I should have wanted them both dead. I don't know why my rage collected around Sean and not around Stephanie. Maybe because, once again, Stephanie's naive, dopey malleability meant that she could help me get what I wanted. And Sean seemed like an obstacle blocking my path.
To start, I wanted revenge on Sean. And why was I willing to plot against him with the so-called friend he was sleeping with? Because I knew it would work.
Also I wanted my ring back. Not because I stole it from Sean's mom or because it had any sentimental associations with him, but because it was the last thing that touched my sister.
Even as I confronted the guy from the insurance company and set up a meeting, I knew exactly how I was going to fit Stephanie into my plans. Stephanie owed it to me for sleeping with my husband. And also . . . she was born to be the fish.
I suppose I felt a little guilty, making the abuse story up. The lying itself didn't bother me, but I was pretending to have a violent husband, which is a real problem for many women. I felt bad for faking it to get the result I wanted.
But I was obsessed. I couldn't rest until I'd made Sean pay for betraying me and ruining our plans for the future. For forcing me to kill my sister.
I let Evelyn die because her death would help me and Sean. And now there was no "me and Sean." There never had been. He was always in it for himself—even while I was letting Evelyn go. There had been me and my sister, and now there was me and my son.
I was in it for me and Nicky. I wanted to raise my son alone—without the "help" and "support" of a man I didn't love and couldn't trust.
It would be tricky, making Sean give Nicky up. But I could do it. And Stephanie would help. All I had to do was mention the words abuseand violent, and she would drop Sean in a heartbeat and forgive her long-lost best friend for whatever she imagined I did. All I had to do was make her think that we were figuring this out together, when in fact I'd figured it out long before our tearful reunion in the bar.
I altered some details to make my story more credible. I told her that Sean was under pressure for failing at work, but actually he was doing quite well and had almost gotten back up to speed after working from home for a while following my disappearance. I had practice in controlling information, changing details. Spinning the truth was what I did for a living.
And oh, poor Mr. Prager. He was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong profession. He asked too many questions—too many of the wrong questions. Silencing him and getting Stephanie to help me dispose of the body killed two birds, as it were, with one stone. It solved my Prager problem and regained and ensured Stephanie's loyalty, once and for all. There is no bond as tight as the bond between partners in crime. Thelma and Louise. Hilarious. Stephanie would die for me if she had to. Fortunately for Stephanie, I don't expect that will be necessary.
The next thing I did was call Dennis Nylon. I talked my way up the food chain. I got as far as Adelaide, his bitch of a personal assistant.
She said, "How did you get this number? Emily Nelson is dead, and this is a tasteless joke. Whoever you are, you know Emily's dead! What you're doing is repulsive."
I told her to calm down, and I revealed several facts about Dennis's various crises and stints in rehab that only I—Emily—would have known. I could practically hear Adelaide's jaw drop. Then I said, "Cut the shit, Adelaide. It's me. Emily. I'm not dead. Put me through to Dennis."
Dennis said, "I knew you weren't dead. My psychic told me she couldn't reach you on the other side—so you must still be here."
"You must have quite a confident psychic," I said.
"The best money can buy," Dennis said.
"I need to come see you," I said.
"Cocktail hour," he said. "I'll be waiting."
I found him lying on the couch at one end of his cavernous loft/atelier. He put down the coffee-table book on Mughal miniatures and rose and kissed me on both cheeks.
Adelaide came in with a tray and two martini glasses filled with Dennis's favorite mezcal-mango cocktail. The rims of the glasses were frosted with chili powder. They were much better than what I'd been making for myself at the Hospitality Suites.
"Cheers," I said. "This is delicious."
"Right back at you," said Dennis, raising his glass.
"It's good to be back," I said.
Dennis drained his glass in three swallows. How did Adelaide know to reappear with another cocktail and remove his empty glass?
"I knew you would have to do something heroic to get out of that marriage. But I had no idea you would have to fake your own death. Everyone around here was devastated. Everyone except me. I knew it was all a charade, just like I knew the happy marriage was a fraud."
"How did you know?" I said. "I didn't."
"I don't mean to sound cynical, but most marriages are. And in your case . . . the whole world knew. By the way, some of the kids who work here were saying that you were having an affair or had a drug habit or something, and that you'd asked them to help you get a fake ID. I don't know why you didn't come to me. I could have found you the best fake credentials. The British husband was cute, but he didn't have the brains or the stamina to keep up with you, to swim with a shark like you, dear. We all knew you'd get bored. You would have been out of there years ago if it weren't for that beautiful son, who can now become a much more interesting child, the product of a broken home."
A pang of missing Nicky shot through me.
"I need a favor," I said.
Dennis said, "If you want your old job back, you've got it. We haven't hired a permanent person. Life in the war zone hasn't been the same without you."
I said, "Really, that would be great. But I have a little . . . red tape to cut through first. Some things I need to take care of. I'm not totally sure yet, but I might need to talk to a lawyer. I know we have good ones on retainer."
"A divorce lawyer?" Dennis said.
"I don't know," I said. "Domestic."
"I know a great one," said Dennis. "When that crazy male stripper was suing me, this guy made him go away. Consider him at your disposal. The psychic too, if you need her."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll let you know. Meanwhile I need something fabulous to wear."
