A Betrayal at Eastwick Page 3

  “I need to talk to you. I need your help.”

  “Embarrassed about your girlfriend’s performance?”

  Aaron only shut his eyes and squeezed them. The movement was so unlike him that Eliza stepped forward, brows knitting. “Aaron?” she said. “Are you going to faint?”

  “Please,” Aaron said, between tightened lips. “Please come talk to me.”

  Eliza followed Aaron out of the room. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, pale and shaken and grim, Aaron close at her heels.

  “Thank you,” Aaron said. “Thank you, Eliza. I know I don’t deserve your help, but—”

  “Shh,” Eliza said. “Not here.”

  “But you will help me?”

  She gave him a scathing look. “Yes, you idiot,” she said. “Of course I will.”

  All the while, her stomach kept sinking down, down, down.

  Chapter 8

  Rick Fales stood at the corner of the banquet hall, or ballroom, or whatever those stupid rich folks called the football-field-sized recreational room used for entertaining in the mansion. It had been the worst sort of night: he had not gotten close enough to Becks to get a quote, no one who recognized him would talk to him, and worst of all, he couldn’t find the one person who had made the evening interesting, Gina Tiller. Each person Rick asked about her seemed to have a different account of where the socialite had gone.

  He knew that Evan Miller had invited him in the hopes he might do a little write-up on the new company, might generate some business for the nascent venture Becker & Miller. It was a risky move, one that Rick could admire—he could just as easily write an article about how disoriented Daniel Becker seemed that night, which indeed he planned to do, provided he couldn’t work in anything of the Gina angle.

  In the meantime, he snatched champagne off of every tray of every waiter that sashayed by, mentally calculating the money that went into such a party. Rick had never catered a party in his life: even his wedding had been a slipshod affair, where his wife—who was far too sensible a woman to stay married to him, ultimately—had kept a tight fist over the budget, insisting that they host the reception at their crumbling apartment and snapping at every great-aunt that dared comment about the lack of food options or the beer-and-wine-only bar service.

  Yes, Rick had only ever brushed shoulders with wealth such as this, and it simultaneously fascinated him and made him nauseous. He knew these people felt they were better than him, maybe not consciously, but in their bones. He knew that they lived on another plane entirely, fussing over dress appointments and boarding schools and Christmas party invitations and ski vacations. They were the kind of people who would insist that they were “tightening their budget” for a year and meant only that they were taking one less vacation, or the kind who would declare themselves in “financial crisis” when they had only to draw from little Timothy’s trust fund to make things right again. None of them had driven for a ride-sharing app on cold winter nights in order to make the heat bill that month. None of them had hawked watches and boots and anything else they could find to pay for a wedding ring, or donated plasma until their arm was bruised and sore to afford the plumber bill.

  Yes, these were the kind of people who held themselves above everyone else, and for good reason—Rick would give them that. He had no misconceptions: he would give his right arm to be one of them. But he wasn’t. He was a journalist, and an ill-liked one at that. Sure, sometimes he freelanced for some of the big guys, but his best client was a gossip magazine, and that was exactly who would be receiving his article tonight. If Evan Miller was too stupid to realize that this was a possibility, well, then that was his problem. At least Rick had shown up—he was sure half a dozen other reporters had not, deciding not to touch the Daniel Becker storyline with a ten-foot pole.

  That was the tragic part of it all, really. The poor, injured, likely brain-damaged football player being dragged around to shake hands and pretend that yes, he was going to be a full partner in the firm, when really his best friend was just trying to get a profitable new venture going, and his wife was just trying to figure out a way to provide for them now that the football money had dried up. That was the story that Rick was going to tell.

  In a sad way, he actually felt kind of let down by Daniel Becker. He had always liked the guy, as much as he liked any athlete. He was shy, slow-spoken, but not unintelligent. He didn’t drive a fancy sports car or date models or party down in Miami, as almost all of the other predictable football players did. The one time that Rick had interviewed him, out at a playoff party, the athlete known as Becks had even treated him with a modicum of decency—had offered to refill his drink, had confessed he wasn’t a huge fan of parties, and had even asked Rick’s advice on talking to the press, as if Rick was a human being, as if he had real thoughts inside his head other than just worshipping the stars around him.

  That collision, though—that had been brutal. Like everyone else in the nation, Rick had watched it over two dozen times, at every kind of speed. A routine tackle, except that Becks had dipped his shoulder, had clenched his fist, in such a way as to cause total and absolute devastation. It was hard to come back from that, not even counting the swift and brutal penalties imposed on him by the NFL.

  Had CTE really caused the sudden burst of violence? Or was it adrenaline, just run haywire? Was Becks doping, as some pundits alleged—even though all of his tests, including a blood test ordered as soon as the game had finished, were clean? Rick didn’t know. But based on the way Becks was acting tonight, his first night out in public since that horrible play, since retiring from the NFL, Rick was sure that things weren’t looking good for the former football player.

  Rick took yet another champagne flute off of a passing tray. Was it his imagination, or did the waiter try to swivel the tray away and keep Rick from it? No matter. He downed it in two gulps, the buzz tingling through his fingertips. He would be out of here soon. He just needed one more good quote.

  Miracle of miracles, he spotted Sam O’Nally in one corner of the room, alone. O’Nally was another disgraced football player, albeit for different reasons: he had retired a few years ago and descended quickly into alcoholism, becoming another football poster boy for CTE. Rick wasn’t so sure about the conclusion. It seemed like all the players were quick to blame their problems on the illness that could not be proven. But, at least, O’Nally would be good for a quote.

  “Enjoying the party?” Rick said, moving to the window ledge that O’Nally was leaning up against. The large ex-footballer jumped, then frowned down at Rick. O’Nally was a bear, a defensive end that seemed almost as wide as he was tall, with a swirl of ginger hair and a five o’clock shadow that, even in his playing days, he never seemed to shake.

  “Fales,” O’Nally said. “You’re drunk.”

  “One to talk, eh?” Rick said. He resisted the urge to correct O’Nally—he so hated it when people just used his last name. Most of them did it to mock him, once they noticed the unfortunate homonym. “Must be a dull party without any booze.”

  O’Nally lifted one eyebrow. Rick could feel him weighing whether to even talk to him, or to turn back to his silent corner and keep stewing.

  Rick decided to try to tip the scale in his favor. “I can grab you a drink, if you’d like,” he said. “That way you don’t have to order it. What will it be, whiskey? Double?”

  “Screw off.”

  Rick blushed. Fine. The man could play it that way. Truth be told, Rick was relieved he hadn’t said yes—he didn’t like the idea of bringing an alleged alcoholic a drink. “Fine. Understandable. Well? And how are you enjoying the place? Have you spoken to Becks? He invited you, I guess? Have you two been in touch since his retirement?” Drink made Rick’s tongue loose, and it was with an effort that he shut his mouth.

  “What’s your angle, Fales? Want to talk about how two CTE losers were together at a party? Rag mags missing a few articles? Not enough affairs this time of year, eh?”

  “I�
��m reporting on the opening of Becker & Miller.”

  “Bull.” O’Nally gave him a sour look. “That’s what I hate about you scumbags. You can’t even admit you’re not honest. At least there’d be some integrity in that.”

  “Fair, fair,” Rick said jovially. “Well, I was invited here by Evan to write about that. But I’m just feeling things out, seeing if there’s anything better out here.”

  “Like me.”

  “Not quite—no offense. I wanted to see how Becks was doing. And then Gina—well, that was something, wasn’t it?”

  O’Nally’s face darkened at the woman’s name, and Rick brightened with a sudden memory. “Of course,” Rick said smoothly, “I can only imagine how it is for you to see her here. She made such a big fuss out of that little incident with you, didn’t she? Ridiculous. It was obvious she was drunk on stage today. And what she said about Whitney—”

  “Gina Tiller is absolute scum,” O’Nally said, gnashing his teeth. “Put that in your article.”

  Rick nodded encouragingly and tried a few more times to elicit something else from O’Nally—though really, that was a good enough quote to run with, if he needed to. He watched O’Nally carefully as they spoke: could he see signs of CTE in him? Was that droop in his eyelids it, for instance? Or the sharp way that he talked? Or his anger towards Gina, even months later, even when it was O’Nally who had been at fault? He tried to see something of the disease on the man’s face, in his body, in his movements. And there was decidedly something off about Sam O’Nally. Rick couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a reason the man was standing alone at the side of the room during a party. His every emotional current seemed to run back to anger.

  And Becks? Was Becks the same? Rick glanced around, his eyes by chance locking on the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Daniel Becker. He had to talk to him. He had to know.

  Daniel Becker looked up, for a moment meeting Rick’s eyes.

  Chapter 9

  “They’re talking about me,” Becks said sadly.

  “Who?” Whitney said, whipping around. “Oh, Sam? That’s all right, honey, he’s a friend.”

  “And the journalist.”

  “Journalist?” Whitney’s voice was sharp, a little panicked. She set her champagne glass down on the table and squinted. “How do you know he’s a journalist?”

  “I’ve seen him before. Fales, I think his name is. He keeps looking over.”

  Whitney glanced over and sighed. “Daniel, he’s not. He’s talking to Sam.”

  “He was just a second ago.”

  She watched the journalist for a few more beats, fingers tapping on the sleeve of her dress. She was so beautiful, Becks thought. He wondered how hard the past few months had been for her. If Whitney had felt terribly the sudden transition from being the wife of a beloved football star to the wife of a disgraced one, she had not given any indication of it. “He’s not,” Whitney said flatly. “He hasn’t looked over here once. You’re being paranoid, honey.”

  Paranoia. Becks felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. One of the hallmark signs of CTE. Whitney knew it too. Her eyes met his for a moment, and then looked away. “Maybe he did glance over for a second earlier,” she said, offering them both an out. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. Let’s just wrap up with the party. Come on, Evan wanted to introduce you to someone before we go—”

  “No,” Becks said. “I’m—I’m going to use the bathroom.”

  “Again?”

  Becks shrugged. “Been drinking a lot of water,” he said, which was ridiculous—of course that wasn’t it. He was feeling dizzy, though, dizzy and disoriented. He just wanted to sit down. For some reason that he couldn’t pinpoint, rage was bubbling inside of him. It was all just so monstrously unfair. One tackle, one stupid, unfortunate tackle had landed him here. He knew that everyone thought that the way he had moved his shoulder had been intentional. He knew that it looked bad. He never even tried lending the explanation of what he had been thinking that day, of how the strange body movement had been due to hesitation rather than brute force. Who would believe him? Becks had seen the film—he certainly wouldn’t, if anyone else said so.

  And now he was here, being paraded around like a puppet and being forced to act nice while the big kids talked. He could see the way people looked at him, with that particular mixture of pity and fear in their eyes. Waiting for him to burst again. Waiting for him to break.

  And that woman—Gina. She was worst of all. She had been leering at him as she spoke into the microphone, taking the moment that was supposed to be the start of Becks putting it all back together and ruining it. She insulted Evan, and she insulted Whitney, the two people who had been there for Becks when everything was falling apart. And what could he do? He didn’t trust himself to try to talk to her, not with the way his mind was working. He would stumble over his words. He would grow flustered and stutter, and then Gina would cluck and touch his sleeve and say something condescending and sweet, just like the rest of them.

  Becks needed to get out.

  He tore through the rooms of the house, growing disoriented as he left the bright lights of the banquet hall and stumbled through the back kitchen, the atrium, and then some sort of giant two-storied living room with rich carpets and antique lamps. He couldn’t tell if it was rage or heartburn bubbling in his core; it hurt, whatever it was, so much that Becks wanted to scream. Black spots danced at the corner of his vision; Becks’ hands opened and then tightened into fists.

  Chapter 10

  Gina’s father told her once that all men had secrets, and that you never truly had power over them until you knew one.

  Except, Gina now knew two secrets—or maybe one big one—and she didn’t like it, not at all. She had toyed with the idea of confronting the secret keepers, of publicly outing them, but even with her champagne buzz the idea didn’t hold more than a passing fascination. The trouble was, secrets could also hurt. And Gina didn’t like hurting people—at least, not to their face, not in a way that she would have to see and experience firsthand.

  But that was no matter. She had figured out exactly what to do. She slipped out of the party, motioning to someone as she went. She climbed the stairs to the bedrooms of the Eastwick mansion and chose one at random, delighted that it turned out to be the master. It had a balcony; it was cold, but Gina felt too hot anyway, and so she stepped out onto the little enclosure and lit a cigarette. I really should quit, she thought to herself, her sacred mantra every time she took that first drag.

  “Gina.”

  Gina’s lip curled into a half-smile, but she didn’t turn around.

  “I’m disappointed in you,” she said, tapping out ashes over the railing. “I’m going to give you a chance to make it right, of course.”

  Silence. Gina took another drag of her cigarette and let out her breath in soft Os. Of course what she said might sound cryptic—might even sound as if she wished for money, or to somehow extort someone. But that wasn’t it at all. For once in her life, Gina felt she had the moral ground. There was something intoxicating in that, actually. She felt quite the good person—perhaps she might try it more often.

  “Don’t worry,” Gina said, sighing into the cold night. “I’ll give you a little time. Because if you don’t—well, I’ll be forced to say something, of course. I think that’s pretty obvious.” She thought about what else she might add, words about fairness and justice and mercy, pretty words that she was too drunk to put together right now. Perhaps she could call and say them tomorrow.

  “That’s fair,” the voice said, and Gina nodded. It was fair. She was fair. And quite noble, really, to be forcing someone’s hand like this. She took a deep breath. Maybe from this day forward, she would be good. She would live her life doing favors for others, doling out good deeds, enjoying the fruits of her kindness and generosity. She would be like Mother Theresa, except…well, she didn’t actually know much about Mother Theresa, but people seemed to look up to her. Something abo
ut orphans, maybe? Gina would be like that.

  She heard the footsteps approaching softly. For a moment her mind sharpened; the drunkenness faded away. Danger, her body warned, and for a brief, terrible moment, she had clarity: she should never be threatening someone with this kind of secret, never be making demands of them, and good God, not from a balcony.

  She fought as best she could, but the struggle lasted only seconds.

  And then Gina Tiller tipped over the edge of the railing and toppled three stories to the concrete pool deck below.

  Chapter 11

  Rick Fales heard something like a great crash and froze. He was in a part of the house he shouldn’t have been in, after following Daniel Becker through the back kitchen and promptly losing him. He wondered if something had fallen off the stage at the party, or whether, God forbid, someone was ransacking the mansion.

  In the dark rooms, lit only by nightlights, Rick felt something like fear. Everything seemed sinister in deep shadow: Rick kept feeling as though he were spotting someone or something out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, nothing would be there. He had heard accounts of the creepiness of St. Clair before he had moved in and had always chalked up the stories to local legend. But he was close to the lake now, closer than he had ever been, and could feel some of the dark magic washing over him.

  Or perhaps he had just had too much to drink.

  Finally, Rick screwed up the courage to venture upstairs, the only other place that he could conceive Becks to have gone. He rounded the corner to one of the stone staircases and leapt back, letting out a cry.

  The figure slumped across the stairs stirred and groaned, but continued to sleep.