living room, where my husband stands in front of the blazing fireplace while he relates a funny story to our friends. They’ve gathered for his birthday celebration and laugh with honest mirth. Everyone loves Jay. No one more than me.The first week in January isn’t a great time to have a birthday, but since we have no choice in the matter, I’ve done my best to make everything light and festive. Jay’s fortieth is going to be one to remember if I can help it. The Christmas tree still shimmers in the corner, and white candles glow across the mantel, setting the photos there alight. Jay and I smiling and posing, the pictures illustrating our happy three-year marriage.There’s a sharp contrast between inside and out. Dark falls early in New England in the winter. It’s been as black as coal dust outside the windows for over an hour. Only the glow of a single streetlight across the road illuminates our snow-shrouded neighborhood. We’ve been in the house not quite a year, yet it feels like home. It’s an older place, almost historic, and the nooks and crannies and gleaming woodwork appealed to me right away. Inside, the house is bright, alive with friends and my perfect husband. I feel safe here.The cake is a work of art and sits boxed in the fridge, hidden until the big moment. Jay didn’t want a huge bash, just our best friends, good wine, and food. It should be a wonderful night. Should being the operative word. I’m praying I don’t spoil it.I stand at the granite counter, arrange the finger foods I’d ordered from our favorite café on the square. Everything looks delicious, if only I had an appetite. Instead, I pick up my wine, a rich Malbec we picked up on a trip to California last summer, and take a sip. Jay comes up behind me and wraps me in his arms, rests his chin on the top of my head. I love his touch, his strong arms that make me feel safe and grounded, the smell of his woodsy cologne. I sigh, and a tear escapes and runs down my cheek.“Hey.” He turns me to face him and wipes it away with his thumb. “None of that, okay? We’ve got this.”I nod, sniff. “Sorry.”“Don’t be.” He crushes me in his arms and skims his lips half on my mouth, half on my chin, a light reassuring kiss. “Everything’s going to be fine, Molly.”At six-thirty, our friends started arriving, bringing winter air and a few stray snowflakes with them through the front door. There were hugs and kisses, presents, although I told everyone Jay didn’t want any.Kim, my best friend since second grade, and her husband, Josh, an old friend of Jay’s, sit on the sofa. We introduced them shortly after Jay and I started dating. Kim is petite, dark-haired, with big brown eyes, a former cheerleader. She’s as extroverted as I am quiet, but we complement one another.Cal, Jay’s hockey buddy, and his wife, Laken, a tall, beautiful blonde, sit in dining room chairs carried in to provide more seating. Laken owns a day spa in town, and at the door, she’d pressed a thick, cream-colored envelope into Jay’s hand. A massage gift certificate, no doubt. Laken and I’ve gotten to be good friends too.And Elise and Scott. Dr. Elise Westmore is Jay’s partner in a family therapy practice, and they round out our group. The Westmores are older than we are, both in their early fifties. Jay met Elise in grad school, and they hit it off. He calls her the big sister he never had.“Who wants what?” Jay asks, the Malbec bottle in his hand. Glasses are raised, and he pours, then slips behind the bar for a second bottle. “Cal, you want a beer instead? I just made a Trillium run.”Cal smiles and stands. “You know me, my friend. I’ll get it.” He turns to Scott, who sits next to Elise like an elder statesman. “You want a beer?”“That would be great,” Scott replies.There’s an easy rapport among the eight of us, and I smile as I carry a tray of mushroom and Gruyère crostini and place it on the coffee table. I refill my glass and try to enjoy the wine and the focus on Jay. I admire his total comfort with people. I guess that’s why he’s such a good psychologist. People trust him, know that they can. His easy smile and kind green eyes don’t hurt either.We’ve had a few drinks, eaten through half the food. The conversation has moved past the “What’s new?” phase when Laken leans back in her chair, her long legs extending to the edge of the coffee table.“So, Jay, how’s the book coming?”He takes a deep breath. “It’s coming, slowly.” His gaze shifts to the fireplace, where the flames snap and flare.Jay’s writing a book based on one of his grad-school papers. He doesn’t talk about it, or his work, much really. That’s all part of his boring, stuffy side, he says.“Isn’t it about some pretty creepy stuff? Abnormal psychology and gruesome crimes?” Laken asks.Jay grimaces. “Some of it’s pretty intense.”Elise straightens in her chair, eyes on Laken. “Abnormal psychology encompasses a wide range of behaviors, not all of them violent or particularly disturbing.” A momentary tension crackles in the room. Barely there, but I feel it as I look from face to face. Kim leans forward and fills the silence.“I had an aunt,” she says, swallowing a sip of her drink, “who kept the fur she brushed out of all her dogs in a bag in the hall closet. My brother and I found it when we were kids. Scared the shit out of us. It had been there for like thirty years. Six dogs worth.”That makes Jay laugh. Kim is good at that. “The mind is a curious thing,” he says and stands, picks up the nearly empty tray. “We need more food!” Something in Jay’s voice has me on alert again. Something’s been on his mind all week, but whenever I asked him about it, he brushed me off with a smile and said he was fine. I follow him into the kitchen, wander to the door, and look out across the backyard.“The light’s on in your office,” I say, gazing at the old structure. The detached garage sits in the snow at the end of the driveway. No cars inside, just Jay’s desk, a space heater, and other things he needs to furnish his home office.“Must’ve left it on when I was working earlier.” He uncorks another bottle of red. “I’ll get it later. I might do a little more work after everyone leaves,” he says, eyes on the wine as he refills his glass.“Tonight?”“For a little bit. I was in the middle of something when I had to come in and get ready for the party. Shouldn’t take me long.”I move over to the counter, put a steadying hand on the edge. I finish my wine and hold out my glass to Jay. His eyes meet mine, and I smile, reassure him. “I’m fine, really.”He fills my glass, sets it on the table, and wraps his arms around me. “I have everything I need right here,” he says.Cal and Josh walk into the kitchen. Josh raises his empty glass. “What’s the holdup?” He laughs. “Can’t keep their hands off each other,” he says to Cal.“Do you blame me?” Jay says, brushing my long hair back over my shoulder.I pull myself free and walk to the fridge. “Time for this, birthday boy.” I set the box on the counter, lift the cake out. It’s a canvas of sky-blue fondant with a garden of glistening orange and yellow flowers.“Whoa. That’s incredible. Be a shame to cut it,” Jay says.“They do a great job at André’s,” I say, removing a knife from the cutlery drawer.“Chocolate or vanilla?” Cal asks.Laken walks into the room. “God, Cal. It’s Jay. Chocolate!”Cal shrugs. “Maybe he got adventurous.” The kitchen fills up with the rest of our friends, and I reach for the birthday candles.Jay grabs my hand. “It would be a shame to ruin that beautiful cake with those!” But he’s smiling. “What the hell? You only turn forty once, right?”* * *I know there is something wrong when I open my eyes and don’t smell coffee. Jay isn’t beside me in our king-size bed. He usually wakes before I do, but there’s always the aroma of his favorite drink permeating the house. Jay’s one of those people who sleeps only four or five hours a night. An inveterate coffee drinker, he downs five or six cups a day, enough to give most people a serious case of the jitters, but he thrives on it. I’ve gotten conditioned to that morning scent filling the house and my lids popping open, like clockwork.The kitchen is cold, coffeepot sitting on the counter, empty and untouched.“Jay?” I call, my voice echoing through the house. My heartbeat kicks up. I walk to the back door, peer outside. The door to Jay’s office is wide open. I fly down the porch steps and across the yard, my bare feet churning through the snow.I stumble across the threshold. He isn’t here.“Jay?”No answer. I move farther into the room, past the desk and space heater. Then I see him, lying on the floor, blood spattered on the wall and in a pool around his head. I drop to my knees, grab his hand. “Jay!”But it’s no use. He can’t hear me. He’s cold, lifeless. His neck gapes open beneath his stubbled chin. He’s still dressed in the clothes he was wearing last night. His eyes are half-shut, and his dark hair is soaked in the puddle surrounding him. I fall back against the filing cabinet, screams erupting from someplace deep in my soul.* * *Cops swarm through the house as I sit in a kitchen chair. My sister, Corrine, is on her way. Someone brought me my robe from upstairs and helped me into it. It was that young officer, I think. The first one who arrived and escorted me back to the house. It was nice of her, but I’m still numb, my feet, my whole body.The house is a wreck. I peek up and look out into the living room. Beer bottles and wineglasses litter every end table, even the fireplace mantel. Leftover dips and finger foods are spread across the counter, congealing, a disgusting mess. But who’d have thought anyone would be here before I’d had time to clear it all away? Who’d have thought my husband would be lying dead in his office the morning after his party? I cry into my fleecy sleeve. Who would do this to Jay? My life is collapsing around me, and I feel like I’ve fallen into a dark pit.I hear Corrine’s low, Lauren Bacall–like voice as she comes through the front door. She’s talking to one of the cops. Then she’s beside me, leaning over my shoulder, her perfume filling my nostrils. But it doesn’t displace the smell of blood.“What the hell happened, Molly?” She pulls me to standing and squeezes me in her arms.I bury my face in her woolly coat.“Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions,” a man’s voice emanates from behind her.Corrine turns to the cop and demands, “What’s happened here?”“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Let’s sit, okay?”Somehow Corrine and I are sitting side by side while the husky, uniformed officer takes the chair across from us.“I’m Sergeant Simmons,” he says, and lays a notepad on the table. “Mrs. Bradley?”I clear my throat, swipe a tissue under my nose. “Yes?”“I need you to tell me what happened.”I try to breathe through my tears, try to pull a breath down into my chest. “Okay,” I squeak, and think back to when I woke up, try to put disjointed pieces together. “I got up this morning, and my husband wasn’t there, in bed. He’s an early riser . . . There wasn’t any coffee.” I start to cry again, and the cop leans back in his chair.Corrine drums the table with her fingers. “Is this necessary right now? She’s distraught.”“I’m sorry, but we’ve got a dead man . . . You are?”“Corrine Alworth. Her sister.”He nods. “Okay. Mrs. Bradley, so you woke up this morning, what time?”I’m at a loss. My head is throbbing. I have no idea, so I look at the time on the microwave and try to figure it out. “Uh.” It’s ten-fifteen now. “Nine o’clock, maybe a little after.”“But you’re not sure?”“ No.”He glances around the room, at the mess. “Had a party last night?”“My husband’s birthday.” I duck my head, lean against Corrine. I want to disappear.“Were you here, Ms. Alworth?”“No. I wasn’t,” she says.Is she angry? I can’t always tell that about my big sister. She sounds angry a lot of the time. But she’d had other plans. I clutch my left forearm and work my fingers over my sleeve.“Okay, Mrs. Bradley. You got up. Your husband wasn’t in bed. Then what did you do?”“I came downstairs, and I saw the office door was open. He said last night that he was going to do some work after everybody left.”“So he went out there last night?”“Yes. That’s what he said he was going to do.”“What time was that?” Sergeant Simmons’s round, moon-like face is slack, patient, and I want to answer his questions. I want to be helpful, but anguished thoughts skitter through my brain like birds I can’t catch.“I don’t know. Late.”“He always work late at night?”“Yes, actually, he does.”“Okay. Did you lock the doors when you went to bed?”I honestly don’t know. My recollection is cloudy. We’d really had too much to drink. I’d had too much to drink. I barely remember walking up the stairs, and I’m suddenly cognizant of clumpy mascara sticking my lashes together, the gummy, unpleasant taste in my mouth. I hadn’t even washed for bed.I choke on a sob, clear my throat. “I think Jay did.”“But you don’t know?”Sergeant Simmons tries to catch my gaze, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want him here. I don’t want my house filled with police officers touching our things, writing reports. I want Jay at the stove, flipping pancakes. Me beside him, frying bacon. I want to go back to yesterday. I shake my head, wipe my face with a tear-stained tissue.“So you woke up this morning. Saw your husband wasn’t in bed. Went downstairs to investigate and saw the office door open? Then what?”“I ran across the yard to look for him.” Corrine places a box in front of me, and I grab a fresh clump of tissues. I’m all snot and tears, as though I’m dissolving.“Take your time, Mrs. Bradley.”I draw a deep breath. “I went into the office and saw Jay on the floor. His neck . . . he was dead.” I drop my head to my chest and cry. Corrine’s arm tightens around my shoulders.I hear the buzz of voices. Other cops talking to Simmons. Then they move off.“We’re almost done, Mrs. Bradley. We’ll need a list of everyone who was here at the party last night, okay?”I try to meet his eyes and nod. Jesus. Do they think one of our friends did this? That’s not possible.Corrine rubs my shoulder. “We’ll work on it, Officer. I’d like to get my sister something to drink. And she needs to get into some warm clothes.”“Take your time.” He rises from the table. “We’ve got a forensics team on the way.” He calls a female officer over. “Connors here will help you guys out, so you don’t touch anything that might be important.”I nod and shuffle to my feet.“Oh,” he calls after me, “we need the clothes you were wearing last night.” He shoots a glance at Officer Connors.I choke out a breath. “Okay.” Does he think I had something to do with Jay’s death? The thought nearly buckles my knees.