“Yes, I just got off the phone with him, but I wanted to let you know as well because it didn’t sound like he was going to tell you.” She hesitates. “This is all in confidence, of course. I’m not supposed to know this information at all, and I’m certainly not supposed to tell either of you. Can I trust you to keep this between us, Millie?”
“You can,” I confirm.
“Benito and I both have our ears to the ground.” Despite the fact that my world is crashing around me, Cecelia doesn’t sound the slightest bit rattled. And her confidence makes me calmer. “If we hear anything at all about an arrest warrant, I’ll call you immediately.”
The idea of my husband being arrested is almost too horrible for words. Suddenly, I’m too choked up to even respond.
“Millie.” Cecelia’s voice is firm. “We are going to figure this out. I promise you that. Do you believe me?”
“But…” I manage. “What if…”
I can’t even complete the sentence. Anyway, I don’t know what I’m going to say next.
What if my husband really was having an affair with Suzette Lowell?
What if Enzo really killed Jonathan Lowell?
What if they lock him up? What the hell am I going to do? What will I tell our children?
“Millie,” Cecelia says in that confident, capable voice of hers. “You need to trust me on this. Because I trust you. I trust Enzo. We will get through this.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I trust you.”
Except how exactly will we get through this? If they found that shirt, covered in Jonathan’s blood, Enzo is in deep trouble. I have to hope that he got rid of that shirt. That he put it somewhere they’ll never find it.
It doesn’t even occur to me that they have found something far worse.
FIFTY-SEVEN
I don’t mention my conversation with Cecelia to Enzo.
The truth is I’m scared to talk to him about it. When he comes to the kitchen to help me set the table, I open my mouth a dozen times, but the words never come out. Something terrible is coming, and it almost feels like talking about it will make it real.
When the kids get home, we act like everything is normal. We act like our home didn’t just get torn apart by police officers looking for evidence of murder. If there’s a chance he’s going to get arrested soon, it’s all the more reason to cling to normal while we still can. Enzo even manages to coax Nico out into the backyard for some baseball—the first time since the Little League incident.
But Enzo spends much longer on the bedtime routine than usual. I was going to let him go first, but when he’s already been in with Ada for half an hour, I decide to go in to say good night to Nico. It’s late enough that he might drift off soon if I don’t go in there.
But when I get into Nico’s bedroom, he doesn’t look like he’s about to drift off anytime soon. He is sitting up in bed, reading a comic book. The enclosure where Little Kiwi used to reside is still by his bed, but of course, now it’s empty.
“Bedtime.” I tug the comic book out of his hands and lay it down on his desk. “Time to go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“I bet you’re more tired than you think.”
“I bet I’m not.”
But he obediently puts his head on the pillow. I turn off the lights, but the moonlight is still streaming through the window by his bed. Even though we have shades, he usually keeps them up. The whites of his eyes almost seem to be glowing in the moonlight.
“Mom?” he says.
I perch myself at the edge of his bed. “Yes?”
“Do you think that if a person does a bad thing, that makes them a bad person?”
“Well, what kind of bad thing?”
His eyes grow larger. “A really bad thing.”
He must be thinking about his father. It must have been so jarring for him to wake up this morning to the police in our house. What will he think if they arrest Enzo?
He is watching me, waiting for my answer. After everything I have been through in my own life, I have a unique perspective on this. I have done some bad things. Some really bad things. I have killed somebody. Actually, more than one somebody.
Nico doesn’t know about that though. We have kept that secret from our children. One of these days, they will almost certainly find out. And I am terrified that when it happens, they will hate me.
“I think,” I say, “that a person can do bad things and still be a good person. As long as they were doing the bad thing for the right reason.”
“You can do bad things for a good reason?”
“Absolutely. Like, we both know lying is wrong, right?”
He nods.
“Well, what if Ada got a haircut and it looked bad. And she asked you how it looked, and you told her it looked pretty because you didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That would be lying, but it would be for a good reason. Does that make sense?”
“Yes…”
“Does that answer your question?”
