Who is Maud Dixon?

by Alexandra Andrews

  “Ms. Wilcox, I want you to listen very closely, okay? I’m going to come back to your house, but it’s going to take me a few hours to get there. I’m also going to call Officer Idrissi and see if he can get there sooner. But I want you to know that I spoke to Florence earlier today.”

  “What?”

  “She told me a little bit about what’s been going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said you’ve been floating some crazy ideas. Suicide. Fleeing from the law. She said you’ve been drinking a lot, that you’d gotten your hands on some illegal narcotics. She even said you offered her ten thousand dollars for her passport.”

  “No, that was Helen. She took your card. She took it.”

  “We’re all here to help you, okay. We’re all on your side. Let’s just calm down for a moment. I’m going to leave my office now. It’ll take me about five hours. I’ll call Idrissi as soon as I hang up. If I can reach him, he should be able to be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes, okay? I’ll be there soon too. Just sit tight and don’t do anything rash.”

  “Okay,” Florence said. “But hurry.”

  When she hung up, her adrenaline receded like the ebbing of the tide. The world slowed down. She saw herself as Amira saw her. Standing in a puddle of dirty water. No pants on. Clutching a laptop to her chest, the charging cord trailing loosely on the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Amira. “I’m sorry.”

  Florence walked upstairs. She was wet and shivering. There was algae hanging from her hair and eyelashes.

  Idrissi would be here soon, she repeated like a mantra in her head. She never thought she’d be so grateful for his presence.

  She went into her own bathroom for the first time since the accident and locked the door behind her. She let the shower run until it was scalding, then stepped into the stream. She didn’t bother to hold her cast outside of it this time. It was already soaked.

  Idrissi would come. Massey would come. Eventually she would get them to see the truth. Whitney could sign an affidavit. She could fly her mother over. There was no way they’d actually put her in jail as Helen Wilcox. She just needed to be patient. Calm and patient.

  She stepped out of the shower and was toweling off when she heard someone rap gently on the door.

  “Florence?” Helen said lightly.

  Florence froze. “Just a second!”

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  “Amina put out lunch. Get dressed and come eat.”

  “Okay. Just give me a second.”

  Florence listened to Helen walk away. She rubbed the towel on her face vigorously. She pulled on some clothes and looked out the bedroom window, which faced the driveway. There was no sign of Idrissi yet. But she couldn’t hide in the bathroom all day. Her one advantage was that Helen didn’t suspect that she suspected anything.

  Downstairs, she heard Helen talking to Amira on the terrace. Helen’s purse was sitting on the table by the front door. Florence glanced out the door to the terrace and moved quickly toward the table. Inside was a US passport. She pulled it out and opened it.

  It was her passport. Of course it was. There was her full name, Florence Margaret Darrow and her date of birth as she’d seen it listed officially countless times in her life. But next to it was a photograph of Helen Wilcox.

  She slipped the passport into her back pocket.

  How had Helen done that? Is that what she had been doing in Rabat? Florence knew from her own research that all Helen would have needed was a photocopy of Florence’s passport and her driver’s license. That and new photos.

  Outside, Helen sat at the table in the shade where Amira had set up lunch. She pulled a grape off the stem and popped it into her mouth jauntily.

  “Nice shower?”

  “Yes. Thanks. How was town?”

  “It was fine. I ran into some of your friends. Meg and that guy Nick, I think?”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  Florence sat and raised the glass of juice at her place to her mouth before realizing it had been sitting on the table alone with Helen before she arrived. She faked a sip then put it back down. She felt nauseous. She couldn’t eat. She noticed that her hand was shaking. She shoved it under the table. Where was Idrissi?

  She didn’t even know if Massey had reached him yet.

  “You look pale,” Helen said.

  “I’m a little hungover.”

  Florence watched Helen butter and eat a piece of bread. She pulled back her lips into a grimace with each bite to avoid smudging her lipstick. A murderer. She was eating lunch with a murderer. She’d killed two people: Jenny and Nick. Ellis Weymouth too, probably—the man Jenny had served fifteen years in prison for murdering. What was more likely: that two young girls, best friends, both grow up to be homicidal, or that one of them is a psychopath, sadistic enough to frame the other for her own crime? Certainly someone who had no reservations about taking a life would have no compunction about sending someone to prison. Even her closest friend.

  And now she’d stolen Florence’s passport. In order for Helen to use it, of course, the real Florence Darrow needed to be out of the way—for good.

  But what could she do besides sit across from Helen and eat lunch as if everything were normal? She couldn’t confront her. Who knew what Helen was capable of? After all, she’d had a gun in Cairo without Florence ever knowing. No, Florence just needed to wait for help to arrive.

  Amira came out carrying a platter of chicken salad. She set it down on the table and turned to Florence.

  “You had a nice swim?” she asked.

  Florence froze. She looked at Helen, who had narrowed her eyes and was staring at her darkly. Neither of them moved. Amira, receiving no answer, returned to the kitchen. Then Helen flexed her right hand and Florence jumped up, kicking her chair to the floor with a loud clatter. She ran inside and raced up the stairs, Helen’s steps pounding behind her.

  Florence darted back into her old room, into the bathroom, then spun around and locked the door. She sat down against the door, panting.

  A second later, Helen rapped gently against the door.

  “Florence,” she sang. She rapped again. “Florence, are you alright?”

  Florence jumped up and moved into the bathtub. She pulled up her knees and hugged her legs to her chest.

  Helen jiggled the doorknob, tentatively at first, then harder. Finally she heaved her entire body against the door. It was old but the wood was thick and strong. It would hold, Florence thought. The lock—a clunky brass contraption—looked solid too.

  The door stopped shaking. She could hear Helen panting on the other side. The sound of their two bodies taking in air was all that could be heard for a few moments.

  “Why did you have to kill him?” Florence finally asked. “He was just a sweet, simple boy.”

  Getting Helen to talk was the best way to buy time until Idrissi’s arrival, but more than that, Florence simply wanted an explanation.

  “Kill who?” Helen asked innocently.

  “You know who. Nick. Why did you kill Nick?”

  Helen’s tone changed. “If you’re pointing fingers you might want to look in the mirror, Florence. You killed him. The moment you told him your name was Florence Darrow. You ruined the whole thing. You should have just kept up the ruse. It was a good one. You wanted to be Helen Wilcox? Great! By all means, take her. But you can’t have both. You can’t have Helen and Florence. That’s just greedy. I’m Florence Darrow now.”

  “I didn’t even tell him my name was Florence Darrow!” Florence cried. “I told him that my real name was Florence but now I go by my middle name, Helen. I never said my real last name. I’m not stupid.”

  “Florence, you told me that he knew your real name. I had to assume you meant your full name. I couldn’t take any chances. You should have been clearer. It’s a shame, but again, that’s on you, not me.”

  “He was just a s
weet boy,” Florence said again, more softly.

  “Oh, bullshit,” Helen spat. “He was an overgrown stoner who acted like a boy to get women into bed.”

  Florence didn’t respond.

  After a beat, Helen said, “Hang on—I’ll be right back.” She added with a manic, trilling laugh, “Don’t run off!”

  Florence heard Helen’s footsteps recede quickly. She waited a few seconds and cracked open the door to peer out. Helen wasn’t in the room. Florence hurried to the window and looked down into the driveway. Still no sign of Idrissi. She turned around. Where should she go? She could already hear Helen coming back up the stairs. She retreated back into the bathroom and locked the door again.

  “Now, where were we?” Helen asked.

  “Helen, please just tell me what’s going on. The truth this time.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Helen said, “Here, take a look at this.” A folded piece of paper was slipped under the door. “This will explain everything.”

  Florence eyed the paper warily. What could it possibly say? She put her hands on the rim of the bathtub and pushed herself up to standing. And then there was a dull crack and the door splintered at hip level. The sound was unmistakable. Helen had fired a gun at the door, and the bullet had lodged midway.

  “Helen!” shouted Florence. “Are you insane?” She heard the sound of muffled laughter on the other side of the door.

  “Worth a shot.”

  From inside the tub, Florence reached for the plunger beside the toilet and used it to draw the paper toward her. She unfolded it. It was blank.

  There was an interlude in which both women were silent. Helen tapped what Florence assumed was the gun lightly against the door, as if bored. Florence pulled down a towel from the heavy brass rack on the wall and folded it underneath her in the tub.

  “Amira must have heard that,” Florence said. “She’s probably calling the police right now.”

  “I sent her home.”

  Fuck.

  It was time to show her cards. “Well, I called the police,” Florence said. “Before lunch. They’re on their way as we speak.”

  Helen paused. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. Call Dan Massey at the embassy. Ask him.”

  “No, you’re lying. I can tell when you’re lying. I’m going to stay right here, Florence, and wait for you to come out. You will have to come out eventually, you know.”

  Florence shut her eyes tightly. Idrissi would be here soon. Then he’d find her being held hostage with a gun. Everything would be clear.

  “You staged the crash,” Florence finally said. “So I would die and you could steal my identity.”

  “Oh, bravo,” said Helen.

  Florence realized, absurdly, that her feelings were hurt. All she’d wanted these past few weeks was for Helen to like her. And instead Helen had tried to kill her. That was not generally something people do to people they like.

  “How?”

  “Jesus, Florence, haven’t you ever seen a movie? I drugged you; I put the car in neutral; I pushed. Fin. Well, no, not fin. That was the problem, wasn’t it? That fucking fisherman. What was he even doing out at ten at night?”

  “But why didn’t you just let me be Helen Wilcox?” Florence asked. “If you knew that that was what I was doing anyway? Why’d you come back at all?”

  “The money, of course.”

  “What money?”

  “My money. I made you the beneficiary of my estate. Helen Wilcox has to die for Florence Darrow—that’s me now, remember—to get the money.”

  Florence begrudgingly admired the elegance of the plan. Helen could live as Florence Darrow and still get her money through standard legal channels.

  “But why did you involve me at all? Couldn’t you have just bought a fake passport or something?”

  “Where do you do that, Florence? At the fake passport store? Do they sell social security numbers too? And credit histories? I haven’t a clue where people get false papers.”

  “You were really just going to kill me?” Florence asked in a quiet voice. “No qualms whatsoever?”

  A sigh. “Florence, I thought I’d been clear with you. We’re all in this alone. We just do what we can to survive.”

  Florence said nothing. It was true; Helen had been clear.

  Helen’s voice softened somewhat. “In the beginning I wasn’t necessarily going to kill you. If six months had passed and Jenny’s body had decomposed, I would have just fired you and gone on with my life. But after that visit from Detective Ledowski, I had to presume it was all going to come out. We had to get out of the country. And then I watched them find the body on my Nest cam, and I knew I needed to put the plan in motion.”

  “Your what?”

  “My security system. There are cameras all over the property. The police discovered the corpse the day after we got to Semat.”

  “Why are we even in Semat, by the way? It’s obviously not to research your new book, which is just a Paul Bowles rip-off.”

  “You caught that, did you? Well, you couldn’t expect me to write a whole new novel just for you to have something to type up. Anyway, we came to Semat for Rue Badr. Google ‘most dangerous roads in Morocco.’ It’s the first one listed.”

  Florence remembered the manuscript she’d recovered from Helen’s computer. Iris had checked and rechecked the route to Dar Amal—via Rue Badr—on her phone. “I found your new novel,” she said. “The real one. The Morocco Exchange.”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” The pride in Helen’s voice was unmistakable.

  Florence ignored the question. “I finally understand. You don’t write fiction. You probably can’t write fiction. Every word of Mississippi Foxtrot was true—you killed that man and let Jenny go to jail for it even though she’d done nothing.”

  “She hadn’t done nothing. She was there. Her job was to get him drunk, which she did. We were just going to fuck with him a little…but I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t stop. It was the best feeling I’d ever had.”

  “And to write another book, you need another story.”

  “I’ll admit it, yes, I needed new material. But killing you also happened to be the most efficient way to clean up the mess Jenny had dropped at my doorstep. Besides, I was ready to leave that life behind. I was bored.” Helen’s voice dropped an octave. “And I think you understand, Florence—that desire to become someone new. Life is so varied. There are so many ways to experience it. What a shame to taste only one—especially the lives you and I were born into. I could sense that wandering soul in you the first time I saw you. It’s part of the reason I chose you. I knew you could cast off your old life like you were shrugging off a coat.”

  “Chose me?”

  “Chose you as my new coat.”

  In that moment, Florence saw it all. It hadn’t been sheer luck that Helen had hired her as her assistant; Helen had sought her out. There’s no way Florence could have been the most qualified candidate—she’d just been fired for stalking her boss’s family. What Helen needed wasn’t a talented assistant; it was a new identity.

  Florence remembered seeing her own LinkedIn, Instagram, and Facebook accounts in Helen’s search history. She’d done her research: She’d found someone who looked enough like her and whom nobody would miss. You couldn’t ask for a better coat than Florence Darrow. Helen had been planning Florence’s murder before they’d even met.

  Florence knew, then, that she was not going to be able to talk her way out of this. Her only options were to keep stalling or to fight. She looked around for something she could use as a weapon.

  “So, now what?” Florence asked. “You shoot me? Throw me in the pool too?”

  “Well, the plan was to give you a fatal dose of heroin—I already told Massey that you, aka Helen, were using—but I guess you’re not going to come stick out your arm for me, even if I ask very nicely.”

  “Fuck you, Helen.”

  “It’s not such an absurd idea, Florence.
Not to be unnecessarily cruel, but what do you have to live for? Your life is empty. I could tell that just from your writing.”

  “I guess I should kill someone, too, so I have something to write about? Is writer’s block a valid defense on a murder charge these days?”

  Helen laughed. “See—you can’t even come up with your own idea; you have to steal mine. But how about this: I’ll wire a hundred grand to your mother, for her trouble, if you come out and cooperate. Think about it.”

  Florence couldn’t help but laugh back at her. “Helen, I don’t give a shit about my mother, and I’m not going to let you stab me with a heroin needle.”

  Helen sighed. “Fine.”

  Neither of them spoke. Then a loud metallic ring echoed through the bathroom. Florence ducked below the lip of the bathtub. When the reverb faded, she peeked out. Helen had shot the lock. It was slightly askew but still in place. She wondered how many bullets Helen had.

  Another shot rang out. The lock rattled in the door. Helen started pounding on it. Florence jumped up. The lock was almost entirely off. One more blow and she’d be in.

  “Wait,” Florence said uselessly. “Wait.”

  Helen kicked the door in.

  45.

  Florence had flattened herself against the wall next to the doorway and was clutching the brass towel rack she’d unscrewed from the wall. As soon as Helen stepped inside, Florence swung her makeshift weapon at Helen’s head as hard as she could. She felt the crunch as it connected with bone.

  Then she ran.

  She was halfway to the stairs, still gripping the towel rack, when she heard something clatter to the bathroom’s tiled floor.

  The gun.

  She made a split-second decision, stopped, and turned back.

  Helen was on her knees in the bathroom, holding her head in both hands. Blood gushed from between her fingers. Florence grabbed the gun from the floor near the toilet and pointed it at her.

  Helen looked up but didn’t move.

  They stayed locked in that tableau for a moment. Then Florence picked up a towel that had fallen to the floor and tossed it at Helen. Helen wadded it up behind her head and leaned against the doorframe.