We Are Us

Chapter 44 Florida

“Good morning, Mrs. Stockton. Thank you for seeing us. I am Detective Reardon and,” he indicates the woman beside him, “this is Detective Diaz.”

Gavin was right, the state police arrived first thing this morning. I study them now, debating whether to invoke my right to an attorney before answering their questions. Reardon is short and wide, with a bump in his nose, and the tip of it leaning slightly to the left. When he speaks, only the right side of his mouth moves, and the effect is almost cartoonish.

His partner is the same height, but only half as wide. Holding a small notebook and a pen, she wears a carefully impartial expression on her face, her eyes wide-set and intelligent. The brains to Reardon’s brawn.

“We have some questions concerning your husband’s disappearance,” he continues.

I pick at the thin, nubby sheet folded below my waist, deciding not to lawyer up quite yet. “So do I, detectives.”

Reardon frowns at my answer. “As I was saying, tell us about your trip to Florida.”

I repeat the details I shared with Gavin just a few hours ago, ending with boarding the yacht in Miami and setting sail for the Keys.

“But you weren’t on the yacht when you were found,” Diaz protests, her hand poised over her notepad.

Another piece of memory slides into place. “There was a smaller boat on board. It can go places where the water is too shallow for a yacht.”

Reardon give a low whistle. “If you say so.”

“I do,” I add stiffly. “Tucker and I used the smaller boat to explore the Keys on our own, just the two of us.” It sounds romantic, and although this is where my memory is most blurry, I know it was anything but.

“How would you describe your husband’s state of mind during your trip?”

I wrench my focus back to the detectives. “His state of mind?”

“Yes. Did he behave any differently than usual?’

I think back to the afternoon at the Delano Hotel. “He was distracted, on his phone a lot. But that’s not unusual for him.”

There is a hard set to Reardon’s jaw. “Tell us everything you remember about your last excursion.”

“I can try, although I don’t remember much of it.”

“Even the smallest details are helpful,” Diaz reassures me.

I forge ahead. “The captain dropped anchor on the Gulf side of Key West, near the Marquesas Keys, and the crew packed champagne, and a light di

“Dry Tortugas was your destination?”

I nod. Seventy miles west of Key West, the Dry Tortugas are actually a group of several islands, the largest of which, Garden Key, is home to Fort Jefferson, an abandoned military post and former prison.

“Is there anything else you can remember about the trip, or your last moments with your husband?” Diaz interjects. “Even the smallest detail.”

What I remember is not wanting to go to Florida at all, but Sadie had convinced me that getting away from my empty nursery and the cold, dreary winter days in New York would be good for me. That it didn’t have to be a trip to celebrate our a

I think back, trying to remember something, anything about our time on the yacht, or the smaller boat we took out alone. My taste buds react faster than my brain. The briny, wrinkled bite of an olive. Creamy Camembert cheese and savory fig jam, spread on seeded, hand-cut crackers. “I think we opened a bottle of champagne, ate from the charcuterie pla—”

“The what?” Detective Reardon’s eyebrows were raised as he leaned toward me.

“The charcuterie platter. It’s an hors d’oeuvres plate. Cheese, cured meat, olives, crackers.”

Satisfied by my explanation, he rocks back on his heels. “Okay, go on.”

“There’s not much to tell. I can taste the food, I can picture the way it was arranged on the plate. But that’s all. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.” I gesture at the IV and my bandage-covered skin. “With a cracked skull and a dozen lacerations on my back and legs.”

“Any drugs?”

“Sure, yeah. But you’ll have to ask the doctor for specifics. I don’t know—”

“Not here. On the boat with your husband.” He lifts his hands. “No judgment, and we’re not with narcotics, so you can be honest.”

I blanch. “I don’t do drugs, never have.”

“Maybe you had too much to drink and blacked out. You sure you didn’t open another bottle? Nice night. A

“No,” I say, pushing the word through gritted teeth.

“Why not? Wouldn’t be the first time a girl had a romantic night with her guy, drank too much and couldn’t remember what happened.” He hoists one shoulder up, lets it fall. “Or maybe you do remember, but you’re faking a black out rather than admitting an inconvenient truth.”

Bile rises up my throat, hot and harsh. “Absolutely not. I would never drink to excess. Not after—” I close my mouth, pressing my lips together. Remembering a different hospital room, almost ten years ago.

“Not after… what?”

I shake my head, gathering my wits about me and schooling my expression into an aloof mask. “Nothing, just that I don’t drink very much. It doesn’t agree with me.”

Their eyes linger on my face, sharp and accusing. “We’ve towed the boat to our forensics lab. You sure you don’t remember anything else? Like maybe an argument, or any reason there would be blood all over the boat?”

“There’s blood in the boat?” I wonder if Gavin knew this.

“Yeah, quite a bit of it.”

Panic races through my veins, and I lift my hand to my head, fingertips brushing against gauze instead of hair. Of course, there is blood on the boat, I realize. Mine. “There’s a four-inch gash on my head, cuts on my skin. The doctor said I must have bled a lot.”

“Your husband’s blood was in the boat too. Quite a bit of it.”

Reardon’s expression turns sly, almost victorious, as if he’s caught me in a lie. My stomach goes queasy and I brace myself for what’s coming.

“Mrs. Stockton, can you tell us why there was a knife on the boat with your fingerprints on the handle and your husband’s blood on the blade?”