turned toward me. In the gray October light her face seemed bleached of color, while her hair was redder than I remembered, an alarmingly alive color among the monochrome graves. I wanted to reach out and touch her, to make sure she was real, but held back. “You went to Maine?” she asked.
“I did,” I said, then told her the story of my week, of the time spent with Brad, of being in his house, and taking his key.
“You don’t think he’ll miss it?” she asked.
“I don’t. He had a whole pile of them in his drawer. It’s a business he runs, so I assume he needs lots of keys. For all I know, those are masters that open all of the cottage doors.”
“Well, it can only be helpful. Just remember to make sure that after all of this happens, you get rid of that key, or leave it back in his house. You can never get caught with any kind of physical evidence. You know that.”
I nodded, and Lily asked, “What else did you find out about your house? Is there a completion date?”
I told her that Brad had told me that he expected to be done with his work in early December, early January at the latest.
“That means we need to act relatively fast. It’s important that it happens before the house is finished, I think.”
We created a plan, where I would need to be and when, and what we would both be doing. Lily discussed it as if we were a couple of seniors in high school discussing who would be doing what when we presented our final science project. I was a detail-oriented person—I had to be, for the work I did and the money I made—and my natural inclination was that I should be taking notes, but I knew that nothing could be written down. Ever. As Lily had said earlier, this would be the last time we saw each other before I became a widower, and then we could meet again, accidentally, as though we’d never met before. As we talked, and as I memorized what needed to be done, I felt the start of some tightness in my chest, a feeling of constriction in my throat and jaw. I tilted my head. My neck cracked.
“You okay?” Lily asked.
“Fine. It’s just becoming real. It was one thing to plan my scouting trip to Maine, but this is a little different.”
Lily straightened up, pulled her lower lip under her upper. There was concern in her eyes. “You don’t have to go through with this, you know,” she said. “This is for you, and not for me, and the last thing I want is for you to do something that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“I’m not scared of that. Maybe I’m worried about something going wrong.”
“If we do this the way we’re planning, then nothing will go wrong. Let me ask you—if there were an earthquake today in Maine and Miranda and Brad were killed, how would you feel?”
“I would be happy,” I said, without having to think about it. “It would solve all my problems, and they would deserve it.”
“That’s all we’re doing, then. We’re creating an earthquake, one that will bury them both. And if we do it right, everyone, including the police detectives assigned to the case, will naturally assume that Miranda was murdered by Brad, and that Brad skipped town. All their efforts will go toward finding him, and they never will. They might suspect you briefly. It would be strange if they didn’t, but nothing they find will point them toward you, and your alibi is going to be rock solid.”
“Okay, I trust you.”
“Look, if at any point you decide you don’t want to do this, then just let me know. But if you’re worried about something going wrong, I don’t think you need to worry. If we stay sharp and do everything the way we planned it, you’re not even going to be a suspect. Miranda and Brad will get what they deserve, and not only that, but think of the sympathy you’ll receive. Your beautiful young wife killed by her brutish lover. You’ll be fighting them off with a stick.”
Lily was smiling. She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Just for the record,” I said. “That’s not my motive.”
“No?”
“No, not unless you . . . uh, you were volunteering for the position.”