by E. G. Scott
TWENTY-NINE
CHARLOTTE
This is not the normal behavior of a grown-up.
My subsequent calls in response to Peter’s text have gone unanswered, and I’ve been utterly paralyzed obsessing about his response. Each hour that passes that I don’t hear from him, the more frantic and regretful I get about the angry, alcohol-charged text I foolishly sent him.
I feel so shamed by his words that I’ve completely lost the thread on what I was so upset about to begin with. I’m beyond relieved that he’s alive, and now I feel a terrible sense of having ruined everything just when he has returned. I’ve gone back and reread the words I sent to him before he responded so coldly, reminding myself that I had reason to be upset.
I know what he is doing, because he’s done it before when I’ve thrown down boundaries that he doesn’t like. He is punishing me by silent treatment because it is the most effective form of retribution when I’ve stepped out of line. He’s well aware that when he comes back after a long-enough silence, I’ll forgive everything and drop the line of questioning and suspicion out of fear that I’ll push him away again. Even though I can see what he is doing, I can’t seem to resist it. Though this time does feel different: I’m not sure if he’s coming back—and it scares me deeply.
I’m speedy with stress hormone overload and quickly careen across the line of emotional control. Sitting still is not possible, and the overwhelming need to yank a handful of my own hair out prompts me to pull it into a bun. I manically pace around my room.
I’ve lost half a day and I haven’t moved from my bedroom or let go of my phone. It has become my only beacon of hope and my constant source of anguish.
I should return Rachel’s missed calls. I should call my mother, who has called me more in the last twelve hours than she usually does in a month. But I don’t want to talk to anyone but him.
I feel chastised and diminished by his text. The only other person who came close to making me feel this way was Henry, after Michelle’s death. I squash those thoughts. I don’t have enough room for that particular pain today.
I’ve limited myself to calling Peter once every two hours and have only left four voicemails in the time that has passed. I don’t want to go overboard, but I need to let him know that I’m not giving up and I’ll fight for this relationship. I’ve spent the last two hours frantically typing and deleting twenty different responses to Peter’s text, in addition to the handful I’ve already sent.
I read his text for the seventeenth time and try to interpret each phrase for a hidden meaning. But it may be the most direct Peter’s ever been with me. I’m furious with myself for my tipsiness and passing out on the couch so that I didn’t hear my phone chime when the text came in.
Where I’d usually stress about my light patient roster, I am thankful for the empty schedule today. I never would have been able to make it through a session without being able to obsessively check my phone. I allow myself to call him again. The generic voicemail comes on right away. I disconnect.
I sit on the edge of my bed. All of my meditative centeredness has been replaced by grim despair. I hurl my phone across the room, where it lands in the soft nest of my clothes hamper. I hear the phone vibrating in the basket and run to get it and curse out loud when I see it is my mother calling. I’ll just wait another couple of hours and try him again.
I won’t give up. He’ll pick up eventually.
THIRTY
SILVESTRI
“All right, Starsky and Hutch. Here’s what I’ve got for you so far.”
We’re parked in the interrogation room at the station house. Clarence, the computer forensics analyst the department uses, is helping us navigate Brooke Harmon’s laptop.
My partner laughs. “Isn’t that reference a little before your time, young’un?”
“C’mon, Wolcott. Haven’t you seen the Ben Stiller version?”
I like the kid. He’s got a breezy demeanor, and I can safely say he’s the most laid-back IT guy I’ve ever encountered. “Okay, Clarence. Run us through it.”
“Easy stuff first. I ran her Find My Phone program. There’s a reason why you guys couldn’t locate it. The last time I caught a ping, it was in a spot right next to Smithtown Bay. I’ll let you gumshoes do the rest of the math on that one.”
“Swell,” I say. “Any more good news?”
“I don’t know if this is helpful, but I pulled up her Yelp reviews. There were a bunch of savage ones for this acupuncture practice.” He points to a scathing review of Charlotte Knopfler’s business. “I’m talking dozens of these,” he says.
I nod to Wolcott. “Uh-huh.”
“It’ll take a couple of days for me to run everything, but I did get into her Gmail account. I can give you her log-in info, and you can jump into that on your own while I’ve got the laptop.”
“Solid work, Clarence. Thanks a million.”
“No thing,” he answers. “I’ll hit you guys back when I’ve got more.”
* * *
“Holy shit, Wolcott. Take a look at this.”
We’re back at our desks, and I’ve just pulled up an email from Brooke Harmon’s account on my computer. The message is bcc’d to a small group; CharlotteKnopfler, Braindoc67, aeforester, and sassystacy314—the members of the team assigned to Michelle Harmon’s surgery, judging from the email. Wolcott rounds the corner to my desk and leans in to read off of the screen:
September 25, 2019
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I know the truth. Not the story you all were complicit in telling my parents and me, but what really happened that day.
I’ve accepted that you will never go on record and admit your part in this cover-up, nor do I think that would make any difference in gaining the much-needed peace around all of this.
I believe that my family and Michelle’s memory deserve something better than bureaucratic denial, sealed files, and nondisclosure agreements. Her life was worth so much more than your self-preservation.
It has been a long, painful road, but I’m ready for this to be done. I will stop my campaigns against you, if we can all mutually agree on closure, once and for all. I hope you can all make the decision and see beyond your own self-interest to make things right.
On the day Michelle died, you didn’t just end her life, you ended mine. I’m ready to start living again. Please do your part in helping me make this happen.
Brooke Harmon
“Well, well,” says my partner. “Now I really want to speak with these folks. Let’s let our fingers do the walking.”
* * *
“Any luck?” he asks.
“I tried the nurse. Got one of those creepy automated voicemail greetings. Left her a message. You?”
“Thornton’s secretary said he was in a meeting. Took a message.”
“Cool. I’ll try the anesthesiologist now.” I pull up the number for Annie Forester, dial, and let it ring a few times.
“Hello?” The woman on the other end of the line sounds out of breath.
“Good morning, I’m looking for Annie Forester.”
“This is she. Sorry, I heard the phone ringing from the driveway and just ran inside.”
“No problem, Miss Forester. Take your time.”
“Thank you.” I hear her take a couple of long breaths. “Okay, then. That’s better. And who am I speaking with?”
“This is Detective Silvestri, from the Stony Brook Police Department.”
“Stony Brook, huh? How’s it going down-island, Detective?” She lets out a soft laugh at her own joke.
“I think we’re getting the same weather as you,” I volley back.
“I see. And what can I help you with today?”
“Miss Forester, I understand that you worked as an anesthesiologist at the Greater New York M
edical Center several years back?”
“Gosh,” she says. “Feels like another life.”
“And I also understand that you were the recipient of an email from a Brooke Harmon recently. Is that correct?”
She lets out a sigh. “That poor girl.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Yes, yes, that’s correct.”
“I’m sorry, you referred to Miss Harmon as ‘that poor girl’?”
“I just always felt bad for the family. After what happened with the sister. Such a tragedy.”
“I see. Well, I’m sorry to have to inform you that Brooke Harmon’s body was discovered the other day.”
“Oh my God,” she blurts out. “Oh no. What happened?”
“We’re looking into that now.”
“Has the family been notified? Those poor parents. First Michelle, now this.”
“Miss Forester, I’d love to speak with you in person if you have any time. We could come to you.”
“Oh, um, certainly. I’m at home today, if you’d like to stop by.”
“That would be great.”
“Now, I’m up in Northport, Detective. Are you familiar with the area?”
“We know our way around there, yes. My partner and I can swing by a little later this afternoon.”
“Okay, great!”
I write down the address she gives me, thank her for her time, and hang up. I catch Wolcott’s attention. “That’s one down. You up for a ride in a bit?”
“Sure thing,” he says. “But let’s eat first. I just called in a lunch order. Should be here in a few.”
“My man.”
THIRTY-ONE
WOLCOTT
Silvestri and I are finishing our sandwiches when my cell rattles against the desk. I consult the display. “Oh, hold up. It’s a 212 number. Might be the surgeon.” Mouth full, he offers a thumbs-up as I answer the call. “Detective Wolcott.”
“Good day, Detective. This is Tate Whelan, of Whelan, Robinson and Associates.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Whelan?”
“I operate in the capacity of chief legal counsel for Dr. Henry Thornton.”
“Oh, I see. We’re trying to get in touch with your—”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, Detective. I’m phoning you on Henry Thornton’s behalf. Henceforth, I’ll request that all communication directed to Dr. Thornton go through my office.” His tone is overly relaxed. He wants me to know that he’s not sweating this exchange one bit.
“Mr. Whelan, I’m looking to ask your client a few questions regarding a former colleague of his.” I’m all nonchalance.
“And I’m informing you that I’ll be acting as the liaison between your office and Henry Thornton going forward.” Decidedly business casual. “Now, are there any questions that you’d like me to direct to Dr. Thornton at this time?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Very well, then. Can I give you my office line?”
“I’m looking at the number right here on my phone.”
“Great.” His voice jumps an octave. Now we’re old friends. “Call anytime you need, Detective. Take care, now.”
“You too.” I hang up the phone and snort. “This motherfucker.”
Silvestri swings his head out from behind the computer screen. “What’s up?”
“That was Thornton’s lawyer,” I say. “The cat’s stonewalling us.”
“Wait, he’s got his lawyer running interference off of an inquiry call? That doesn’t look good.”
“No, it does not,” I say. “Now I want to know what this guy’s so nervous about.” I stand from my desk and take a lap around the room.
THIRTY-TWO
SILVESTRI
My partner returns to his desk, a sinister grin curling the corners of his mouth. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket.
“Wolcott?”
He nods my way, eyes dancing. “Watch this.” He taps the screen, holds the phone up to his ear, and begins to speak. “Yes, good afternoon. This is Roger Papworth, of the Papworth Group . . . Well, ours is a philanthropic organization looking to invest in socially responsible interests, and I’ll tell you what! Your chief of staff, Dr. Henry Thornton, has come to our attention . . . Yes, yes, we’re quite impressed with Dr. Thornton’s work and would be interested in sitting down with him to discuss a sizable donation to the hospital . . . He’s got a full day? I see. Unfortunately, we’re only in town for the afternoon, wrapping up meetings . . . Uh-huh . . . Right. Well, I’d really hate to miss him. We insist on sitting down for meetings face-to-face when discussing endowments on this scale . . . Mmm-hmm . . . But of course . . .” He covers the speaker with his palm. “She’s putting me on hold.” He winks and returns the phone to his ear. His head dances side to side, mimicking the ticking of a clock. “Yes, hello again . . . Uh-huh . . . He can fit us in today. Terrific. Just terrific . . . Four o’clock it is . . . Yes, that’s P-A-P-W-O-R-T-H . . . Thank you so much. We’ll see you in a bit.” He hangs up. “Thornton’s schedule just opened up.”
“Nice. We’ll drive in after we stop by and see the anesthesiologist.”
“Two birds,” he says.
“Hey, what’s the dress code for this meeting, anyway?”
He chuckles. “Money.”
* * *
“Detectives, please come in.”
We’re standing on the porch of Annie Forester’s ranch-style home in Northport. She greets us with a wide smile and whisks us inside. “Can I take your coats?” Before we can answer, she’s tucked in behind Wolcott and is helping him out of his.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she answers as she plucks mine and crosses to hang them on pegs next to the front door. “You’re a pet lover, Detective?”
“Two dogs,” I answer. “You?”
I turn and notice that she holds my coat with an outstretched arm. “I wish. I love animals, but I’m afraid I’m highly allergic. Please, have a seat.” She shoos us toward a pair of chairs in the open living space. “Can I offer you coffee or tea?”
“We don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I say.
“Oh, not at all,” she answers, crossing the room into the kitchen. “I’ve always got a pot of coffee going. Have a bit of a caffeine issue myself.” There’s a cut-out in the wall between the kitchen and living room area, and she ducks her head to speak with us through the opening.
“As long as it’s no trouble,” I say, “we’d love a coffee and a tea.”
“Certainly,” she says, flitting around the space. “And how was your drive?”
“Just fine,” answers Wolcott. “Good time of day to get up here. Not much in the way of traffic.”
“Of course,” she says. “Do you gentlemen take anything in the tea or the coffee?”
“As is for both,” I say. “And thank you.”
I take the opportunity to size up the space. The floors are carpeted, and the art on the wall appears to have come from a big-box store. There’s a long, narrow table that serves as a border between the sitting area we’re in and a lounge chair and flat-screen TV on the far end of the room. A collection of jigsaw puzzle boxes sits atop the table. I notice an absence of photographs on the walls.
The sound of china clinking is heard before she emerges from the kitchen. She crosses to us, tray in hand, and pauses in front of me. She picks up the coffee cup, then hesitates and looks at me. I smile and point to Wolcott. “Shame on me,” she says, shaking her head. “We should never assume, should we?”
“It’s happened before,” he says, smiling. “No offense taken.”
She laughs warmly, sets the respective cups on the coffee table in front of us, then lays a plate of sliced fruit between us. “Sorry it’s not more exciting,” she apologizes. “It’s too much temptation for me, having sweets in the house.”
“This is wonderful,” says Wolcott. “I’m trying to eat healthier myself.”
“Oh good,” she says, and sits in a chair across from us. As we sip from our cups, I take a moment to consider her. I’d peg her around midfifties, with a warm disposition and an open face. She’s brimming with energy, to the point where it appears to take a concentrated effort for her to sit still. She seems very excited to have a couple of detectives in her home. I’m hit with a feeling of sadness as I wonder what this woman’s family situation looks like.
“So,” she says. “What did you want to speak with me about?”
“Well,” I begin. “We wanted to follow up on our earlier conversation about Brooke Harmon.”
She shakes her head. “Poor thing. What loss that family has suffered.”
“Yes, it seems as if they’ve had more than their share,” I lament. “Have you had any dealings with Brooke Harmon in the years since the accident?”
“I have, yes. In fact, I received an email from her recently. She seemed very out of sorts. Was saying something about having found out the truth behind her sister’s surgery and wanting to put all of it behind her.”
I mentally review the content of the email. She’s more or less on point. “I see. And do you know what she was referring to? The truth about her sister’s surgery?”
“I’m afraid not. You know how it is these days, with the Internet. So much in the way of wild theories and misinformation out there. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. Especially someone who was in such pain and was searching for answers.”
“Of course,” I say. “And do you happen to know if anyone else received that same email?’