"Was that true?"

"Hell no. That was part of the problem. Merle Gladstone had made his living as an insurance salesman. But when Andy's mother died, he fell apart. It didn't take long before he lost his job. He had lots of relatives around town who tried to help him out until he could get back on his feet. Only problem was, he never did. Eventually, all the relatives saw him for the black hole that he was. But they still felt sorry for Andy, so he was the recipient of their kids' hand-me-downs. You know how important clothes are to a kid? Andy never got to pick his. Oh, they'd slip him some spending money every now and then. It wasn't much, but it was something."

"How did they live if his dad didn't work?"

"I don't really know. I think, for a while, Merle received some sort of residuals from the insurance policies he'd sold. I do know that Andy was hungry a lot. He ate at our house a couple times a week. In junior high, I'd go over to his place sometimes and the lights would be off. The phone didn't work. His dad was usually sitting in the living room, but he never said anything to me. He gave me the creeps. Any cleaning that happened around the house was all Andy's doing. And he went to work after school as soon as someone would hire him. Grocery stores. Gas stations. Sometimes he had two or three jobs at once. He worked weekends, evenings. I suppose he paid a lot of the bills. If the heat or water was turned off, he'd take a shower at the downtown Y. He'd study at night in libraries around town. He grew up real fast."

"What about when you were in fifth grade? The time you brought Christmas cookies to his house."

"Oh, yeah. Right. So, I go over there and ring the bell. His father answers the door. I asked if I could talk to Andy. Mr. Gladstone just walked away. Or, more specifically, he stumbled off. He'd been drinking, although, at the time, I thought maybe he was sick. The house was real cold. And nothing had been done to trim the place for the holidays. I called out Andy's name a couple of times. I had no idea where his room was. Mr. Gladstone had gone back into the living room to watch TV, so I stayed out of there. It took a while, but I finally found Andy in an upstairs closet."

"Oh, my God."

"He said he'd fallen asleep, but I could tell he was lying. I think he was hiding from his dad. He had some bruises on his face, and a big swollen welt on his lower arm. I was young, but I could see he was terrified of his father. I gave him the cookies. He tried to act nonchalant about them, but even a kid knows when another kid is hungry-and hurting. He was scared to come out of that closet. I can only imagine what had gone on that morning to cause him to miss school."

Anika lowered her head and closed her eyes. "I had no idea."

"Nobody really did. Andy never had many close friends. And the people he did run with, most of them didn't know. The thing is," said Rick, crossing his arms, "the situation was bad enough all by itself. But Merle Gladstone was a bully when he was drunk, and he was drunk all the time. He took all his bitterness out on Andy. I mean, just to get through his childhood and end up with a scholarship to Marquette was an amazing feat. Andy is a super-smart guy, but his father cut him down every chance he got. Adolescence is hard enough without a parent constantly telling you you're stupid, worthless, even ugly. Andy wanted so much for his dad to love him. He tried hard to please him, to show him he was wrong. But like I said, Merle Gladstone was a black hole. The only way Andy could survive was by sucking it all inside, never admitting how bad it was. He still does that."

"Tell me about it."

Rick stopped, watching Anika for a second. "I can imagine Andy isn't always the easiest person to live with."

She gave a small nod.

"Are you two okay?"

"Not really."

"God. If there's anything you want to talk about-"

"I can't. "

"I'm Andy's best friend. Maybe I'm the right person to help."

She was torn.

"How's Andy's back? That operation couldn't have been easy on either of you."

"He's much better. At least that much has gone right."

"What little back problems I've had in my life have really made me feel for the guy." He sat forward. "Listen, while you're thinking about whether you're going to confide in me or not, you wouldn't happen to have a couple of Tylenol around here, would you? Somewhere between New York and Minneapolis I seem to have developed a nasty headache."

"I've got ibuprofen in my purse."

He dropped his hand to his stomach. "I can't handle the hard stuff." He smiled.

"Andy uses Tylenol for the same reason. It doesn't do a thing for me, but he swears by it. Give me a sec." She rose from the couch and trotted up the stairs. In the bathroom, in one of the moving boxes, she found the large bottle of Tylenol Andy kept in the nightstand next to the bed. When she returned downstairs, she found Rick standing by the piano, holding a photograph of Bob.

"This guy was born with a military bearing," said Rick. "Hard, blue-eyed gaze, the kind that says, 'Hey, asshole, I'm a hell of a lot more prepared for what could happen than you are, but I'm so pumped that I don't need to make a big deal out of it.' "

"You're right. He was a lot like that. But he was also patient, and very kind. He loved his wife more than any man I've ever known. He just glowed around her."

"He must have taken her death pretty hard."

"And then some. Both Andy and I thought there was a chance he might take his own life after she died. Thank God, he didn't."

Rick looked at the photograph a moment more, then set it back down. "Ah, the Tylenol. Megasized, I see." He opened the cap and shook a few out.

Anika saw a confused look pass over his face. "What's wrong?"

"These aren't Tylenol."

"Sure they are."

"Well, they don't look like any Tylenol I've ever seen before. Do you have another bottle?"

"Andy carries one with him in his briefcase, but that's all we've got. Look, they have to be Tylenol. What else could they be? Maybe it's a generic form."

"Maybe," said Rick with a shrug. He slid them back into the bottle and replaced the cap. "I'll wait until he gets home. I'm sure he can explain it." Picking up another photo of Bob and Valerie, this one a picture of the two of them together on their boat, the one moored at a marina in Stillwater, he said, "I'm sorry Bob had to die so young. He was a good influence on Andy."

Anika agreed, but only to a point. Bob had put a lot of pressure on Andy by encouraging him to come to Minnesota and take a job at the Times Register. Maybe too much.

"You know," said Rick, surveying all the picture frames on the piano, "before Andy left Marquette, he told me he thought this job was his last chance to make something of himself. He said that Bob was like a father to him now, and he'd do anything in his power to please him. At the time, I realized it was a huge statement, but I understood. I had such hopes for him, and for you, too, when you left. I assumed Andy would be putting in a lot of overtime at his new job and that it might put a strain on your marriage. On the other hand, Bob was a decent human being, capable of being pleased-unlike Merle Gladstone. I knew Andy would work his tail off to make a success of his life here." Rick glanced around the palatial living room. "It's sad the way things had to work out, but it looks like he did just that."

25.

Chris knocked on the front door of the small, one-story house. As she waited, she tried to muster her courage. This wasn't easy. She knew coming here might not exactly thrill Phil, but he'd pretty much ordered her to change the way she looked if she was going to make him happy. And this way, she could kill two birds with one stone.

When an older woman answered her knock, Chris got her first close-up look at Barbara Kerwin, Phil's ex-girlfriend. Chris's general opinion was unchanged. Barbara looked old and hard. But she did dress well, even if her makeup looked like it had been applied with a cake spatula.

"Can I help you?" asked Barbara. She had a pleasant voice. Sort of on the low side, but friendly.

"I hope so," said Chris. She pressed her hands into the pockets of her leather bomber jacket. She'd decided to play this meeting close to the chest. Chris hated herself for doubting Phil, but if he hadn't told her the truth about Barbara, she intended to find out. "My name is Chris Parillo." She watched Barbara to see if there was any recognition in her eyes, but her expression didn't change.

"Yes?"

"We have a mutual friend. Phil Banks."

Now Barbara grew wary. "Yes?"

"He told me that if I ever needed help with my makeup, my clothes-you know, developing a classy look-that I should come to you."

Now Barbara looked pleased. "Well, I'm glad to hear he has such faith in me, but-"

She was about to turn her away. Chris couldn't let that happen. "Look, I know this is an imposition, but if you could just give me a few minutes, it would be so incredible. I can see Phil was right. You have tons of personal style."

"Why . . . thank you."

"So, just a couple of minutes?"

Barbara looked Chris up and down. "You could use some help. I don't mean to be rude, but what happened to your eye?"

Chris touched her face. "An accident. I'm kind of a klutz. Will you help me?"

She hesitated. "Oh, I suppose it would be all right. I mean, I don't know you. But you say you're a friend of Phil's?"

Chris nodded.

"Okay. Come in. But just for a few minutes. I have to be to work in an hour, and I still have to fix my face."

My God, thought Chris. She was going to add more gunk?

Chris followed Barbara into her living room. It was a small room dominated by a large TV set in the corner. Except for the couch, which was retro '50s modern, the rest of the furniture was antique. She glanced into the new addition, the bedroom Phil's company had built for her. "You've got a nice house."

"A lot of that's due to Phil. We both like to antique and he loves to buy things for the house." Before she sat down on the couch, she motioned Chris to a chair.

On the end table directly next to her, Chris noticed a framed photo of Phil and Barbara. They were sitting on the hood of Phil's Corvette. That meant it had to be a fairly recent photo. He'd bought the car in June, a little more than four months ago. "There's Phil," said Chris.

Barbara beamed at the mention of his name. "We're engaged," she said, holding out her hand so Chris could see the ring.

Chris felt her stomach do a flip-flop. "You're . . . going to be married?"

"In the spring." She waited for Chris to make a suitable comment on the ring before she retracted her hand.

"It's beautiful."

"I think so, too."

Fighting back a wave of nausea, Chris smiled. "When did you and Phil first meet?"

"Oh, it must be a couple years now. It was right after Terry disappeared."

Terry was Phil's second wife. "She . . . disappeared?"

"Oh, yes. Didn't you know?"

"I never met Terry."

"No, me either, but Phil was in a terrible way when she took off. I mean, they'd been divorced for several years, but you know Phil. He never lets go of someone he loves. He still tried to take care of her. But one night, when he dropped by her house, she wasn't there. Her car was gone, and a bunch of her clothes. She must have just skipped town. Phil did his best to try to find her." Barbara lowered her voice. "She was unstable, you know. Emotionally. Phil figured she was doing drugs, that she got in trouble with her dealer and split because she owed him money. She was always hurting for money, always asking Phil for loans. If it had been me, I would have cut her off, but Phil's too kindhearted."

"Yeah, he's a peach," whispered Chris.

"I wish he didn't have to work so hard. We have so little time together."

"You planning on moving into his house when you get married?"

"His house?" Barbara gazed at Chris somewhat oddly. "Phil lives in an apartment, that beautiful old one on Spencer and Fifteenth. We'll either live here, or he's considering building a new place for us." She crossed her legs. "But if we're going to talk about a makeover for you, we better get to it."

Chris felt flattened.

"I think we should start with your clothes." When Chris didn't respond, Barbara said, "Ms. Parillo? Are you all right?"

"No," said Chris, rising from her chair. "I feel a little sick."

"I'm sorry." Barbara rose, too. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

Chris shook her head. "This was a mistake. I gotta go."

"But-"

Chris made a beeline for the door. "Thanks for talking to me."

"Look, Ms. Parillo-"

"That's not my name."

Barbara stopped a few feet away. "Then, what is it?"

"Banks. Mrs. Phil Banks."

It was Barbara's turn to look shocked. "What is this? What kind of game are you playing?"

"Phil and I are married."

"That's impossible."

"If you don't believe me, ask him."

"You're lying!"

"I wish I were," said Chris, slamming the door on the way out.

For the next few minutes, Chris sat in her car crying her eyes out. How could Phil have done this to her? All his lies now seemed so blindingly obvious. She didn't even know who he was anymore. The only thing to do was to go home and end it. Phil couldn't talk himself out of his lies this time. He was in too deep.

The longer Chris sat there, the angrier she became. Maybe her uncle had been right. Maybe Phil had married her to keep her quiet. She hadn't been totally up front with the police about the night Bob Fabian and Ken Loy had been murdered. She'd said Phil had been with her the entire night, but that wasn't precisely true. If he'd lied to her about so much, what else had he lied about?

Fishing her cell phone and her small address book out of her purse, she scanned the names until she found Bram's number at the station. Fumbling with the phone, she made the call, waiting impatiently for him to answer. But when the line picked up, instead of Bram, she got his voice mail. Damn it, of course. He was on the air right now. All she could do was leave him a message.

"Bram, hi. It's Chris. I, ah, I need to talk to you right away." She felt tears burn her eyes. Scraping at her cheeks, she continued, "My whole life is a lie. I could kill Phil with my bare hands. I mean it, Bram. I could kill him!" She sniffed a few times before continuing, "Look, I just found out Phil's engaged to that woman we saw him with at the cafe, and that he's lied to her just like he's lied to me. God, I hate him. There's got to be some way to make him pay for what he's done." She stopped, tried to staunch her fury long enough to say what she needed to say. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you. I mean, I didn't exactly lie to the police, but then again, I kinda did. It's about the night Loy and Fabian died. Phil and me-we were at that movie together, but Phil didn't like it. He fell asleep and started snoring. He was annoying the people sitting around us so I told him to go sleep in the car. So . . . that's what he did. When the movie was over and I came out, he was in the Corvette, fast asleep. So, see, I figured he'd been there the whole time. Most likely, he was. But it's like, I can't be totally sure. I never told the police that part. Do you think I'm in trouble now because I didn't tell them everything I knew? Jeez, this is just what I need. My marriage is a sham, and now the police will throw the book at me. I'm in a really bad place here, Bram. I just don't know where to turn. So, I'll call you again. Like I said, later tonight. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do. Right now, I'm about to drive over to Spencer and Fifteenth. Apparently Phil rents an apartment over there-an old, beautiful one, according to Barbara Kerwin, his lucky fiancee. God, but I hate him. We'll talk. Bye."