Third Party Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Brandi Reeds

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542044936

  ISBN-10: 1542044936

  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Derek Thornton

  For my hunky husband and our amazing girls,

  who taught me laugh lines are a sign of happiness.

  I followed the doe, and she led me here, to the life we share.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THEN

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  THEN

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  THEN

  Chapter 12

  THEN

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  THEN

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  THEN

  Chapter 17

  THEN

  Chapter 18

  THEN

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  THEN

  Chapter 21

  THEN

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  THEN

  Chapter 24

  THEN

  Chapter 25

  THEN

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  THEN

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  THEN

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  THEN

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  THEN

  Chapter 42

  THEN

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  THEN

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  THEN

  Chapter 47

  THEN

  Chapter 48

  THEN

  Chapter 49

  THEN

  Chapter 50

  THEN

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  THEN

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving oneself, and one always ends by deceiving others.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter 1

  JESSICA

  I know right away this isn’t going to be good. I can’t explain it. It’s just a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes it’s there. Sometimes it’s not. And this time, not only is it there, it’s somersaulting.

  It’s barely six in the morning, nearing the end of a long shift at the fire station.

  I ring the bell for the top-floor unit of a building we in Chicago call a three-flat. We’re on the eight hundred block of Leavitt in a decent neighborhood, a recently gentrified section of Bucktown, where many of the three-flats have been renovated into single-family houses. This one, as evidenced by the mailboxes and doorbells on the front porch, is still home to three renters.

  Red and blue lights flash in rotation against the building. In further testament to the safety of the neighborhood, curious neighbors lean out of their windows to see what the fuss is all about. Cops don’t fill the streets around here every day.

  The buzzer bleats to admit the fire battalion chief and me, and I yank open the door.

  “Excuse me.” An older couple, frantic, is suddenly at the curb, exiting their car, slamming doors. The woman is stoic; the man, fidgeting, speaks for both of them. “We got a call . . . I own the building.”

  The chief holds up a hand like a traffic cop, but if he hopes to stop the couple from coming any closer, it’s a futile attempt. “I’m sorry, I have to ask you to wait here a minute.”

  “But our daughter lives here.”

  That changes things. The chief slows his pace and adopts a softer tone. “I’ve yet to assess the situation. I only just got here myself.” While the chief hangs back with the couple, I begin to climb the stairs. I don’t know much about the situation, except that a neighbor called for a well check. I don’t know what we’re going to find up there, but nothing about this scene feels remotely well.

  “I’m the one who called,” a tenant says, looking down at me from the second-floor landing as I approach. “I found this note . . . the police have it now. ‘If anything happens to me, tell them it wasn’t an accident.’ That’s what it said. Can you believe it?”

  A chill chases down my spine.

  “So I called, naturally, and—”

  “Thank you. You’ve done your civic duty.”

  “It’s just . . . she must have slipped it under my door last night. I didn’t see it until this morning. Is she okay?” he asks. “The guy downstairs . . . you might want to talk to him. He says he heard her arguing with someone. A man who threatened to tape her mouth shut. Do you know what’s going on?”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll know soon enough.”

  “If only I hadn’t gone to bed early. Maybe I could have—”

  “You did what you could,” I assure him.

  I recognize the pair of patrol cops standing outside the closed door on the third floor.

  “There’s a lot of city-issue cars outside,” I say. “What are we walking into?”

  “You don’t want to go in there, ma’am,” one of them tells me.

  I point to the name lettered down the right sleeve of my department-issue fleece pullover. “Firefighter Blythe. Here to serve, same as you. Called here to assist.”

  “No saving her now.”

  The somersaulting in my gut ceases, and a hundred-pound rock plummets there. “I see.”

  “Hanging,” the other says.

  She’s not my first, but that doesn’t mean this job is ever routine or easy. “You fellas done in there?” I indicate the door. “May I?”

  One of the pair opens it for me.

  The acrid stench of human decay rises up as I enter the apartment. I roll it up and mentally file it into the special place in my mind I created for moments like these on the job. Compartmentalization. It keeps me sane.

  The place is decorated in a bohemian vibe. It’s colorful and eclectic and airy, with vaulted ceilings and exposed rafters. A nice place to come home to, I’ll bet.

  Lieutenant KJ Decker, detective third grade, is standing in the living room, not far from where the victim is hanging from the rafters. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s gnawing fiercely on a wad of pink gum. He gives me a nod when he sees me.

  Slowly, I approach.

  She’s beautiful, even postmortem. Thin. Blonde. Wearing a red satin nightie. Well-manicured hands. Red polish on her toes. The same shade paints her lips. Even death couldn’t darken tha
t shade.

  And on her right cheek: a horizontal slash, with a trickle of blood, now dried, as if she dodged a sweep of a knife.

  “So much for a well check,” I say.

  Sometimes we arrive for this type of call and learn all is fine, or at least fixable. We come, we help. But even on calls like this one, when it’s too late for intervention, they still need me.

  “We’re just about ready for you, Jessie,” Decker says to me.

  “Anything I can do in the meantime?”

  “I have some difficult visits to see to.” He gives me a sort-of smile. He’s tired. “You wanna notify next of kin?”

  I don’t, but it’s a task no one is going to raise her hand to do. “I think the next of kin just arrived outside.”

  Decker lets out a drawn-out sigh. “I don’t want them to see her like this.”

  “The chief’s keeping them at bay. But I’ll accompany, if you think it’ll help.”

  “Maybe.”

  It appears the evidence techs have swabbed and bagged her hands, presumably to preserve whatever evidence might be lingering in the folds of her skin and under her fingernails, which is interesting because . . .

  “This is a suicide,” I say. It’s meant to be a question of sorts. At the very least, I’m seeking confirmation of my assessment, but after nearly five years on the job, I’ve learned that the right inflection is important for a woman in this profession. Too much lilt, too much emphasis on the question mark, and these guys, even those without rank, will assume I’m uncertain, and they’ll be bossing me around until the cows come home.

  “Apparent suicide,” Decker says. Then, under his breath, he adds, “At least that’s what someone wants us to think.”

  “Really. She leave a note?”

  “Yeah. Brief. Along with a few Benjamins on the counter.”

  I glance at the kitchen and see several hundred-dollar bills fanned on the counter. The number fourteen is tented next to them, which means the techs have photographed the cash as evidence.

  Another number—eleven—marks the location where a lacy red bra is lying on the floor.

  “Did you find a knife?”

  Decker nods. “There’s one in the kitchen sink.”

  “What’s with the note the neighbor found?” I ask. “Doesn’t make sense if this was a suicide. And the first-floor neighbor who overheard an argument?”

  “No.” Decker shakes his head again. “It sure doesn’t make sense. None of it does.”

  Senseless or not, there’s nothing I can do to change it now.

  But I can take care of her to the best of my abilities.

  I call for a bag and spread it gingerly over the planks of old wood flooring in what was this girl’s living room. It sounds silly, maybe, but I wish I’d thought to bring up a blanket for her. She won’t know it’s there, and it certainly won’t warm her, but soon, the old couple the chief and I encountered at the foot of the building is going to peer into this bag. I want them to see that she’s comfortable. No longer suffering the ails of this world.

  Minutes later, I snip at the rope that stole her last breath.

  She’s placed in the bag I prepared for her.

  In motion, her nightie has shifted, making visible an old, deliberate carving on the arc her right breast—the letters A and J.

  “Deck, did you see this?”

  An evidence tech snaps a close-up.

  I straighten her nightie, pull it down over her bare private parts. She’s not wearing panties. Once I ensure all of her is covered, I smooth the hair from her forehead.

  I close my eyes and say a quick prayer before zipping the bag.

  “Deceased’s name,” Decker says into his digital recorder, “presumed to be Margaux Claire Stritch.”

  Victims always become real to me once I learn their names, and this one, with a name like that, could have been glamorous.

  “Aged twenty-two years,” Decker says. “Presumed suicide by hanging. Pending positive identification and autopsy.”

  So young.

  Not that much younger than me.

  I didn’t know her.

  And now I never will.

  Chapter 2

  KIRSTEN

  Life in motion.

  From my position in the sunroom, balancing an empty coffee mug on my knee, I stare out at the acreage rolling all the way out to the wetlands behind our new home. Fog hangs low in the air, wrapping around tree trunks.

  I’m not used to this much space. Nor am I accustomed to the solitude I feel now that Ian and I are, for the most part, empty nesters, and living farther north. Evanston may not have been the city, but it was cityish, at least in comparison to this hidden estate twenty-some minutes off the tollway in a sparsely populated town by the name of Mettawa. The Realtor called it a gem. Ian called it a fresh start. I call it dead quiet. We may as well have moved to the north woods of Wisconsin.

  We purchased this place a few months ago, and while it was ultimately Ian’s decision, I thought I’d like the land. Maybe, much to Ian’s chagrin, I thought we’d get a dog . . . or horses. And besides, my old friends from Evanston vowed to visit. But it turns out no one has time to be infected with the somber atmosphere of this place, where everything moves at a snail’s pace.

  To be honest, I’m probably not ready to face anyone just yet, anyway. Not after the episode. It was just nerves, the doctors said. Anxiety. It happens sometimes when the last child leaves the home, when a stay-at-home mom suddenly finds herself without immediate purpose.

  Wouldn’t it figure it would happen to me? I started crying on a nondescript Tuesday after my daughter Quinn’s high school graduation, and I just couldn’t stop.

  There I was, at the farmers market with my neighbor Fiona, picking through fresh bouquets, thinking, Roses or lilies? And Fiona was babbling about poor so-and-so at the MedSpa, who’d been lipoed to the hilt and was finally ready to show off her newly restored shape on a Mediterranean cruise . . . and her husband died on the ship.

  It started with a sniffle. It was ridiculous, really. I don’t know poor so-and-so. Her husband had died months previously, and the woman was already on the dating circuit. But the sniffle became a sob became a wail, and before I knew what was happening, I could hardly breathe over my heaving, let alone see through my tears.

  Fiona drove me home, only I’d misplaced my keys and couldn’t get into the house, and things escalated from there.

  Neighbors gathered.

  Someone called Ian.

  Someone else called an ambulance.

  I couldn’t stop crying. I don’t even know if I tried. All I know is that I kept thinking: I’ve spent my whole life waiting for things to begin, and suddenly, everything feels closer to the end than the starting line.

  The doctors gave me a sedative and a prescription for more, which Ian filled. But I don’t often take the pills. They make me groggy. Case in point: this morning.

  The episode was a onetime occurrence. Just something that happened. It won’t happen again. I should flush the remaining pills down the toilet.

  The whole thing embarrasses me even now.

  I shake my head, as if the memory will simply fall out of my brain if I lament it hard enough. I’d love to let it go. To let it dissipate with this morning’s fog.

  I’m certain there’s a sun out there somewhere, yellow and dripping with promise, but all I see in the pale glow emanating through a canopy of leaves is impending doom—shadows and the russet tones of the oncoming season.

  I blink. The white fabric of the draperies against the dark yard reverses when I close my eyes, becomes black on white, imprinting a negative on the backs of my eyelids, as if my eyes are the shutter click of a camera.

  I’m trying to pay more attention to detail these days. Life in motion is made of confluence, sequence. Objects blurred with the passage of hurried time. If we don’t pay attention to intricacies and specifics, we could miss something big.

  I blink, take pictures with my mind
. Click. Click, click.

  I see her when I close my eyes: the girl who’d casually strolled through the ballroom at the Fordhams’ wedding and placed her hand on my husband’s biceps. I need to talk to you, Ian.

  Ian.

  She couldn’t have been much older than our children—twenty-one, maybe twenty-two—and she’d called him Ian. Not Mr. Holloway. Ian.

  She stood casual as can be, in her flowing, red dress, with her hand on my husband’s biceps.

  Blink, blink. Click, click.

  I need to talk to you, Ian.

  If I didn’t think Ian would assume I’m having another episode, that I’m about to lose it again, I might scream.

  If I’m losing it, it’s warranted this time.

  I can’t get her out of my head, that gorgeous barely-a-woman with a touch so familiar to Ian that he hardly moved a muscle when she laid a hand on his arm. Yet Ian carries on as if our world didn’t shift with her sudden appearance at his cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago, as if all is business as usual, as if we’re the only two in our bed late at night under the covers.

  She’s here with us. She always will be—the unwanted third party in an institution designed for two.

  Red chiffon skirts.

  Hand on his biceps.

  I need to talk to you, Ian.

  Ian.

  Ian.

  Ian.

  Anger rumbles in the pit of my gut, and I close my eyes.

  And there she is: a haunting image in negative.

  Her cute, twenty-something ass twitching as she pivots to lead him away from me.

  “You okay?”

  I startle when I hear Ian’s voice, but I turn toward him in anticipation of a goodbye kiss.

  He smells of some clean Dolce & Gabbana scent.

  His cheek, devoid of whiskers and nearly as smooth as his baritone voice, meets mine.

  His left hand trails over my abdomen, and a split-second memory illuminates in my mind: his palm on my very pregnant, seventeen-year-old belly.

  It’s the same hand. Just older.

  But somehow, it doesn’t feel as if he’s the same man.

  “Everything good?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say. “I just didn’t sleep all that well last night. I kept waking up.”

  “Take a pill tonight.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m feeling this way this morning—I took one last night.”