The Other Woman

81

Jane punched the green button before her cell finished the first ring. She’d heard Jake’s messages, finally. Incredible about the Vicks. But if this was him calling back, she’d have to nip this whole thing in the bud. Right now. She wasn’t going to be the next Tuck.

“Jane Ryland,” she said.

“It’s Trevor Kiernan.”

Oh. Terrific.

“Don’t say a thing. Don’t say it’s me. Come to room 415. It’s a private sitting room. The cops will let you by. Now.”

Trevor, waiting in the hallway, opened the door as Jane arrived. Someone had cracked open the room’s tall windows, revealing a wide-shot view of the Charles River, lights of Cambridge glimmering across the water, gauzy curtains shifting in the evening breeze. Moira Lassiter was a silhouette, framed in the gathering night.

“I’m sorry for the… intrigue,” Moira said. She came into the light, smoothing her already-smooth hair with one hand, adjusting a plush gray sweater across her shoulders. “But I owe you, Jane. I want to clear things up. Off the record?”

Jane nodded. Waiting. A matching floral armchair and love seat flanked a low glass and metal coffee table. A paper cup, tea bag string dangling, bore a print of Moira’s plum red lipstick.

“I’ll leave you two,” Trevor said. The door closed after him with a soft click.

Moira sat on the love seat, tucking the charcoal pleats of her skirt underneath her, and gestured Jane to the chair. “Please.”

She’s already been through so much. Moira and her husband don’t even know the rest. Jane wished she didn’t have to tell them about Gable and Maitland. A knockout story for her. A knockout punch for the Lassiters.

Moira took a tentative sip from her cup, holding the tea bag string with one finger. She looked past Jane, past the flutter of curtains, into the night.

“This all started with me,” she said.

“When you called me.” Jane remembered that day, Moira and her maybe-vodka, the request to find “the other woman.”

Moira shook her head, her lips tight. “No, Jane, long before that. Years before that.”

Jane nodded, transfixed.

“We were-in love. And just trying to be happy,” Moira said. “Owen had a miserable marriage. His wife was a constant battle. She’d… Well, who knows what she might have done. When he finally left, he was distraught. Inconsolable. But it was out of necessity, you know? Then, it got worse. She kept the children from him. Every time he tried to see them, she’d prevent it. Threatened him, sent him away. One day she just disappeared with them. Owen was devastated. She’d told him, again and again, Sarah and Matt loathed him. Apparently, Sarah actually did.”

Moira moved a hospital-issue paper napkin on the table, set her teacup on top of it. Her chest rose, then fell, her sweater draping as her shoulders momentarily sagged.

Jane had a thousand questions. But this wasn’t the time to ask them.

“Sarah-Kenna, she called herself.” Moira crossed her legs, crossed her arms, protecting herself. “All this time she was-taunting me. Making me suspect my own dear husband. That whole Springfield charade, Owen told me all about it. Last night in her hospital room, even with all those tubes, Sarah said she wanted to hurt me, and then hurt Owen. The way we hurt her.”

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“But during the campaign? Owen never, ever did anything wrong. Now, both his children are dead. Because of me. Because all those years ago, I was-the other woman.”

She reached out, touching Jane’s arm with one graceful hand, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You can choose your sin, Jane,” she whispered. “But you cannot choose your consequences.”