Rooked Page 2

  Lane continued to dispute the detective’s allegations as Ara slipped off into another haze. Her head felt heavy and was weighing her down, her neck suddenly not strong enough to hold it up.

  Resting her face on her forearms, she allowed the detectives to argue for another minute or so before finally saying, “I took the stairs. Didn’t you see that on the tape?” Three sets of eyes now focused directly on her. “I was nervous about waiting in the car, and it was freezing out, so I decided to take the stairs.”

  Ara had watched enough crime shows to know they were analyzing her every word, judging the authenticity of her emotions and the tears that fell from her eyes. She always wondered why the of-course-suspected spouse wouldn’t think to act a certain way, or at least be aware that the detectives were clearly scrutinizing him or her. But now she knew. Her husband was dead, and her life was changed forever. She couldn’t care less what this high-school-quarterback-who-never-left-his-hometown detective thought of her.

  Lane repeated, “She took the stairs, Maro. See? Problem solved.” Lane seemed satisfied with the answer, and Ara hoped the others would be, too.

  Detective Maro, the obvious bad cop, pushed back his chair and chuckled, and pointed obnoxiously at Ara’s feet.

  “You expect us to believe that you hiked up seven flights of stairs in those heels? What are they four, five inches?” His chair screeched as he dragged it back in, sending a shiver straight down Ara’s spine.

  Yes, I do expect you to believe that. Walking up the stairs had given her plenty of time to get herself together for whatever Brad wanted. Tonight, more than ever, she’d needed the time to compose herself.

  Lane jumped to her defense, the conversation getting more and more heated. “I’m sure her phone’s health app could prove this, Maro.” The testosterone filling the room as the men squared off was too much for her. Who were they to analyze her every move? Tonight was supposed to have been nothing more than an enjoyable date night for her and her husband. She should be asleep right now, in the deep rest that only came after a perfectly-timed orgasm. Instead, here she was with three douchebags trying to figure out who’d broken into her house and shot her husband in cold blood. She’d had enough.

  “I don’t like surprises. Brad knows that. I hate them. But he didn’t care tonight and wanted to surprise me anyway,” she said, pausing for a moment. And now he’s dead. How is that for a surprise? She shook her head at the thought and lowered her voice. “I needed a little time to relax. I’ve taken the stairs plenty of times. Whoever did this, it wasn’t me.”

  The men stopped their bickering—maybe it was the shock of hearing her speak after being so silent. “We’ll go back to the tape, Ms. Hopkins, look again for any other potential suspects.” She hardly heard the detective as her mind drifted to the day Brad proposed.

  She was probably the only woman in the world who’d been pinched with anger instead of joy the moment after the proposal, because her fiancé-to-be had gotten away with surprising her in the dimly-lit upstate New York restaurant. Cozy, with a large booming fireplace and snow trickling outside the window, many women would have killed for an intimate, surprise proposal like the one Brad planned. This stuff excites people, makes them happy, she’d thought as she responded “Yes” to Brad’s perfectly pitched proposition. Luckily, as usual, Brad had been unfazed, used to her idiosyncrasies by then. He’d scooped her up in his arms and posed for the photo session he planned with their waiter to capture the moment. He really thought of everything. Ara clumsily went through the motions of ecstatic wife-to-be while Brad had scrolled through his contacts informing everyone, family and friends, of what just happened. Ara didn’t send a single text at first, though she would have to tell Raina eventually. The thought of her mother finding out from an overly hashtagged post to Raina’s Instagram was more thrilling than the fact that she was now engaged to one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. As expected, her mother numbed herself with Valium and rosé until Ara called a few days after she and Brad returned to the city.

  She recalled feeling overwhelmed at the thought of spending the rest of their lives together. If only she’d known then that it would only be a few more short years, and that the promise of ‘forever’ was far less permanent than she’d thought. They would never have children or go to Bora Bora like they planned. All the jokes they’d shared about growing old and gray together were now fictional. Brad would never grow old. He would never be gray. He would forever be the thirty-two-year-old up-and-comer who really could have been something. People would mourn him, shocked by the travesty of such a young talent snuffed out—only to move on to the next big life event after they socially shared their condolences. Once a year she’d receive sympathetic anniversary messages laced with the standard “he’s in a better place” and “he would want you to be happy,” only to be forgotten again until the next tragically marked year since his death. But her life would be forever tarnished. She would never have the opportunity to return to normal. Her normalcy had bled out on their American Cherry wood floors.

  “I think we’re done here for today. Ara has been through a lot.” Lane put his hands on her shoulders possessively, staring down the other detectives who stared right back, the “we’re the law” attitude impossible to ignore.

  “Sure, Detective Bene. But first we need that dress. And her pretty little shoes, too,” said Maro, snickering to his partner.

  Standing, Lane said, “Come on, Ara, let’s get this over with.”

  “Before you go, Bene, one more question. How’d you get to the scene so fast?” Detective Ameno asked.

  “Heard it over the radio,” Lane said as he continued toward the door.

  Ameno put his arm up, blocking them from exiting, “All the way across the river?”

  “A New York congressman’s only son was shot in Jersey, guess the news traveled fast. Excuse us.”

  Ameno dropped his arm and Ara unhesitatingly let Lane lead her out of the interrogation room and down the short hallway to the closet-sized area where her clothes would be collected as evidence.

  Afterwards, feeling like a criminal in the scrub-like replacement clothes provided, Ara walked toward the exit as Maro reappeared in the doorway. Scowling, she knew he was going in for a Law and Order-like punch line to keep viewers hinged to the TV through the commercial break.

  “One more question, Ms. Hopkins. Did you hear it? The gunshot?”

  He sure is proud of himself for that one, she thought, but before she could answer, a commotion distracted everyone: Raina, forcing her way through security. Some guy Ara didn’t recognize retreated near the entrance of the police station, clearly regretting his decision to accompany Raina here that evening. Ara smiled slightly at the thought of this poor soul telling his friends the one-night stand horror story over a craft beer at some Hoboken bro bar. Getting interrupted mid-hookup only to be dragged to the police station by a girl he barely knew to rescue her stepsister that he definitely didn’t know. Barstool humor at its finest. They’d all laugh and high-five away the pain that the night’s event had brought to her.

  “Ara!” Raina raced toward her, pushing past the security guard. As always, she looked flawless, if a little over the top, complete with full makeup, winged eyeliner, and pouty lips. Ara wondered if Raina was hoping she would be photographed leaving the police station.

  “Oh my God, Ara! Oh my God. Brad is dead? All I heard at first was that someone was shot, I’m so happy you’re all right,” Raina sobbed as she threw her arms around Ara and squeezed her obnoxiously tight. Two things Raina loved: invading personal space and soap opera-like dramatics. Ara couldn’t help but notice Raina seemed shocked that it was Brad, not her, who had been killed.

  Still, Ara allowed Raina to hold her. Despite all the damning sides of their relationship, they both, on the surface, always supported each other. Since their first introduction on a visit to the college the two would eventually attend, the girls knew their parents would expect them to become the best
of friends. It was a year later, over warm beers from a keg at the Rugby House, that they drunkenly promised to make their friendship work, deciding it was better to have an ally in their now joined family than an enemy. But Ara knew that it was times like these that tested friendships, and theirs was often tenuous.

  “Lane, please tell me you didn’t let them rough her up. If it’s anything like the ID channel, they’ll have her admitting to murder and in jail rooming with a trophy wife, turned soon to be divorcee, turned convicted murderer by morning!”

  “Sshh! Raina, watch it before they make you the state’s star witness against her with that mouth of yours.” Lane was sounding more and more frustrated by the minute. His fuse was normally quite short with Raina, and tonight it seemed practically nonexistent.

  As Lane and Raina argued over Ara’s sleeping arrangements, Ara turned back to Detective Maro, who lingered like a snake in the grass down the hall. It was not her fault Brad was dead. And she refused to leave with anyone, especially the detective, thinking that it was.

  With her most confident, no-nonsense stare, Ara said, “No, Detective. I did not hear the shot. I told you, I was in the stairwell.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lane couldn’t pull his eyes away from Ara. Sitting next to him, watching her own breath form shapes on the interrogation room table. Despite her current circumstances, she still looked perfect to him. Her hair brushed casually over her shoulder, and her face, though flooded with streams of tears, was still as beautiful as the first day he’d laid eyes on her.

  He remembered the New Year’s party like it was yesterday: Ara standing across the room, awkwardly sipping her champagne, clearly uncomfortable being alone at midnight. He didn’t know who she was, but had wondered how a woman who looked like that could seem unconscious of the bewitching effect she was having on him. Didn’t she know she was beautiful?

  With a ping of nervousness, he’d scanned the room while the other partygoers hardly took notice. Brad was casually flirting with a group of girls in body-hugging dresses and platform heels. Unlike the women gripping Brad’s attention, Ara wore a classic black dress with subtle sparkling appliqués trickling down the mid-length sleeves, her hair pulled back softly to one side. She was exquisite. And he had to meet her, find out who she was with. Who was he kidding, he had to find out everything about her. His mind had raced as he’d wondered what her favorite color was and if she preferred pancakes or French toast on cozy Sunday mornings. He was sure she would laugh at his jokes, and probably loved reading on the beach.

  “Three, two, one. Happy New Year!”

  Lane had pushed off the wall and grabbed a second glass of champagne. He started toward the center of the room, weaving between the kissing lovers and bitter loners, gawking at the ridiculous display of affection. He had to save her. Cliché as it was, she was too perfect to be left alone at midnight.

  But Raina had gotten in the way of what could have been.

  “Ara!” He’d learned her name when Raina had shouted it. “Meet James’s friend. I think he’s a lawyer!” Lane tried again to move himself through the crowd but Ara brushed past him, so close he could smell her perfume. Or her shampoo. Whatever it was, it was delicious.

  Crushed by his bad timing as he watched Ara meet Brad, Lane retreated to the wall, knowing things would never be the same. Cursing Raina for getting in his way.

  Now here, in this room, Lane wanted to believe Ara was innocent and that she could never kill Brad. Ara wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was kind and compassionate, a class all to her own. It was for that reason he stayed away over the past few years. He blamed his job with its long hours and tempting overtime, but truth be told, Lane simply couldn’t bear to be around Ara if she was Brad’s wife. It was a hopeless battle between his desire for her and his loyalty to Brad, his childhood friend of almost thirty years. It was too hard to give up on her and the last thing he needed was Brad to be suspicious. They were best friends. Who just so happened to be attracted to the same woman. An age-old love triangle.

  It wasn’t the first time Lane fantasized about a way he and Ara could be together, when he would have a chance to show how he felt. He would have never wanted Brad dead, but now that he was, this could be his time. Ara, alone and vulnerable. Surely she would need someone to comfort her, take care of her, and he could offer her something Brad never could—he would love her only.

  CHAPTER 5

  The cheap fabric that covered Raina’s couch scratched at Ara’s skin. Sleep was barely there even though she was heavily sedated by a cocktail of Ambien and antidepressants and shaking herself awake seemed to be an impossible task. Sharp pains jarred at her lower stomach, and despite the drugs, somewhere in some level of REM she could tell something was wrong.

  Ara knew she had to wake up, her eyes still heavy from last night’s tears. But if she forced them open, she would have to admit the ugly truth that this was now her reality. A widow at thirty, a misfortune she was going to eventually have to face head on. She pulled the plush blanket tighter around her body and drew in a deep breath before opening her eyes. Raina’s claustrophobic excuse for an apartment seemed colder and more uninviting than usual. Wisps of hair that hung loose from her ponytail tickled her neck and face as the ceiling fan whirled and reminded her of Brad. He liked the fan on, she liked it off. The fan blew her hair just enough to keep her awake at night, an annoyance he could never quite understand. It seemed reasonable to her, he would never be able to sleep if she was tickling his neck relentlessly, but he’d seemed unable to understand her issue with it.

  Ara pressed the irritating strands to her head and turned over. Something jumped out at her from the lowest shelf of the adjacent bookcase. A photo from Ara’s very own wedding day, her entire bridal party looking Knot Magazine chic, laughing and smiling, facing off in different directions. One of those perfect un-posed wedding photos you hoped your group of drunk friends could pull off. She had loved the way she looked in her wedding dress. Next to her stood Lane, one hand on her shoulder, and to her right was Brad. Ara was staring ahead with an open mouth smile, her bouquet down at her side, the men on either side of her looking off in opposite directions.

  Ara slid off the couch and crawled to the shelf on her knees and held the frame in her hands, tracing each face with her finger. She stared at the picture, laser-focused on her own beaming smile and perfectly swept back hair, secured loosely with a sparkling band. She had never felt as beautiful as she did on her wedding day, for once her entire look coming together exactly how she had envisioned. Maybe that was how she’d missed what she could see so clearly now, the uneasiness in Brad’s face, his eyes glancing off in the opposite direction, jaw clenched tight in an obligatory smile. How could she be so foolish to think he was happy? How did she convince herself that this man wanted a forever with her?

  A high-profile marriage featured in the New York Times, flashy ring and a large apartment with a doorman was all she needed to shine with confidence. Brad and his family provided all of that. Had she looked past the obvious signs of trouble? Slumping back on the couch, she wondered why true happiness was too much to ask for, and closed her eyes again, falling back into a restless sleep. A life without Brad was a reality she was not willing to accept just yet.

  Sometime later, Ara awoke to Raina tiptoeing around the apartment. Repeats of Sex and The City hummed in the background as she spoke quietly on the phone to someone, presumably their mother. Arabelle Ridener was probably still in California, debating whether or not to fly out. If her son-in-law’s untimely death wasn’t reason enough to fly to the east coast, Ara wondered what tragedy would have to unfold for her mother to justify it. She’d probably even find an excuse for my own funeral.

  Her mother never came to New York. Ever. Her planned trips were always replaced with excuses and no shows. An advertising junky of the late eighties, her mother had had enough of New York and skipped off with the first ad man who turned Hollywood screenwriter she could latch onto. How Pete Campbell of
her, Ara would often think nowadays. Obnoxiously, his name was even Peter.

  Ara often blamed being a product of divorce—and being raised by her father and stepmom—for most of her adult insecurities. However, the truth was she hadn’t minded her mother’s absence. Arabelle was full of judgment, and the older Ara got, the less she cared to endure it. Her childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was bearable, at least until her father passed away at the start of her senior year of high school. She was late as usual that morning and rushed through her routine and out to school without even saying a proper goodbye. She never imagined it would be the last time she saw him, sitting at their kitchen table, reading through his work email inbox while sipping his second cup of coffee. According to her stepmother, his heart attack lacked the dramatics of those in Hollywood; he simply fell to the floor, never to open his eyes again.

  At the time, she would have barely considered her and her father close, but losing him more than proved that he meant the world to her. It was then, at just seventeen years old, that she learned the hard truth, that sometimes goodbyes could be forever.

  She could assume raising a teenage girl wasn’t easy, not that she tried to make it any easier on him. Ara was aware that she flirted with the line between normal and not. Her parents saw signs of it early, but given their preferred parenting technique—ignore and it will go away—they did nothing to help her until the day she learned she could act out. It was after one of her outbursts, after she threw one of her stepmother’s prized antique vases onto the tile, that her father called Arabelle in California and begged for her to find someone on the east coast for Ara to talk to.