by E. G. Scott
After Michelle died, my mom and dad moved out of the country for a fresh start. I was so angry at them for moving so far from where Michelle was buried, our relationship disintegrated. I had no direction or joy in my life, and no family. I couldn’t work. My marriage fell apart. I stopped seeing my friends. I felt like you had not only taken my sister from me, but my entire life.
For every holiday, birthday, and life event that passed without Michelle, I harbored this deep anger that was consuming me from the inside out. I became sick and hopeless. I lost track of the fact that I was the sister who was still alive. I thought if I could hurt you, it might take away some of the incredible pain you’ve caused my family.
A few things happened in the last year that changed this darkness in me. I found support in people who knew what it was like to survive incredible loss. I started fresh in a new place and found that I was still very much alive.
I am ready to let go of the anger. I want to forgive you. I accept that you made a terrible mistake, and one that I think you’d probably give anything to undo if you could. I hope you have forgiven yourself by now, but if you haven’t, I hope that this letter helps you get closer to that.
Brooke Harmon
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and look at Mrs. Harmon, who is staring at me coldly. I know I can’t say what I want to, as I imagine my thanking her in this moment might send her into a fit of rage. I’m at a complete loss for words.
“I don’t know what to say. This is incredible.” I am overwhelmed.
“My husband thought I was crazy giving this to you. He doesn’t think you deserve anything from us, and certainly not from Brooke. But I wanted you to know the character of Brooke, so that one day when you fully realize what you’ve done, you can live with the shame that she was ready to forgive you.”
“I’m so sorry she’s gone. I’m so sorry.” I’m rocking in the chair a little bit and wincing at the pounding behind my eyes.
“Two minutes left, folks. Wrap it up.” The guard shouts too loudly for the barely populated room.
“Please believe me, Mrs. Harmon. I’ll do anything to help find the person who did this to Brooke. I had no reason to do this. I would never hurt anyone—” She’s on her feet as fast as she can stand up and begins yelling over my pleas.
“I hope you suffer every day for what you’ve done to us,” she spits. “My daughter may, but I will never forgive you for as long as I live.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
WOLCOTT
“Silvestri,” I shout excitedly into the phone.
“Was just calling you,” he responds. “Been a busy day over here. Christina, the server from the diner? She came down to the station to follow up on the messages we left her, after the romp with the line cook.”
“Silvestri—”
“I show her a photo of Brooke Harmon. No recollection whatsoever. Claims to have been stoned to the gills through her whole shift. And considering how glassy her eyes were in the station, I have little problem believing it.” He chuckles. “So, dead end there, I’m afraid.”
“Silvestri, shut up for a second.”
There’s a pause in the sound of papers being shuffled on the other end of the line. “What’s up?” he asks.
“Charlotte didn’t do it,” I say.
“What?” asks Silvestri, tentatively.
“The timeline. Fisk just confirmed that Rachel Sherman was killed at ten P.M. on the fifth. You alibi Charlotte out.”
There’s a long hesitation on my partner’s end. When he finally speaks, there’s a discernable brightening of his tone. “Holy shit. That’s . . . Wait, though. What about her car?”
“That was my first thought, too. Went back and did the math from that night, with you showing up at our place from Charlotte’s house. Even had Abby confirm the time. Once I cemented that, I called Rachel Sherman’s neighbor, to double-check his recollection of the time frame. Remember he mentioned having just gotten back from a trip to Chicago?”
“Yeah.”
“When I pressed him, he realized that he hadn’t set his watch back to eastern standard. He was off by an hour. I don’t know why the car—”
“Oh shit! Wait.”
“What’s up?”
“I was so thrown by the timeline when we first spoke with the neighbor that I completely missed it; when I went to Charlotte’s that night, her car wasn’t in the driveway. She mentioned having taken an Uber back to her house.”
“From Rachel Sherman’s?”
“It didn’t sound like it, but I guess it must have been.”
“Well,” I say, “we can sort it out when we go bust her out of jail.”
“On my way.”
FIFTY-NINE
CHARLOTTE
I barely remember the ride home as we pull into my driveway, only that it has been quietly tense. Neither Detective Silvestri nor I have said much, beyond him clearing his throat a number of times and my saying “thank you” or “no, thank you.”
It feels strange to be wearing my own clothes and holding my phone and purse again. I’d started getting used to having nothing. My phone is dead, so I haven’t been able to check it for messages yet, but the police are now tapping it in case Peter reaches out. I don’t expect that I’ll hear from him, but it may just be that I’ve gotten so used to him abandoning me, especially when things get difficult.
Even so, if Peter wanted to be in touch, I have to imagine he expects that I’m being watched and protected by the law. Whether he assumes I’m being watched from inside jail or out is what I can’t envision at this point. This has been such an elaborate game that I didn’t know I was playing in, I can’t even guess what his next move will be.
Silvestri insisted on giving me a ride home and I was too sleep deprived to resist. Even though I’m no longer a murder suspect, I requested to sit in the back seat just the same. I couldn’t face sitting beside him. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he believed that I was a murderer.
When we reach my home, he clears his throat again when he turns off the engine and offers his hand as he opens the back door for me. I don’t acknowledge the gesture and move past him from the car to the driveway. With my back to him, I hear his footfall on the gravel and I move a step away.
“I bet you’re going to be happy to sleep in your own bed tonight.” He is handling me like I’m an injured bird, and I should welcome the tenderness, but my earlier warmth toward him has been replaced with a dull detachment. There have been too many emotional dials turned up to the max in the last few days, and I am spent.
“I’m very happy to be home,” I say wearily. My back is completely out, which is greatly contributing to my crankiness.
There was a slight air of sheepishness and apology from the detectives when they explained that I was getting out. Something about the time of death for Rachel not adding up, among other things. The noise in my head from my sit-down with Kathy Harmon was still on full blast, and I missed a lot of their explanation beyond “You are free to go.” I suppose I should feel more joy and relief about being exculpated, but my head is a flurry of emotions, and none of them are positive or comforting in the least. And even though I’m out of the suspect position, Peter is still out there, and probably watching me.
The squad car that trailed us from the station is idling at the foot of my driveway. I turn my attention in its direction and see the driver, who looks no older than thirteen. His partner is an even younger-looking woman who has her black hair pulled into a severe bun. They are chatting and watching us. Silvestri gives a wave and the baby-faced cop cuts the engine. I avoid catching eyes with Silvestri as I turn my attention back toward the house.
“Officers Smith and Tedesco are good cops. They’ll be posted outside your house around the clock. If anything or anyone looks suspicious, they’ll alert us and will secure the premises. We’ve already done a sweep of yo
ur house, and everything is as it should be. Your mother was very helpful. You’ll be completely safe at all times.”
“I don’t know about that.” I glance at my mother’s car, parked squarely in the middle of the driveway. I had hoped dearly that she would be long gone by now. As usual, she has succeeded in dashing my dreams.
“How’s that?” He seems genuinely concerned.
“The call is coming from inside the house,” I deadpan.
He lets a chuckle escape. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Probably not. But anything is better than where I’ve spent the last two days.”
He nods sympathetically. “Indeed.” I think I see a tinge of guilt in his face, but I could be looking for that. “Would you like me to walk you in?” he offers.
I shake my head sulkily.
“Maybe I can illuminate the situation a bit for her, so that you don’t have to?” He’s trying, and I’m giving him nothing.
Anger rises in me. “Maybe you can illuminate it all for me as well while you’re at it?”
He looks surprised by my flare-up but doesn’t push the issue. “Okay, then. If you leave, don’t go too far,” he says lightly.
“And where the hell would I go?” I look him square in the face and am startled at my own growing fury in his direction. I’m strung out from my sleeplessness. Beat up. Everyone who was supposed to be on my side feels like an enemy right now.
“Sorry. Get some sleep. We’ll need to talk with you again soon.”
“Fine. When?” I seem to be unintentionally channeling my mother’s attitude the closer in proximity I get to her.
“We’d like you to come back in as soon as possible. Once you’re feeling a little better, of course. Would that be okay?” He seems flustered, and I suddenly feel guilty for being so angry in his direction. I center myself and reframe.
“Whatever I can do to help,” I say.
“We’ve got our resident computer forensics guy recovering the chat archives and tracing Peter. We’d love your input, in case there are any clues that you might catch that we wouldn’t.”
“Okay. But I really don’t think I’m a good judge of anything Peter says or does.”
“You know the guy better than any of us. He may have given something away that you didn’t realize at the time,” he says.
This brings up a much stronger emotional response than I expect, and I put my hand over my face.
“Sorry, Charlotte. I know this is a lot of loss for you at once.”
“I thought I knew him. I’m so ashamed that I let things go as far as I did. I was a fucking brain surgeon, for God’s sake! Rachel knew something was very wrong and tried to help me. I should have listened to her.” I drag the tip of my clog across the gravel.
Silvestri puts a firm hand on my shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself on top of the grief you are processing now. You wouldn’t believe how many smart, caring, honest people get taken in by these animals. It really isn’t about intelligence; it’s about trust and vulnerability.”
“I appreciate that. But the fact remains, I trusted and loved someone that I had never even met. I’m having a hard time reconciling that.”
“This guy is the worst kind of sociopath. He’s the combo platter: a con artist and potentially a cold-blooded killer who fancies himself smarter than everyone else. He thrives on the long game and on tricking people who threaten his intelligence.” He puts his other hand on my opposite shoulder and squeezes me.
“I just wish I had the first idea why he wanted to ruin my life. It doesn’t make any sense. And to do it so elaborately.”
“We’ll figure it all out.”
“I want him caught so that he doesn’t hurt someone else.”
“Or you.” He looks me straight in the eye.
“I doubt he’s going to contact me, especially if he finds out that you no longer think I’m responsible for Brooke and Rachel. Not that I’d recognize him if he walked up to my front door and rang the bell.” I cringe.
“That’s what worries me the most.” His expression darkens.
“There isn’t really anything left he can do to me,” I say, defeated.
Silvestri gives me a concerned once-over. “Not from where I’m standing.”
* * *
Its early, and I’m tucked into my bed, grateful beyond belief that I am where I am right now. I hear my mother running a bath and singing a show tune that I don’t know the name of but that brings me back to childhood. Surprisingly, she’s left me alone since I arrived home.
I’m scrolling through photos of Rachel on my phone from a yoga retreat we went on together a couple of years ago, a trip to Sedona two winters ago, and, most recently, a silent meditation retreat in Woodstock last spring. One by one, the images provoke immediate despair into aching into love into deep appreciation for the many wonderful experiences she and I had together. And anger at having to be without my friend. I open a close-up of her beaming face, looking incredibly happy and light. She reminded me often about how lucky she felt to have come back to life and been given a second chance.
“Give me a sign that you are still around, Rach. Please.”
I sit with my eyes closed for a few minutes before I hear a tinny ringing sound coming from the spare bedroom/office, where my mother is camped out, and it takes me a minute to register that it is the house landline. The previous owners left the throwback handset telephone still plugged in. The service came with Internet, so I held on to it for no reason other than it seemed easier to keep it than cancel.
“Also good to have in case of a zombie appocalypse or if the grid goes dark,” Rachel had joked when I first moved in, and I called her cell from the line to figure out what the phone number was. She’d call me on it every once and a while for the nostalgic thrill it provided.
As I walk toward the sound, I feel exhilarated by the possibility that it is Rachel communicating with me from another dimension. It isn’t until I have my hand on the phone that I have the passing thought that I should get my cell phone and call or text Silvestri right away. It feels as plausible that Peter would be calling on the line as it does that it could be my dead best friend from beyond the grave.
I have the receiver in my hand mid-ring.
“Hello?”
The line is quiet.
“Rachel?” I feel immediately foolish and catch sight of myself in the mirror holding the phone, and flash back to my youth.
“Charlotte?” the man’s voice on the other end asks, and my stomach starts to churn violently. I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Peter?” I gulp.
“No, this is Jack,” he replies gently. “I wanted to check on you and see how you are doing. You were discharged by the time I made my way back to your room.”
I gather he hasn’t spoken to Nurse Murphy yet if he’s still identifying himself by a fake name. I am tempted to call him Dr. Lyons to see how he reacts, but I decide against it. I’m also trying to imagine how he could have gotten this number. I’m definitely not associated with it anywhere that I can think of.
I decide against interrogating him. I have decidedly bigger fish to fry as far as men not saying who they really are. I just need to get rid of this one.
“That’s nice of you, and totally unnecessary. I’m doing just fine.” I stumble over “fine.”
“Good. I’m glad you are feeling better.” He hesitates. “Listen, I just want to tell you how sorry I am about Rachel. I’ve lost people close to me in my life, and it is incredibly difficult. Especially close friends. I’m sure she was very grateful to have you.”
I’m annoyed this man has insinuated himself where I haven’t asked him to be. “Thanks. Yes, it is very hard right now . . .” I trail off.
“When are you planning on going back to work? I’d love to come in and finish what we started last time,” he say
s. “My shoulder is killing me and I’ve really been feeling my pre-op anxiety. I promise not to make any more bad jokes about being a human pincushion.” He pauses for laughter. I am silent. “Well, no more bad jokes after that one, anyway.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Maybe early next week. I haven’t gotten that far yet. But you can look online and book through our site. I’ll make sure the dates I’m returning are available.”
“Okay, then. I’ll keep trying.” He sounds frustrated or something. Maybe even a little pissed. I am not taking that on right now. The call has already lasted longer than I wanted it to.
“Jack, I really need to go now.”
“I’ll be thinking about you, Charlotte. I may even drop by to check in next week, just to make sure you are doing okay,” he says sweetly.
“Bye,” I say quickly.
The receiver is barely back on the cradle when it dawns on me that I never identified my “dead friend” as Rachel to Jack.
* * *
I’m not sure what to make of Jack Doyle, or whoever he is, but I decide to call Silvestri to tell him about the strange call. As soon as I unlock my phone, my heart swells at the snapshot of Rachel filling my screen and I fall back into the rabbit hole of my friend’s images. I return to combing through photographs that I will cull for Rachel’s memorial service, which I can’t even fathom organizing. Numbly, I create a new photo folder named “Rachel” and slot it between two existing folders, “P” and “Receipts,” and my heart stops cold. I click on the “P” folder, one that I’d completely forgotten I’d created. Inside: two photos of Peter. From way back in the very beginning of our courtship, if I can even call it that. I saved the first two photos he sent me before he convinced me to switch over to the Specter app, where everything is automatically deleted. I’d downloaded the pics to my phone to show them to Rachel before they disappeared. And because I’d wanted to look at his face when I couldn’t talk to him.