I thought of Neil pleading with me the night before, asking me not to leave him, and my hands clenched to fists. He wanted me not to leave him? What about me? He hadn’t asked me how I would feel if he left.
I checked my messages. Holli, Mom, Deja… Ugh, I would have to call people and explain this to them—if some nosy asshole neighbor hadn’t called the news. Then again, if the media reported on every billionaire suicide attempt, there probably wouldn’t be room to report anything else. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. How did I know what to share? Maybe Neil wouldn’t want everyone and their brother to hear that he’d tried to off himself.
So, I ignored the phone and went about my day as I normally would. I gave Olivia her bottle and sent her off to playgroup with Mariposa. Julia made me lunch, but I didn’t eat it. I told her Neil was in the hospital but didn’t say why.
Eventually they’ll know, I told myself as I stared at the bean and asparagus salad I couldn’t eat. They’ll all know you weren’t enough to live for.
Somehow, I could rationalize that Neil loved Olivia, that she was “enough” to make Neil want to stay, but I couldn’t accept it of myself. I liked to think of myself as a pretty modern, well-informed adult, with a clear understanding of what suicide was and wasn’t. But, when I had to apply it to my own family, all I could do was blame myself and absolve everyone else.
At least, some of the time. Because, wow, I did not feel the same set of emotions all day. I swung between anger at myself—for not recognizing the signs, for not putting a lock on the medicine cabinet the second Emma died—to anger at Neil, for putting me in this position, for not consulting me in this plan, to outright hating Emma.
With Neil’s one stupid choice, I rocketed into the anger stage of grief. I probably broke some land speed record for emotional whiplash. The night before, I’d been all love and hope and memory, and now, I was just pissed. How dare Emma die and leave me to cope with her grieving father? How dare her death almost kill Neil?
While Olivia was down for
her afternoon nap, I went back to Neil’s study. The letter he’d written me lay on the floor where I’d dropped it. I didn’t reread it. Instead, I went to his desk and looked at the manila folders stacked on the blotter.
One of them was labelled “insurance”. Another, “Internet passwords and auto-renewing subscription services”. There was one with a sticky note on the front that read, “Give to Valerie—Elwood & Stern concerns”, and another that simply said, “Will”.
I hated to even look at it, but sick curiosity drove me to it. I skimmed through the paperwork and found that I would have been the beneficiary of all of our bank accounts, investment accounts, and stock. His shares of Elwood & Stern also went to me, while his shares in his father’s company reverted to his siblings to be split among them. All of the houses went to me, including the Venetian apartment I’d never seen. He’d set up a trust fund for Olivia, and another to ensure the continuation of the rape crisis center.
There was no mention of Emma, which meant he’d worked on this after her death.
It would have taken weeks. All that time, he’d hid his intentions from me. When had he started planning?
I opened the top drawer of his desk. Since Dr. Harris had given me no indication when Neil might come home, I was going to search the house from top to bottom looking for any hidden pills or alcohol.
Because Neil was Neil, everything in the top drawer was a mess. At least his study was tidy. In our London house, his office had been a nightmare. I never understood how he could be so picky about having everything else in his life organized, but office supplies and paperwork were somehow beyond him.
I pushed through the papers and check refills that were down to duplicates, the random assorted batteries and paperclips, and found nothing resembling drugs or a flask. I moved on to the bookshelves and seriously considered opening every book to see if he’d hollowed one out.
I moved a copy of a book called Diaries of Alan Clark and out fell two small plastic bags about as long as my thumb and compressed by the weight of the books around it. Coke. Great. That would explain Neil’s peppy, “up” attitude lately. I picked up the bags and made sure none had spilled on the floor.
Then, I opened one, scooped a teensy bit under my fingernail, and did a quick bump.
I didn’t know why I did it. I’d tried coke at a party once, and all it did was give me a runny nose and a headache I couldn’t sleep off because I couldn’t sleep, at all. I sealed the bag, slipped them both back into their hiding spot, and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.
Okay. You have to make a plan, I told myself as I watched my pupils dilate in the mirror. Damn it, Sophie, why did you do that? You can’t function on drugs. What if Olivia needs something?
Remembering that Mariposa was home, so at least one responsible adult was around, calmed me back down as quickly as I’d gotten agitated.
Okay. I could do this.
First, I texted Mariposa at what could only be described as the speed of light and told her I wouldn’t be taking care of Olivia that night. The message was riddled with errors, but she would understand it. I sounded like a total one-percenter douche mom just passing her kid off, but this was important, too. Then, I called Holli.
“Oh, my god, where have you been, I’ve been texting you and calling you—”
“I did some coke, and I totally cannot handle my shit,” I blurted, pacing back and forth in the guest bathroom.
“Uh…”
“This is serious, Holli! Something bad happened. Neil…” I blinked, rolling my eyes up at the ceiling in the hopes of keeping my tears from falling down my face. I didn’t need to; my eyes were dry as fuck from my Tony Montana impression.
“What happened to Neil?” she asked, her tone switching from flippant to almost panicked. “Is he, like, overdosing again? Are you overdosing?”
“No, no. I just found his drugs, I found some cocaine, and I snorted a little bit.”
“What? Why?” she shrieked.