The Guilty One Read Online Free Page A

edged the car forward in the snarl before the tunnel, merging with the traffic from Berkeley, her phone rang. Maris glanced at the screen: her sister. She deliberated for a moment before answering, but she couldn’t put Alana off all night.
    â€œHey.”
    â€œHi, Mar.” Caution in her voice, the gentling that was so unnatural for Alana. “I was just checking in to see if you got on the road when you thought you would.”
    â€œOh, Alana, listen.” For a moment Maris considered telling her what happened—Ron’s call, the sounds of cars rushing by, the cop in the black windbreaker. The sense of relief followed by rage. “I don’t—I think I’ll just wait and come in the morning. It’s taking me a little longer than I thought to figure out what to pack.”
    â€œJust throw some things in a bag! We can drive back on Saturday and get more, if you want. I’ll help.”
    Maris was exhausted just thinking about her sister going through her dresser, choosing what to take and what to leave behind. “Yes, I just—I know, Alana. I’m grateful. Really. But at this point I’ll have to wait until after six to miss the worst of the traffic and I wouldn’t get down there until seven thirty, at least.”
    â€œOh, Mar.” Alana’s exhale was audible even over the phone. “You sure? I hate to think of you there by yourself. Besides, I picked up some wine. A nice one, a pinot gris. We can sit outside after it cools off.”
    â€œI’m sure.” Maris relaxed fractionally; her sister had relented. “We can figure all of this out tomorrow. I just want to take a shower and go to bed early.”
    But at nine o’clock, when she climbed into the bed she’d shared with Jeff, she still hadn’t showered. Not today, and she wasn’t sure if she’d had one yesterday, either. That would have to change now. Alana couldn’t see her like this, with her hair greasy and stringy, her nails ragged and bitten. She had to make her sister think she was managing, if just barely.
    Starting tomorrow, she would get back into a strict grooming regimen. Exercise too—she’d pack her sneakers and gym clothes and use her sister’s treadmill every day. She’d make an appointment with a hairdresser, get her roots done, a manicure.
    It wasn’t like Maris expected sleep to come easily. She’d accepted the middle-of-the-night wakefulness, the long march of empty hours toward dawn, as part of her penance. But tonight she couldn’t seem to slow her thoughts at all, even after she’d gone through all the breathing exercises Nina had taught her.
    Would sleep have come more easily if he had jumped?
    Would Maris have felt something—anything—when the news cameras turned their inexhaustibly greedy lenses on Ron’s funeral, panning over the mourners as they had a year ago when nearly a thousand people came to Calla’s service? Would Maris feel better when, some future day, she passed Deb Isherwood on the street and saw the familiar ravages of loss in her eyes?

four
    DEB WAS CRYING. Ron knew she was trying not to, trying so hard he could practically feel the effort she was making, the way her teeth ground together and her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.
    She’d held it together while talking to the cops. Ron had stood slightly off to the side, chastened, as though he had been caught pulling the fire alarm in middle school and his mother had come to pick him up. Already the enormity of what he had almost done had dissipated, the decision he had reached a distant and hazy memory. It seemed almost silly, a misunderstanding, and yet there was his wife in her sleeveless blouse, her white sandals with her red-painted toenails peeking out, looking fresh and pretty and appropriately concerned, twisting a lock of her blond hair around her finger.
    They held hands as they walked back to the car, after