Addy nodded, taking that in. Then she seemed to feel the need to explain herself. “We met through friends. I was doing some research with foster kids, and my friend put me in touch with Dermot. He was a social worker, and really nice and friendly. We got along great, and sort of became friends.”
Maybe that’s also why Addy was drinking so much that night, Trina thought.
She repeated, “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Addy locked eyes with her. “They’re saying that you were with him, that night.”
“Who’s they?” Trina asked.
“Everybody. People saw the police talking with you on campus, and so word just started spreading around.”
Trina wondered how much of that was due to Addy herself. A memory flashed up from that night in the bar, Addy saying she knew Trina was in trouble. That rumors were spreading around the department.
“We met at a wedding. He was just a guy who I thought was cute and…” Trina paused, and then just got on with it. “And I slept with him. He had a room at the hotel where the wedding was held. I didn’t know him well, at all.”
“The police think you’re the one who hurt him?” Addy’s face was unreadable.
“I think so. But too many pieces of this situation don’t fit. There are people who say Dermot was such a great guy, but I think he had problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“The kind of problems that would get him killed,” Trina said simply.
Addy paused for a second. “I think I can help you,” she told Trina.
“How?”
Addy pulled out a ring of keys from the pocket of her jeans. “I have a key to his apartment.” And then she began to cry, shaking so violently that Trina reached out and wrapped her arms around her slight shoulders, telling her that everything would be okay.
Trina had always been a good liar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO LAURA
Everything in Rosie’s apartment was slumped and disheveled, which was exactly the opposite of Laura’s friend. Rosie opened the door, crisp white shirt, short jean skirt, and her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun with two perfectly coiled curls framing either side of her forehead like a makeshift crown.
“It looks like you need a drink,” Rosie said as soon as she saw Laura.
Laura stepped across the threshold and wiped her snowy boots on the mat in the outside hallway, although the carpet was already stained with slush and debris. Rosie lived with two brothers and two other boy cousins, and it was a constant fight for her to keep the apartment livable, let alone pristine.
Laura caught her reflection in the hallway’s bronze-framed mirror and barely recognized herself. A pale, gaunt face stared back, her eyes sunken and her cheeks chafed from the wind on her walk to Rosie’s apartment. The plastic bag from the pharmacy she stopped at on her way over to Rosie’s crinkled in her pocket, the pregnancy test shrouded just barely by the thin material. Handing over fifteen dollars to the judgmental cashier had been awful.
Who was J.L.? Jennifer. Judy. Jolene. Julie. It was like an itch that Laura’s mind couldn’t scratch. She was certain the woman Dermot was with at the wedding wasn’t someone he’d met before. They’d acted like strangers at first. And then as not-so-strangers, she reminded herself.
Laura watched her leave, in the early morning hours. Someone who carved your initials with theirs into a tree wanted you to stay the night, right? Although, Laura thought, Dermot had carved his with hers, and yet he hadn’t asked her to go with him to the wedding. He’d just wanted a free room. She’d worn the dress he’d bought for her, the one she almost wore over to Rosie’s today. When Laura walked across the hotel lobby, the heels she’d borrowed from Rosie had clicked in that satisfying and classy way they do in movies. They were six inches high, with sparkling rhinestones set into the straps, and they cut into her feet as she’d moved over to the carpet and climbed the stairs, her footsteps silenced then by the rich nap she hated vacuuming but loved walking on.
“Come on, honey,” Rosie said, cutting into Laura’s thoughts. She smiled. “I’ve got the apartment to myself tonight, which means we can make popcorn and watch whatever we want on Netflix. I’ve lined up three or four Hugh Grant movies. Oh!” She threw her hands up in the air, as though she just remembered. “And I made signature drinks!”
Rosie passed her a martini glass full of a vibrant pink liquid, and Laura slugged it down in one gulp. It tasted sickly sweet with a burn afterwards, like fake strawberries and cheap vodka.
Rosie followed suit, and the two women gave a little cheer as they refilled their glasses and headed to the couch. On previous visits, the couch had smelled of cigarettes and boy—that was the best way Laura could explain it. Today, though, she noticed Rosie had tucked a clean polka-dot sheet over the couch as a slipcover. A scented candle burned on the coffee table, giving off the smell of clean linen.
“When did you have time for all of this?” Laura wanted to slip into the bathroom and find out what she was going to have to do next, but she couldn’t ignore her friend’s kindness.
“It’s amazing what you can get done when you’re not picking up after three boys.” Rosie settled herself onto the couch and patted the cushion next to her.
“I’ll be right back,” Laura said. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Well, here, let me take your coat.” Rosie reached out as she stood up.
“No, I’m fine.” Laura kept walking towards the bathroom, which was down the hall past the three bedrooms. “I’ll be right back.”
She locked the door behind her, turned on the overhead fan and ran the faucet, hoping to conceal the crinkle of plastic as she unwrapped the test. Laura knew Rosie would be suspicious of all the noise, but she couldn’t wait any longer.
J.L. J.L. J.L. Why had she ever trusted Dermot in the first place?
Laura read the instructions for the test, holding it underneath her over the toilet, her muscles so tense she had to try for what felt like an eternity before she could pee on the stupid stick, and then sat and waited to see what it would tell her.
Her stomach twisted from the alcohol and sugar sitting like an unexploded bomb inside her. She hadn’t eaten since this morning, which was only a burnt piece of toast and a massive cup of black coffee.
Laura checked her watch.
One more minute.
There was a knock at the door. Rosie’s voice came through, an edge of concern coloring it. “Are you okay, honey? Do you need help?”
Why did Laura drink that alcohol? That would be bad for the baby. If there was a baby.
She checked the stick, but still no answer. She looked at her watch. Still thirty more seconds.
“Why don’t you come out and we can talk about it?” Rosie twisted the handle on the door, but the lock held fast.
“I’m fine. Just not feeling so good.”
Laura looked at the stick. Something had changed, and she compared it now to the instruction packet that trembled in her hands.
“Do you want me to call Terry?” Rosie’s voice had turned pleading, and Laura felt awful because she knew she was about to ruin the relaxing evening Rosie had planned out so carefully for the two of them.
She opened the door. Rosie was there, a look of concern on her face. “What can I do?”
“Don’t call Terry,” Laura said. The last thing she needed was her brother, strutting around and making everything worse with his hot head and skewed moral compass.
“I won’t. I didn’t want to in the first place.” Rosie took Laura’s hand. “You’re so cold. Do you want some tea? Something stronger?”
Laura looked at her friend wide-eyed. “I’m pregnant.” Saying the words out loud made everything seem all too real. She stumbled a bit, and Rosie—dear Rosie—held on to her and guided her back to the couch.
“I’ve been so stupid.”
“Haven’t we all at some point.” Rosie sat next to her and held her hand. The apartment was silent, except for a drip splashing into the sink in the kitchen.
