The Bitterest Pill

Seventy-three

When she answered the door, it was obvious on her face. She feared Jesse had found her out, he knew her secret. Or, if not the secret itself, that she had one. And it was a secret she thought was safe in a place like Paradise. She had thought, she hoped, foolishly, that living in a small town above a warehouse on a dead-end street and doing her art was cover enough. But experience should have taught her that circumstance could lay you bare, no matter how carefully you planned your moves or how small you made your life. When she saw the file in Jesse’s hand, it confirmed her fears.

“Come on up,” she said.

In her apartment, there was a half-empty open bottle of Malbec and a lipstick-smeared glass next to it on the kitchen table. There were only a few purple drops at the bottom of the stemmed, bell-shaped wineglass. Before she sat down or offered Jesse a seat, she poured more wine into her glass and took a swig. Jesse had never seen this version of Maryglenn before. As he now understood, there were several versions of Maryglenn, seen and unseen.

As he walked past her, Jesse placed the file on the table next to the bottle. He sat on a beat-into-submission leather chair that looked like it had begun life a decade or two before in a doctor’s waiting room. Still, it was a comfortable chair that suited Jesse, given how uncomfortable their conversation was bound to be. Like almost everything else in the apartment, the chair was flecked with paint.

Maryglenn flipped open the file, thumbed through the pages, and finished her wine.

“Do you so thoroughly investigate all the women you sleep with?” She laughed in a joyless way. “Must be quite a collection of files you have.”

“I hope you know better than that.”

She poured herself another glass. “Then why?”

“I can’t tell you that, but you’ll know why tomorrow.”

“The drugs.” She fixed her lips into a pained smile. “The reason you’ve been around school so frequently. You think I’m involved somehow.”

“Are you?” Jesse stood. Walked to the large window that looked out at the yacht club, Stiles Island, and the Atlantic. “All that file tells me is you’ve got something to hide, but it doesn’t tell me what it is or why.”

“Don’t you have things to hide, Jesse?”

“Of course, but none of them worthy of name changes and false histories. I always wondered why we never talked about your past. I know you are from around Nashville. At least that’s what your accent tells me. You say you went to art school, but I don’t know which one. You call yourself Maryglenn, but—”

“We don’t talk much about my past because we’re often preoccupied.”

Now it was his turn for a joyless laugh. “True.”

“There were no lies in there, Jesse.” She pointed to her bed and then to her heart. “Or in here. No, my name isn’t Maryglenn, but it’s the name I gave myself. I like it. Better to have a name that draws attention than one that is plain as a sheet of white paper. People who try too hard to hide make it obvious they’re hiding. Besides, Maryglenn is a good name for a painter.”

“Witness protection?”

“I can’t say.”

He asked, “That story about your leg.”

“A lie. The injuries and the pain were real enough, though.”

Jesse pointed at the bed. “A lie told in bed. Just contradicted yourself.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I would know what most women meant, but you aren’t most women.”

“How I sometimes wish I were. Who else knows?”

Jesse shook his head. “Knows what? All I know is what I don’t know.”

“That’s beneath you, Jesse.”

Jesse changed subjects. “You know about my fiancée, don’t you?”

“Diana. I know what I’ve heard. That she was murdered and the killer escaped.”

“She had a secret, too. When we met, she was an FBI special agent using an alias and working undercover.”

“What does that say about you, do you think?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m not here about me.”

She laughed. “You think not? Jesse Stone, police chief, homicide detective, blind man.”

“Maybe.” Jesse picked up the file and went to the door. “I gave you a chance to explain and you didn’t. Don’t run and don’t be absent from school tomorrow.”

He let himself out without saying goodbye.