“Tom Hovisky was suffering from life-threatening injuries you determined, and as a trained surgeon you assessed him and began providing what you believed were life-sustaining measures.”
Simon looked at Joyce, who stared back at him earnestly. Go on, her face told him. But how could he?
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Bechdel cleared her throat. “Which were ultimately unsuccessful.”
“I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with your current investigation?”
“A young man was murdered.” Joyce clasped her hands on the table. “It seems that he had connections to Catriona. I knew that it was important to tell the police what we’d been dealing with, having her harass us, asking for money, calling you at random hours of the day and night. It spoke to her instability, I thought. And I wanted to make sure she wasn’t a threat to us.”
“Has Catriona been in touch with you recently?” Kirkpatrick asked, pen poised above his notepad.
Simon felt Joyce’s foot press on top of his underneath the table. “Yes, she has.”
“In what way?”
He took a deep breath. “I’d tried to contact her, as the anniversary approached. I wanted to make sure she was all right, and ensure she wasn’t spiraling out of control. It had been a difficult time for her, after the accident. We’d tried to help her as much as we could.” An image of Joyce, standing at the top of the stairs in their home, holding a piece of paper and so furious her hands shook, the paper fluttering in the dark. “Recently, though, she’s been in touch, asking for money.”
Simon felt the shame press down on his shoulders. Joyce should never have done this. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve this.
“Money for what?”
“A lawyer, for this case,” Simon admitted.
“And have you provided this?”
“Yes, I helped her connect with Blanche Grainger. You might know her work. I’ve promised to pay the legal fees for her. She needs good representation.”
“Is this the first time you’ve offered her money?”
Simon avoided looking at his wife, although he could feel her eyes on him. “No, it is not.”
“When have you offered money to her before?” asked Kirkpatrick.
“After her fiancé died. She had issues with his life insurance. I stepped in to help with some of her bills.”
“Mr. Morgan, are you involved at all romantically with Catriona Dell?” Bechdel asked, her look one of laser focus.
Simon swallowed and wished that he’d had a bit more to drink earlier.
“No, of course not,” Joyce cut in.
“We would prefer that your husband answer the question, please.” Bechdel leveled her gaze at him again.
“No, I am not romantically involved with her.” And it was the truth.
Simon had never cheated on Joyce with another woman.
But it was also true that he was attracted to Trina. A mixture of shame and guilt and desire had merged together into a maelstrom he’d struggled with for the last year. He wanted to help the world, to heal those who were in pain.
And now all he could seem to do was cause more pain to those he cared about.
He’d had enough. “Are we being charged with anything?” Simon asked.
“No, no. You’re free to go whenever you prefer.”
“Then we’re done here.”
Simon stood and Joyce followed him out. Outside, at Simon’s car, he turned and faced his wife.
“Do you really enjoy humiliating me that much?” he asked.
Joyce studied his face, and then leaned in to put a gloved hand on his cheek.
“I think we both love to punish each other.” She kissed him boldly on the lips, and then walked away.
Simon glanced at his watch. He had paperwork to do, charts to finalize. He should go back to the office, but instead he got in the car, pulled out, and drove towards Trina’s apartment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN LAURA
Laura offered Susan tea or coffee, like she was in a sitcom and Susan was a visiting PTA mom. Susan asked for coffee, and Laura brewed up a pot. While the machine bubbled and sputtered, Laura pretended to be busy around the kitchenette, gathering up spoons and creating a makeshift sugar bowl out of a chipped creamer jug hidden at the back of their cupboard. She put the milk in its carton on the table in front of Susan.
Part of Laura didn’t want the coffee to finish brewing. She wanted to stay in the indefinite moment, where she knew that Dermot wrote about her—about her!—to his estranged sister. She could pretend that anything was in that letter. He could have told his sister he was in love with Laura, that he wanted to get married and have his family’s blessing before he proposed. Another part of her realized he might have said things that weren’t so kind. Maybe he talked about her struggles, and how they were affecting him. Maybe he talked about his problems at work, some that Laura had caused and others that she’d had nothing to do with. But why would he mention those to his sister, who he didn’t talk to anymore?
Susan opened with, “He really cared about you,” as Laura set down the two mugs.
A flame burned bright in Laura’s chest. And then a nausea settled over her, hard and fast.
“Is that what you came to tell me? Because I already knew that.” The harsh edge in her own voice surprised Laura, and she tried to remedy it with the next thing she said. “But I appreciate you coming all this way to tell me that.”
“How long had you known each other?” Susan asked next. Laura knew what the question really meant. How old was Laura, and how long had she and Dermot been involved?
“I’m nineteen.”
“Okay.” Susan uncrossed and crossed her legs. “That’s pretty young.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-six.” Susan pulled a lock of her perfect blowout off her face before tucking it behind her ear.
“You look younger,” Laura said honestly.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“I’ve been told that. Dermot called me baby-face sometimes.”
Susan set her cup down on the table and clasped her hands. “What else did he call you?” Her face shifted from one of interest to something else.
