Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Marco and I claim two stools at the bar of a casual Mexican place in Tenleytown. Always the gentleman, he pulls mine out before seating himself.

Ever since we met in law school at George Washington University, we've been cultivating a list of our favorite restaurants around town. This one didn't make the cut, but the margaritas are good and it was convenient. Besides, Marco has let me know he can't linger for dinner.

We order a pair of spicy margaritas on the rocks, no salt. A bartender delivers a basket of crispy chips and a dish of warm salsa along with our drinks.

I watch as a barback cuts limes with a small knife, the blade easily slicing through the fruit's green skin. The knife is only a little bigger than the piece of glass Rose Barclay put in her pocket.

"It's always the husband," Marco says, continuing the conversation we began while we walked here. "Ian Barclay knocked up the nanny. She was two months pregnant, right?"

"Closer to six weeks."

"So he tried to eliminate the problem."

"The wife had plenty of motive, too," I counter. "Jealousy. Rage. Plus, Beth Barclay is the one with all the money. What if the nanny came after her for blackmail or child support?"

"So why didn't Beth kill her husband and the nanny?" Marco asks. "They both betrayed her."

I shrug and swirl a chip into the salsa. "Crimes of passion defy logic. If she did it, she probably didn't plan it out. There are subtler ways to murder someone than by pushing them through a third-story window."

I pause, regretting the flippancy of my words as I recall Rose's vacant expression. Rose was in the backyard helping her grandmother pick tomatoes from the vegetable garden when it happened. Rose might have seen her nanny tumble through the air. She would have heard the fatal crack of skull against the stone patio.

"Both parents were in the house, right? So whose alibi is stronger?" Marco wants to know.

In the month since the nanny's death, media coverage has tapered off, but there is no shortage of old news clips on what police termed a "suspicious death." I've spent the past few days digging into research, so I tell Marco what I know: Beth Barclay claimed to be in her second-floor office, writing an email to her fellow members of the board of the Kennedy Center. She had classical music playing through her computer speakers, as she typically did when she worked, and she insisted it masked the sound of the window glass breaking a floor above. Police verified Beth transmitted an email around the time the nanny fell.

Beth's husband, Ian, was on the phone with an employee of his landscaping company; his home office is down the hall from Beth's. He uses noise-canceling AirPods for his calls, and claims he didn't hear a thing until he ended his call and heard his mother screaming. That phone call was also verified.

Both Barclays lawyered up the moment it became clear the police considered them suspects and refused to take lie detector tests, multiple press outlets reported. Police recently closed the active investigation, so it's now considered a cold case.

And both Barclays are fighting for sole physical and legal custody of Rose.

"Let's say you pushed the nanny. How fast could you make it from that third-floor window back down to one of those second-floor offices?" Marco wonders. Then he smiles. "Who am I asking? I know you're going to find out."

I smile, too, the sorrow I felt in our mediator's office beginning to fade. I've always bounced my cases off Marco. His even temperament and contemplative nature are two of his many wonderful qualities. We no longer share a home or life together, but we still have this: A deep friendship. An enduring connection. A different kind of love.

"Another?" the bartender asks.

I look down and see I've drained my margarita. "Sure."

Marco's glass is almost full.

That's unlike him. Marco loves a good cocktail.

I frown and take in more details. I do what I've learned to do in my cases, when just about everyone I encounter lies to me to further their own agendas—or delusions. I look for the unspoken messages. His tell.

His fingertips are drumming on the wooden bar. He hasn't loosened his tie, like he typically does at the end of a workday. Instead of leaning back against the curved, welcoming backrest of his stool, he's sitting up straight.

Marco's body language reveals what his words don't: Something is weighing on his mind.

I probe for the source of his unease. "Everything good at work?"

He shrugs. "Fine. You know, the usual."

Marco doesn't derive his sense of self-worth from the eight-figure deals he navigates. He takes more pride in volunteering pro bono hours to battered women and donating a chunk of his salary to charities that serve underprivileged children. His heart is with people—with family.

It's one of the things I love most about him. It wasn't only Marco I gained when we wed. From the start, his big, Italian-American family folded me into their gatherings: everyone talking over one another, the table laden with food, someone always topping off your wineglass, friendly arguments and laughter swelling like waves.

If Marco isn't troubled by something at work, maybe it has to do with his family. His older sister is pregnant with her fourth child—a high-risk pregnancy due to her diabetes. But last I heard, all was going well. His mother experienced chest pains recently. The doctors ran tests and told her it was just gas. But doctors aren't infallible.

"Mom's seventieth is coming up fast," I venture. "Is the plan still the Inn at Little Washington?"

Marco's fingers speed up their rhythm. Bingo.

"Ah, yeah… Actually, I was hoping we could talk about that."

My heart accelerates, echoing the staccato rhythm of Marco's fingertips.

Marco's mother has long talked about celebrating her milestone birthday at the coveted kitchen table in the only three-star Michelin restaurant in the DC area. A reservation was secured nearly a year ago. Though Marco's father passed away shortly after we wed, Marco's four siblings, along with their spouses, will all be there.

I was invited, too. They still consider me family.

I brace for Marco's next words.

"I've met someone," he says. I flash to the memory of him smiling down at something on his phone when I walked into the mediator's lobby and the way he deflected my invitation to dinner tonight.

Marco wouldn't be telling me this if his new relationship weren't serious—serious enough that the woman he wants to bring to that long-awaited family dinner isn't me, an ex-wife who still calls her former in-law "Mom."

It isn't hard to do the math. No matter how many chairs the table holds, there won't be enough room for both of us.

Marco has already found the hope the eagle statue in the mediator's office promised.

I can't blame him. We've been separated for more than a year.

I do what needs to be done. I smile and maintain eye contact. I don't allow myself to give away a single tic or clue. My work has taught me to lie convincingly.

"I'm happy for you." I lift my glass in a toast. "She's a lucky woman. Bring her to the dinner. I'll drop off my gift for your mom some other time."

Marco smiles, his posture finally relaxing. "Thank you for understanding."

On our wedding day, I was so in love I thought we could overcome anything. But there was one thing neither of us could compromise on. A dividing line that only grew deeper and wider with time.

Marco wanted kids.

I didn't. More than that, I couldn't. Not physically but emotionally.

People who endure childhoods like mine tend to go one of two ways, a therapist once told me. Either they try to give their kids the kind of parenting they wish they'd had, or they avoid children altogether.

Marco hoped I'd change my mind about motherhood. I hoped our love would be enough.

I turn my gaze away from his, watching the knife cleave through another lime.