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  That gets a big laugh.

  “You ready?” Bob calls.

  “Born that way,” I say and toss the crowd another smile.

  The saber goes up, and the crowd gasps.

  I close my eyes. I remember thinking, “He might take my head off, but better it roll onto that tower of glass than fall at the hands of Miller. This CEO job is mine. Hell or high water or six liters of champagne.”

  The video captures the sword falling and the bottle opening with a burst of bubbles tumbling onto the tower. More applause and cheering. One of the servers helps me, and we slowly pour the bottle, the bubbling liquid cascading from the top of the tower toward the bottom.

  Handing out glass after glass, I clink cheers and then sip before raising another glass with the next person. I even hand one to Miller, and his scowl makes my grin grow.

  I raise my glass toward the camera.

  And then it goes black.

  The tape.

  My memory.

  My life.

  My phone buzzes, and it’s Ron, our family lawyer, calling me back. After a brief conversation, I decide I won’t go to the police station. There’s another way. I’ve seen it work.

  Just like her father.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 2

  STATEMENT BY JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH

  SUBMITTED TO DETECTIVE FRANK RAMOS

  July 11th

  JULIET is seated in her lawyer’s office. She’s in a suit, next to a small table and a glass of water.

  JULIET

  Hello, my name is Juliet Worthington-Smith. I am submitting my statement on video per the request of Detective Frank Ramos.

  JULIET clears her throat.

  I am CEO of the Poe Foundation, and our purpose is to take the best ideas from Rhode Island and share them with the world. Dr. Terrance Castle was certainly one of the best from our state. He has . . . had wonderful theories about restorative justice, which is a way of healing people after a crime has occurred. And not just victims, but those who committed the crimes. There were people who didn’t agree with him, but real change can often be controversial.

  JULIET pauses to take a sip of water before continuing.

  I announced our program last night, on July 10th, at the Providence Hotel downtown. We were celebrating, and I had too much champagne. That’s embarrassing, but it’s true.

  After the event was over, I met Terrance out for a drink at the Wrong Side of Hope Bar. I remember arriving, but that’s about it. Just before 2:00 a.m., I texted my husband that I was walking home, which is when the bar closes. To the best of my recollection, I left my wallet behind. I’ve actually done that before at the Sider. The next morning, Detective Ramos informed me that my wallet was found with a body.

  JULIET pauses to take a tissue and wipes her eyes.

  Sorry, I really admired Terrance. He was a great man, and his death is difficult to believe. But I did return home that night. I worry . . . that after I left my wallet, Terrance may have tried to return it . . . and that’s when he was . . . attacked. But I have no idea. And I’ll live with that guilt for the rest of my life. That’s the extent of my knowledge. I’m happy to answer further questions through my lawyer.

  Chapter 5

  Two Weeks Later

  The morning light breaks through my nightmare, and I replay the images in my mind, hoping they’ll soon disappear:

  My dad is driving me to work. I’m nervous, as if we’re late. “Come on. You’ve got to fight, kid. Don’t let them see you sweat,” he yells.

  I cannot open my eyes yet, even if I am fully awake. Because opening my eyes is the transition from sleeping nightmare to the waking one that is my life.

  My head aches from too much wine with Ethan last night. Maybe it’s stupid to drink after what happened, but honestly, it’s what gets me through at this point. When this is over, I’m really never drinking again.

  I open my eyes and blink at the ceiling, but it feels as if that white surface overhead is pressing down on me. I scratch at my scalp when I realize I literally haven’t left the house in two weeks. As if my prison sentence has already started. Even if the news keeps reporting the same refrain: No suspects. No suspects. No suspects.

  The truth is they do have one. Me.

  I still wonder if my video statement, recorded in my lawyer’s office, was the best course of action. We haven’t heard anything from the police. My lawyer assures me this is normal. Cases like this can take months or even a year.

  God, months of this? A year? How can I survive?

  I reach for my phone, and I refresh my email, but nothing happens, so my work account is still locked.

  Ethan stirs next to me and rolls my way. He pulls me close, nuzzling me with his blond chin stubble. I breathe his scent and lean into his warmth. Instead of thinking on all I’ve lost, I try to be grateful that he’s here.

  “My first day back at work,” Ethan murmurs. My head really throbs for a moment, but I’m not going to make this about me. Not when it’s been the Jules show twenty-four seven the past two weeks.

  “It won’t be for long,” I say. Since my job is frozen, but our bills are not, Ethan has returned to the job he had before Fitz was born. “Just a few weeks, probably. So we don’t get behind on the mortgage.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan says with a sigh. “Maybe it’s good for both of us to work, though. Fitz can spend more time with your mom.”

  “Why did I want this big house?” I whine. “If we were back at our old place on Ogden Street, we’d be in a much better position.”

  “It’s not like we’d saved up a nest egg there either, Jules. My going back to work probably needed to happen, you know.”

  Ethan has never been a good liar. We were living our respective dreams before. He always wanted to be a stay-at-home dad. Yes, he liked his job at the Rhode House, helping homeless people rehabilitate and assimilate back into the general population. And I’m sure the executive director, Brooke Jones, or Jonesy to her legions of fans, is thrilled to have “her Ethan” back. She’s everything cute and perky in that Peace Corps, granola way.

  “Plus, you’ll see your ‘work wife’ again,” I tease. But Ethan is right. For our family, for right now, he has to go back to work while I wait for things to clear up. “The police could keep dragging their feet.”

  “These things take time. There are probably a dozen suspects by now.”

  I fake a smile, as if that’s what’s happening, when we both know it isn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself. At least I’m alive. The guilt takes its familiar perch in the center of my chest, pecking away. “I’m really sorry. This is the worst.”

  “No.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears it. “We’re together. Our family is fine. It could be a lot worse.”

  I should be grateful, but it feels like the end of our life. Even if it’s only been fourteen torturous days, I already feel halfway to prison.

  There have to be more suspects. The person who actually did it. My brain starts to spin a familiar loop of all I don’t remember and imagined shadowy figures. My headache kicks up a notch, and I grab the Aleve on my nightstand. At least there’s one thing I can get under control.

  My phone buzzes as I take a sip of water. I scroll through texts from “friends” that keep coming in. Not supporting me, exactly, but letting me know they can talk. I haven’t returned them or asked for help. Maybe because I remember all the friends my dad once had, and I watched every single one of them fade.

  Another buzz as an email pops up to my personal account—and at last, good news.

  “Elle wants to take me to brunch this morning.” I press my phone to my chest and nearly giggle from relief. Goodbye, grubby pj’s. The rarely showering and just watching Farm Family videos with Fitz can end. Finally, something is happening.

  I’ve known Elle for many years, hired her as the public relations consultant through the foundation to put the Genius Grant front and center. “This might be a good sign,” I say, still smil
ing as I respond to her email confirming I will actually be leaving the house today. “Maybe the board is reaching out. I have to go.”

  Ethan looks relieved, propping himself up on his elbow. “Guess we both need to get ready today.”

  The grin doesn’t go anywhere as we get up. Ethan leaves to get Fitz ready for my mom’s, and I jump in the shower, prepared to sing into the spray.

  An hour later I’m back in my CEO suit, which is maybe overkill for brunch—in the heat, especially. But I can’t stop myself. I finally have an excuse for good heels, full makeup, and a jacket lining cool against my skin.

  I step outside as my Lyft arrives. The sun is bright, and I slide on my sunglasses, taking a deep breath of morning air. The driver plays soft classical on the short mile drive from our Hope Village neighborhood to Wayland Square. I keep looking for people staring too closely as we pass by strollers and kids on bikes.

  While it’s not much distance, this part of town attracts a certain kind of Providencian. I used to think this area was older, more established, but not wanting to be on the “fancy” Blackstone Boulevard blocks. It feels more understated—as much as that’s possible among homes in the half-a-million-to-million-dollar range.

  The streets are long and wind along hills with mature trees shading beautifully landscaped lawns. There do seem to be a lot more young families—well, families with money. It takes two very good incomes or one really great one to move here. A little trust fund on the side never hurts when that private school tuition comes due. As we’ll know soon enough with Fitz. Not that we have it.

  “Here we are,” the driver says as we’re cruising along the one-way Angell Street. She parks in the crosswalk in front of the restaurant.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Have a great day.”

  I feel her watch me hurry into Red Stripe, and I wonder if she’s eaten here or writes it off as a place for East Side snobs. I certainly love it. The menu is more French bistro, even though the place is named for a Jamaican beer. That counts as multicultural in Wayland Square.

  My heels click on the black-and-white tile, and I long to sidle up to the cool marble bar with its nicely lit wooden shelves. Even though I don’t know the good news from Elle and the board yet, I feel like celebrating even having hope.

  But as soon as I see Elle’s anxious face in the corner booth, I know I won’t be celebrating anything today.

  Chapter 6

  Elle waves at me with a fake smile from across the crowded restaurant. I feel overdressed in my suit to her three-quarter-sleeve red blazer and dark jeans. As we air-kiss, her face spreads into an eager grin. She’ll tell her other clients about this lunch. It will fuel every cocktail conversation from here to the end of her time.

  Did I tell you who I saw?

  But I’m desperate, and she’s a public relations person who knows more than anyone else in this town about image and branding and how to get your message across. “You look amazing, like a Cate Blanchett dom,” she says as we sit. “And thin. It’s not the stress?”

  I wave her off, uncertain if she means within the past two weeks or the few months I’ve been CEO. “Barre works wonders,” I say. “How are you?”

  She takes the opportunity to chatter on about different clients as we investigate the menu and then order.

  “But this rich guy is spending all of it,” she says with a laugh. She’s telling me about a man from Newport in the middle of a nasty divorce who doesn’t want his wife to get a cent. “He picked up the tab for everyone in the Safari Room. One waitress said it was almost one hundred grand after word spread. The whole room had surf and turf with bottles of good scotch.”

  “That’s hilarious,” I say, and it would have been two weeks ago. I try to stay positive, hoping I misread her initial look at seeing me.

  Maybe Elle has great news.

  Maybe the board wants me back.

  Maybe Miller is out, and they need me to rebrand the Genius Grant project.

  Elle fidgets before she says, “So we need to talk.”

  Maybe not.

  “Sure,” I say brightly, as if whatever she says next won’t change the trajectory of my entire life.

  “Well, sweetie.” She pauses to let out a little breath, like she’s about to jump off the high dive. “The board and Miller, especially, want Dez to handle the Genius Grant. In fact, we’re rebranding it the Legacy Project. To take Dr. Castle’s messages to communities impacted by violence. Dez has this big vision for the money and media plans. It’s all going to work out. We thought you’d be happy that it wouldn’t, well, you know, die with him.”

  I nod, pretty sure that my happiness has nothing to do with this conversation. “So she’s keeping the million dollars I raised?”

  “Raised for Dr. Castle. For his vision. That remains unchanged, despite the sad circumstances.”

  I try to swallow the bitterness. “It’s my idea. I could help Dez.”

  “Honestly, sweetie, I don’t know that your being a part of it is appropriate. Considering.”

  Feeling my face redden, I know no matter the CEO armor and pleasant chitchat, I am humiliated. “Considering what?”

  “You’re the only suspect,” she says softly.

  The noise in the restaurant gets louder. Every plate clanking, pan slamming, and voice reverberating off the tiled floor blurs into a thrum in my ears. I try to breathe. Tell myself to calm down. It takes effort not to drop my head onto the empty bread plate.

  “You okay, Jules?”

  “Did the police say that? I am really their only suspect?”

  She jumps at my voice, and I realize it was loud. People glance our way. “We’ve been told by several sources inside the police department that you are the only person of interest.” She smooths her napkin in her lap. “As of now.”

  “Elle.” I lean forward and stare into her darting gaze. “You don’t think I killed him?”

  “No!” She waves her hands. “Of course not. But . . . you were drunk that night. We all saw it. You shouldn’t have been meeting him after hours. It’s not a good look, even without . . . the evidence.”

  I have to close my eyes. This can’t be happening. I thought surely, she’d have good news, not the worst news.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says with such finality.

  “It’ll get cleared up soon,” I argue. “Can’t you buy me more time?”

  She tries to blink away the pity. “The board really appreciates your service to the Poe Foundation.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t do this, Elle. I gave them my whole career. Fifteen years,” I whisper, careful not to yell, though I want to scream and throw my empty bread plate. “This job is everything . . . what I’ve wanted . . . what I deserve. They can’t fire me.”

  “Well, they can, Jules. Miller put all kinds of outs in your contract. I got him to listen to reason. He agreed to let me come here and offer you this.” She slides an envelope across the table. “If you’ll sign the NDA, the money is yours.”

  There’s a thick document with lots of legal terms and then a check for ten grand. “This is less than five percent of my salary.”

  She frowns, her lips pursing to the side for a moment. “Miller didn’t want to offer you anything.”

  “I didn’t do anything. You want me to be grateful for this? I made Poe into something worthwhile,” I say too loud but can’t stop myself. “I am the one with the vision. I was going to be honored at Davos with other social entrepreneurs next year. Real changemakers.” I applied for it, anyway. “I don’t deserve to be treated like this. Ten grand won’t keep me quiet. Ten grand won’t keep me from suing the Poe Foundation for wrongful termination.”

  Elle’s gaze goes icy. “You’ve got bigger problems than the Poe Foundation, Jules.” She stands up with her purse, then freezes. “Oh, shit. It’s early.”

  I whip around in my chair to see she is staring at the flat-screen TV in the corner. The words BREAKING NEWS zoom across the TV with Terrance’s photo. A man yells for th
e bartender to turn it up, and he does, but the TV goes to commercials.

  “What is that about?” I say to Elle.

  She drops back to her chair with one finger held up. She begins scrolling through her phone.

  My mind whirls with worst-case scenarios as a server passes, and I stop him to order a glass of wine. I can’t take this sober.

  I fiddle with the cloth napkin in my lap and twist it in my fingers. Not able to stop myself, I glance at the bar. As the detergent commercial blares, the bartender—Liam, maybe, or Leonard—pours a white wine. I pray to anything on the wall that it’s for me.

  I look at my phone, and then Elle notices. She sets hers down and then plucks mine out of my hand. “I’m doing you a favor,” she says and begins typing.

  “Give that back,” I say as the wine is delivered, along with our food. I take a sip, and I’m way too nervous to eat. She finishes whatever she’s doing and hands the phone back. “What did you do?” I ask.

  “I suspended all your social media accounts.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Your notifications are about to blow up. This is better. Trust me.”

  “I can’t ignore what everyone is saying about me.” My voice is shrill. “Wait, what will they be saying? What’s happening?”

  “The Poe Foundation had a press conference this morning.” She raises her thin eyebrows. “Your name came up.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you need to stay off your phone.” She glances around, as if embarrassed, and leans close. “There is literally zero good that comes from being on Twitter nonstop and seeing your name dragged every which way. You have a couple of those”—she pauses to flick a finger at my wine—“and you’re drunk tweeting something you shouldn’t. Then half the jury pool hates your guts before you even show up to court.”

  “Jury?” I say. “Court? Where the hell is this coming from?”

  “From everyone, Jules.” Her gaze darts around, but I don’t care. I don’t have to guess at how it feels to be infamous in this city. I’ve watched my father my whole life.

  But this could be another level, because that was thirty years ago. While his crime ruined his reputation and career, it was not national news. It was not hundreds of thousands of people @-ing him on Twitter. He was never canceled or dragged or whatever people call it as they make you social media infamous.