The Better Sister Read online

  “Because several months later he asked me about the process for admitting Ethan into a military school.”

  I stared at the back of Ethan’s head, waiting for him to turn around so I could try to assure him—somehow, with my facial expression—that there was no way that would have ever happened. Turn, Ethan. Look at me. Why aren’t you turning?

  “And what specifically did he say to you about his desire to place his son in a different school.”

  Olivia objected that the question called for hearsay, but the judge declared that the question reflected Adam’s then-existing state of mind.

  “He told me that there had been other problems since the gun incident. That he didn’t even recognize his son anymore. That Ethan had lost his way. I don’t recall his exact words, but I distinctly remember him saying that he had always hoped that nurture would end up mattering more than nature. He was concerned that Ethan might have inherited some of the destructive traits of his mother—his biological mother, I mean, not his stepmother, Ms. Taylor.”

  I felt Nicky’s hand grab mine for the first time that day.

  “And he thought military school might be an answer?”

  Ethan still hadn’t turned. Olivia had probably given him the same admonishment she had delivered to us: “No matter what happens, do not look surprised. By anything. The jury has to believe during the entire prosecution’s case that there’s another side of the story that they just haven’t heard yet.” I was waiting to hear the other side of the story to this military school angle.

  “He was quite adamant about it. Here, I do recall his exact phrasing. He said that Ethan, quote, needed to get his ass kicked. He thought one possibility was to pull him from Casden and throw him into one of the, let’s say, tougher city public schools. But he was leaning toward a military school and specifically asked me which of them was the most ‘unforgiving,’ as he worded it.”

  “And did you provide him with a list?”

  She shook her head, and Nunzio reminded her that she needed to state her answer in words for the court reporter.

  “No, I did not. It’s not my job to place our students elsewhere. And, besides, I thought—at the time at least—that Ethan was simply trying to get attention.”

  “Do you know whether Adam discussed his plans to switch schools with his wife, Chloe Taylor?”

  “Not with certainty. But he told me that he knew Chloe would try to fight him, but that he was the father and had final say-so, since she was only his stepmother.”

  The word only hurt, no matter how many times I heard it.

  “And when did this conversation take place?” Nunzio asked.

  “I don’t know the precise date, but it was nearing the end of the semester. My best estimate is that it was about a month before Adam was killed.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about Adam’s intention to place his son at another school?”

  “I did.”

  “And who was that?”

  “I told the defendant, Ethan Macintosh.”

  A hum of whispers erupted from the trial gallery, but was quickly silenced by a bang of Judge Rivera’s gavel.

  “You told him that his father was considering sending him to military school?”

  “I did. I thought it might get him to see the seriousness of his situation. Especially since my impression was that his stepmother was enabling him by making excuses.”

  Olivia objected, which only made me feel guiltier.

  “And what did the defendant, Ethan Macintosh, say when you told him that his father was considering sending him away to military school?”

  “He said, and I remember exactly, ‘He can’t do that to me. I’ll find a way to stop him.’”

  Even then, Ethan’s head never turned.

  Nicky and I walked with Olivia in silence from the courthouse, wearing the facial expressions we had practiced on Olivia’s counsel—concerned but confident, unfazed but with a touch of outrage. We didn’t actually speak to one another until we were back at Olivia’s suite at the Hyatt. Furnished with a conference table and whiteboard in addition to a living area and bedroom, it was obviously designed for lawyers trying cases in the nearby courthouse.

  “Did you know about this military school thing?” Olivia asked. She was standing over Nicky and me, the two of us seated next to each other at the conference table.

  “Absolutely not.” I grasped the edges of the table to keep my hands from shaking. “How are they allowed to spring this on us like that? Why didn’t you know about this?”

  Olivia pursed her lips, clearly tempering her response. “Mrs. Carter was on the witness list, but she wouldn’t talk to me or my investigator. I think this is the reason they want you to testify. They’re going to call you to the stand and ask you about every single time Adam and Ethan had a conflict. They’re going to say that his motive to kill Adam was to keep him from sending him away.”

  Olivia had tried to mitigate the damage on cross-examination, getting Margaret to admit that she didn’t take Ethan’s comment as a threat or else she would have reported it to someone. But I could see the way the jurors were looking at Ethan.

  “I had no idea. And more importantly, I never would have allowed it.”

  “Don’t try to play me like you played that headmaster.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not playing anyone.”

  “I should have pushed you harder about this earlier, Chloe. To be honest, I think my judgment with you has been clouded from day one because of who you are and what you’ve done in your work. But no one’s this perfect. This isn’t about your perfect public image, okay? This is real life. And I can’t help Ethan if I’m getting surprises thrown at me in that courtroom.”

  “I’m telling you, I had no idea Adam was thinking about military school. For all I know, that woman’s confused or lying.”

  Olivia scoffed. “You saw her in there. She’s a total pro. The jury believed her. I believe her. And, trust me, I’ll be talking to Ethan about this, too. I can’t protect him from things he doesn’t tell me about.”

  “Well, maybe Adam cooled down and changed his mind, and Ethan wrote it off as a momentary outburst. He never said one word about it to me.”

  “And that right there’s what I’m talking about,” Olivia said. “No family is as Leave It to Beaver as you and Ethan have made yourselves out to be. What else aren’t you telling me?”

  I closed my eyes. Where would I even begin? I dropped my face into my hands. I just wanted Ethan to come home. I had wanted to believe that this trial would finally be the end of the nightmare. I didn’t know how I was going to go on if this jury didn’t make things right. When I finally heard another voice, it was Nicky’s.

  “You fed me the same story,” she said quietly. I dropped my hands and saw her eyes boring into me. “You and Adam both. You kept telling me how happy Ethan was. How well he was doing. You made it sound like I would be ruining everything if I showed up. Like I was a virus that was going to infect the perfect little family bubble.”

  They both wanted an explanation I couldn’t give them.

  Olivia wasn’t letting up. “If the headmaster at the school knew this, we have no idea what others might say. Ethan could have spoken to other kids. Adam might have confided in friends. He could have called military schools, looking for openings. I’ve been talking up Adam’s importance and closeness to Ethan, and this undermines that. Just how bad were the tensions between them?”

  I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Adam had apparently told Margaret Carter that he didn’t recognize his son anymore, but that is how I had felt about my husband for the past year. He was a completely different person when he was angry.

  I pictured Adam screaming at Ethan after finding Kevin’s marijuana—or at least I had thought it was Kevin’s. If I had to guess, only Ethan and I had ever seen him so enraged. And then only I had seen his animosity escalate once he and I were alone in our room later that same night.

  “It was bad, okay?”r />
  Nicky glared at me as Olivia asked, “How bad?”

  “Not, like, physical or anything. But Adam said he didn’t even know who Ethan was anymore, just like Margaret said. Sometimes he’d even cry at night, saying he still saw Ethan as the little boy who wouldn’t talk until he was nearly four but would hand him a jar of peanut butter when he was at the kitchen table working late because he knew Adam liked to sneak a few spoonfuls as dessert. But when Ethan disappointed him, he lashed out and tried to force him to be the boy he wanted him to be, instead of who he actually was. Or is. And Ethan would dig his heels in even further. It got to where I felt like I was walking on eggshells if they were in the same room together.”

  “Well, I think we know now why Nunzio didn’t object to having you in the courtroom. He wants you to see their case for yourself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You loved your husband, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Okay. So they want you to believe Ethan took him from you. They probably think of you as—quote—only the stepmom. If they can convince you that your stepson’s the one who killed him, then you’ll want Ethan punished for what he did. They think you’ll basically become a witness for them instead of the defense.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Can they really make me testify about that?” I asked. “About Ethan and Adam, I mean.”

  They were both talking at once. Olivia was trying to explain the legalities of the situation to me. My communications with Adam were covered by spousal immunity, but only as they related to our marriage. I’d have to testify to anything I observed between Adam and Ethan. And, once again, she reminded me I had no privilege with respect to Ethan, since I was merely a stepparent.

  Meanwhile, Nicky was accusing me of hiding information from her about Ethan.

  “I just won’t testify,” I announced. “If they ask me anything that will hurt Ethan, I won’t answer.”

  “You’ll be held in contempt,” Olivia said.

  “Fine. Let them put me in jail.” Desperate times called for desperate measures. I wondered if the tweeters with the hashtags would take my side. Maybe the outlet-mall juror would, too.

  “It will only make Ethan look guilty,” Olivia said.

  “Is that what you think?” I asked. “That Ethan is guilty?”

  She said nothing. She’d told me when she first met Ethan that she truly believed he was innocent. If she was having doubts, how could I expect twelve jurors to believe us?

  “I’ll say I did it.”

  At some point, Nicky had placed her head on her stacked forearms against the tabletop. She tilted her face as she spoke, but I still almost didn’t hear her.

  “You’ll say you did what?” I asked.

  “It.” She pulled herself upright. “I’ll say I killed Adam. So I could take back Ethan.”

  “Jesus, Nicky. Not helpful, okay?” We had made progress the last six months, but this was quintessential Nicky. She always had to be so dramatic.

  “I’m not kidding. If you’re willing to go to jail for contempt, I’ll take the stand and say I’m the one they want.”

  Olivia was shaking her head again. “Please don’t even entertain that thought, okay? You’re just going to ensure a conviction with a stunt like that.”

  “But why? All we need is reasonable doubt, right? Alternative suspect: right here.” She pointed to herself with two thumbs.

  I wondered if she’d actually learned something about criminal law while she was married to Adam, or had watched too many repeats of Law & Order.

  “Do you realize how quickly Nunzio would debunk that?” I yelled. “They’d pull your phone records, for one. How are you going to explain your cell phone pinging in Cleveland if you were here killing your ex-husband?”

  I could tell Nicky had no answer for that.

  Olivia held up both palms. “I appreciate the enthusiasm—both of you—but if it looks like you’re willing to say anything to save your son, it makes all our witnesses look like liars, which makes Ethan look guilty. And, Nicky, I can’t suborn perjury. And even if I did let you take the stand and try to confess, they’d destroy you on the stand—with the phone records Chloe mentioned, for example—or they’d just argue that you and Ethan did this together, and he’d get convicted, and you’d be up next. So, forgive my bluntness, but don’t be stupid.”

  “What about your promise?” Nicky said. “Where do things stand after today?”

  Olivia had promised to be brutally honest if we were losing. “The promise stands, and we’re still good, all right? We have a strategy. We just have to stick to it.”

  The strategy was nothing flashy. It was all about reasonable doubt. No murder weapon. No bloody clothes. No DNA.

  Before Nicky and I left to head back to East Hampton, I asked Olivia if she had had a chance yet to follow up on my theory about Adam’s purpose in going to Kew Gardens. My initial curiosity about his meetings with the Gentry Group had taken a back seat to Ethan’s defense, but the discovery of an FBI office across the street and a pending investigation against the company had changed all that.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to approach that, but preparing for trial has been the priority.” I took that to mean she hadn’t done anything at all. “Hang tough, okay? I know today didn’t feel great, but we got Guidry on the record admitting they have no physical evidence. It’s not splashy, but that’s the kind of thing that leads to an acquittal. And there’s a long way to go. Go home and try to get some rest.”

  I couldn’t rest, not until Ethan came home. It didn’t matter what the prosecution thought. I wasn’t going to turn on him, no matter what.

  27

  For the next two and a half weeks, the drive between the courthouse in Riverhead and the house in East Hampton became our shared commute. I tended to drive in the mornings, while Nicky took the wheel on the way home. After a few rounds of arguing about the radio, we adopted the rule that whoever drove controlled the satellite stations. I tended to go for news, light rock, and the ’90s hip-hop channel. She opted for metal, ’80s new wave, and Howard Stern. I had to admit that I ended up liking everything except the metal.

  We also fell into a rhythm at the house. Usually I’d pick up stuff from Blue Heron, a former side-of-the-road farm stand that had grown into a posh gourmet market. But I’d learned by now that Nicky was actually a good cook. Whoever chose the menu did the cooking, while the other helped with prep and cleanup.

  On this particular Sunday night, I was keeping it simple with roast chicken, haricots verts, and baby potatoes. Less simple was the fact that we had two dinner guests who were out on the East End for the weekend: Catherine and Jake. I had introduced Jake as a friend from Adam’s law firm who had been trying to schedule a time to check in on me for weeks, but I had a feeling Nicky knew precisely who he was to me the second she laid eyes on him.

  My suspicions were confirmed after I asked Jake if he could trim the haricots verts while I trussed the chicken and Catherine made refills for our martinis.

  “See, I remember back when Chloe called them ‘green beans’ like everyone else in America,” Nicky said. Passing behind me with a bowl of scrubbed potatoes, she whispered in my ear. “Funny how the hot lawyer knew exactly where the cutting board was without being asked.”

  “Nicky,” I said loudly, “maybe since I have these helpful minions in the kitchen, you could consider taking down all those Halloween decorations from the front porch.”

  “Party pooper.” One of the items she had hung by the door was a motion-detector vampire that cackled and wiggled each time you passed. It was a week from Thanksgiving, and I was still jumping every time I walked out of my house. “I confess I’m better about putting things up than taking them down.”

  “You’re going to be one of those crazy old ladies who has her Christmas tree up all year-round.”

  “Knock it off with the crazy old lady jokes,” Catherine said, han
ding me a refreshed martini. “I consider them hate speech.”

  I heard a chime come from Jake’s cell phone, which was faceup on the kitchen counter. The number on the screen was one of only ten or fifteen that I would have recognized from memory—the central switchboard for the New York Times. He must have recognized it, too, because he set down the paring knife he was using, said he had to take the call, and slipped out the sliding doors to the back deck.

  “Hmm,” Nicky mused, wiggling her fingers. “Take over bean duty or destroy all scary, happy things on the front of your house?”

  “Removal of all the fun, please,” I said, adding a sad trombone sound for effect.

  Catherine watched as Nicky trudged off to the front door with the step stool from the pantry. “You two seem to actually be getting along.”

  I shrugged and took a big sip of gin that I knew I’d regret in the morning.

  “And to think, last summer you were saying there was no way you could keep her under the same roof with you for the whole trial.”

  I avoided her gaze as I cut off a two-foot-long piece of cooking string and began to tie the chicken in a neat, tight tuck. “That was before I realized she’s the only one who understands how scared I am.”

  When Jake came back inside, he allowed his arm to brush against mine as he spread the thin, bright beans in a single layer across a baking sheet. I shot him a warning look, but when my eyes connected with his, I realized how much I wanted to be able to be here with him like we were a normal couple.

  “So was that the Times?” I asked.

  “Invasion of privacy much?” he said with a smile.

  I recited the number from memory. “Same number that popped up every time they called me for a quote.” I spoke in the past tense because, these days, no one called except about Ethan’s trial, and I referred all the media to Olivia.

  “Just a reporter,” he said.

  “About Ethan?” No matter the context, my fears for him were always lurking just beneath the surface.