“How did you know it was me?”
“Come on, Ray. I still know your work.”
“So what did you think when you saw it?” Ray asked, a slight edge in his tone. “That I did it, right? I killed Stewart and seventeen years later, on the anniversary of that horrible night, I, what, killed this Flynn guy?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you sent that picture to the police,” she said. “You didn’t have to take that risk. You’re doing the same thing I am. You’re trying to help them. You’re trying to figure out what really happened that night.”
When Ray looked away now, her heart broke anew. Tears came to her eyes. “I was wrong,” she said. “All this time I thought… I’m so sorry, Ray.”
He couldn’t look at her.
“Ray, please?”
“Please what?”
“Talk to me.”
He took a few deep breaths, putting himself together a piece at a time. “I still go to the ruins on the anniversary. I sit there, and I think about you. I think about all we lost that night.”
She moved closer to him. “And you take pictures?”
“Yes. It helps. It doesn’t help. You know what I mean.”
She did. “So that picture you sent to the police…”
“It was stolen. Or at least, someone tried to steal it.”
“What?”
“I worked this stupid job for Fester—paparazzi at some over-the-top bar mitzvah. Someone jumped me on the street and stole my camera. At first I figured that it was a routine robbery. But then I saw Carlton Flynn on television and I remembered the photograph I took. I had a copy on my computer too.”
She said, “So you think whoever jumped you—”
“Killed Stewart Green and Carlton Flynn. Yes.”
“You say ‘killed.’ But we don’t know that. They’re missing.”
“We both saw Stewart Green that night. You think he survived?”
“I think it’s possible. You don’t?”
Ray said nothing. He looked down and shook his head. She moved closer to him. She reached up and pushed the hair off his forehead. He was still so damn handsome. She moved her hand to his cheek. Her touch made his eyes close.
“All these years,” Ray said, his eyes finding hers, “I still look for your face. Every day. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times.”
“Was it like this?” she asked softly.
He pointed to the hand resting on his cheek. “You weren’t wearing a wedding ring.”
She took her hand away slowly. “Why are you still in this town, Ray, working for Fester? Why aren’t you doing what you love?”
“It’s not your problem, Cassie.”
“I can still care.”
“Do you have kids now?” he asked.
“Two.”
“Boys, girls?”
“One girl, one boy.”
“Nice.” Ray chuckled to himself and shook his head. “You thought I killed Stewart?”
“Yes.”
“That helped, I bet.”
“What do you mean?”
“To move on. Thinking your boyfriend was a murderer.”
She wondered whether that was true.
Ray studied her wedding ring. “Do you love him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But you still feel something for me.”
“Of course.”
Ray nodded. “This isn’t a line you want to cross.”
“Not now, no.”
“So the fact that you still feel for me,” he said. “That will have to be enough.”
“It’s a lot.”
“It is.” Ray took her face in his hands. He had big hands, wonderful hands, and again she felt her knees start to give way. He tried a rakish grin. “If you ever do want to cross that line—”
“I’ll call you.”
His hand slipped away then. Ray took a step back. She did too. She turned, hopped the fence, and walked back to her car.
She started to drive. For a little while she could still see Lucy in her rearview mirror, but that didn’t last. She took the expressway to the Garden State Parkway and drove all the way home—all the way back to her family—without stopping.
20
DEL FLYNN’S MANSION DIDN’T HAVE a sign reading “Tacky” on it because, really, it would have been redundant. The theme was white. Blindingly white. Interior and exterior. There were faux marble columns of white, nude statues in white, white brick, a white swimming pool, white couches against white carpets and white walls. The only splash of color was the orange in Del’s shirt.
“Del, honey, you coming to bed?”
His wife, Darya—Mrs. Del Flynn Number Three—was twenty years his junior. She wore tourniquet-tight white and had the biggest chest, ass, and lips money could buy. Yes, she didn’t look real, but that was how Del liked his women now—like curvy cartoons with exaggerated features and figures. To some it was freakish. To Del it was sexy as all get-out.
“Not yet.”
“You sure?”
Darya was wearing a white silk robe, and nothing else. His favorite. Del wished that the old stirring—his constant life companion, his curse, if you will, that had cost him his beloved Maria, Carlton’s mother, the only woman he ever loved—would return without the aid of a certain blue pill. But for the first time in his life, there was no need or desire.
“Go to bed, Darya.”
She disappeared—probably, he figured, relieved that she could just watch TV and pass out from whatever combo of wine and pills got her through the night. In the end all women were the same. Except for his Maria. Del sat back in the white leather chair. The white décor was Darya’s doing. She said it signified purity or harmony or a young aura—some New Age bullshit like that. When they first met, Darya had been wearing a white bikini and all he wanted to do was defile that, but he was really growing tired of the white. He missed color. He missed leaving his shoes on when he walked in the house. He missed the old dark green couch in the corner. An all-white house is impossible to maintain. An all-white house sets you up for failure.
Del stared out the window. He was not much of a drinker. His father, a first-generation Irish immigrant, had owned a small pub in Ventnor Heights. Del was practically raised in that place. When you see it up close every day, the destruction booze can cause, you got no taste for it.