The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  By 6:15 I am turning the corner of my street, relieved. Jacob wakes up like clockwork at 6:30; he’ll be none the wiser.

  But as I get closer, I see that the lights are on in the house, and my heart skips a beat. I start running, panicked. What if something happened to Jacob in the middle of the night? How stupid have I been, leaving him? I hadn’t scribbled a note, I hadn’t taken my cell phone, and as I throw open the front door, I am nearly bent double by the weight of what might have gone wrong.

  Jacob stands at the kitchen counter, already making his own brown breakfast. There are two place settings. “Mom,” he blurts, excited, “you’ll never guess who’s here.”

  Before I can, though, I hear the downstairs toilet flush, and the running of the faucet, and the footsteps of the guest, who enters the kitchen with an uncomfortable smile.

  “Henry?” I say.

  CASE 10: WOODN’T YOU LIKE TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER?

  On November 19, 1986, Helle Crafts, a Pan Am flight attendant from Connecticut, disappeared. Her husband was suspected shortly after she vanished: Richard Crafts told authorities that he hadn’t left the house on November 19, but credit card records showed that he’d purchased new bedding. Shortly before his wife disappeared, he also had bought a large freezer and rented a wood chipper.

  When a witness recalled seeing a wood chipper near the Housatonic River, police searched the Crafts home. Blood found on the mattress matched Helle’s. A letter addressed to Helle was found near the Housatonic, and divers recovered a chain saw and cutting bar, which still had human hair and tissue in its jaws. Based on this, a more thorough evidence search was begun.

  Here’s what they found:

  2660 hairs.

  One fingernail.

  One toenail.

  One tooth cap.

  Five droplets of blood.

  (A fingernail in a U-Haul rented by Crafts chemically matched nail polish in Helle’s bathroom, too, but it was thrown out of court because of the lack of a search warrant.)

  From this evidence, in 1989, Crafts was found guilty of his wife’s murder and sentenced to ninety-nine years in prison.

  This case made Dr. Henry Lee famous. Leave it to him, a forensic hero, to secure a murder conviction . . . even without a body.

  10

  Emma

  For just a moment, I am certain that I’m hallucinating. My ex-husband is not standing in my kitchen, is not coming forward to awkwardly kiss my cheek.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  He looks at Jacob, who is pouring chocolate soy milk into a glass. “For once in my life, I wanted to do the right thing,” Henry says.

  I fold my arms. “Don’t flatter yourself, Henry. This has less to do with Jacob than it does with your own guilt.”

  “Wow,” he says. “Some things never change.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No one’s allowed to be a better parent than you are. You have to be the gold standard, and if you’re not, you’ll cut everyone else down to make sure of it.”

  “That’s pretty funny, coming from a man who hasn’t seen his son in years.”

  “Three years, six months, and four days,” Jacob says. I had forgotten he was still in the room. “We went out to dinner in Boston because you flew in for work. You ate beef tenderloin, and you sent it back because it was too rare at first.”

  Henry and I look at each other. “Jacob,” I say, “why don’t you go upstairs and take the first shower?”

  “What about breakfast—”

  “You can eat it when you come back down.”

  Jacob hustles upstairs, leaving me alone with Henry. “You have got to be kidding,” I say, furious. “You think you can just show up here like some white knight and save the day?”

  “Considering that I’m the one who cut the check for the lawyer,” Henry says, “I have a right to make sure he’s doing his job.”

  That, of course, makes me think of Oliver. And the things we did that were not job-related.

  “Look,” Henry says, the bluster falling from him like snow from a tree limb. “I didn’t come here to make things more difficult for you, Emma. I came to help.”

  “You don’t just get to be their father, now, because your conscience reared its ugly head. You’re either a father twenty-four/seven or not at all.”

  “Why don’t we ask the kids if they want me to stick around or leave?”

  “Oh, right. That’s like dangling a brand-new video game in front of them. You’re a novelty, Henry.”

  He smiles a little. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve been accused of that.”

  There is a commotion as Theo clatters down the stairs. “Wow, you are here,” he says. “Weird.”

  “It’s because of you,” Henry replies. “After you came all the way to see me, I realized I couldn’t sit at home and pretend this wasn’t happening.”

  Theo snorts a laugh. “Why not? I do it all the time.”

  “I’m not listening to this,” I say, moving around the kitchen. “We have to be in court by nine-thirty.”

  “I’ll come,” Henry said. “For moral support.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say drily. “I don’t know how I’d get through the day if you weren’t here. Oh, wait. I’ve gotten through five thousand days without you here.”

  Theo skirts between us and opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a carton of grapefruit juice and drinks directly from it. “Gosh. What a happy little family unit we are.” He glances overhead as the water in the pipes stops running. “I call the shower next,” he says, and he heads back upstairs.

  I sink down into a chair. “So how does this work? You sit in the courtroom and act concerned while your real family is waiting just outside the escape hatch?”

  “That’s not fair, Emma.”

  “Nothing’s fair.”

  “I’m here for as long as I need to be. Meg understands that I’ve got a responsibility to Jacob.”

  “Right. A responsibility. But somehow she’s neglected to invite him to sunny California to meet his stepsisters—”

  “Jacob won’t get on a plane, and you know it.”

  “So your plan is to just come step into his life and then step out of it again after the trial?”

  “I don’t have a plan—”

  “What about afterward?”

  “That’s why I came.” He takes a step closer. “If . . . if the worst happens, and Jacob doesn’t come home . . . well, I know you’ll be there for him to lean on,” Henry says. “But I thought you might need someone to lean on, too.”

  There are a hundred comebacks running through my head—most of which ask why I would trust him now when he has a track record of abandoning me. But instead, I shake my head. “Jacob’s coming home,” I say.

  “Emma, you have to—”

  I hold up the flat of my hand, as if I can stop his words midstream. “Help yourself to breakfast. I need to get dressed.”

  I leave him sitting in the kitchen, and I go upstairs to my bedroom. Through the wall I can hear Theo singing in the shower. I sit down on the bed, clasp my hands between my knees.

  When the boys were little, we had house rules. I’d write them on the bathroom mirror when they were in the tub so that the next time the room steamed up, they would magically appear: commandments for a toddler and his painfully literal autistic brother, laws that were not to be broken.

  1. Clean up your own messes.

  2. Tell the truth.

  3. Brush your teeth twice a day.

  4. Don’t be late for school.

  5. Take care of your brother; he’s the only one you’ve got.

  One night Jacob had asked me if I had to follow the rules, too, and I said yes. But, he pointed out, you don’t have a brother.

  Then I will take care of you, I said.

  However, I didn’t.

  Oliver will stand up in court today, and maybe the next day and the next, and try to accomplish what I have unsucces