by Amina Akhtar
But Detective Hopper wanted to talk.
“Walk me through everything that happened.”
“I went over to bring Sarah her things. We were talking about her case, her lawyer, the murders . . .”
“Did she say anything about them?”
“Just that she wouldn’t be found guilty. That she was going to an institution.” He nodded, prodding me to continue. “Then she mentioned my death. And I froze. She pulled out a knife. We fought, I hit her in the face with my head, and she just stabbed me.” I paused to show how overcome I was. “It was awful,” I sobbed.
He nodded. “When did you stab Sarah?”
“After she stabbed me. I pulled the knife out and . . . I had nothing else, no way to defend myself.” Tears streamed down my face. “It was all I could think of doing. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
He looked grim. “The blood spatter will tell us who stabbed first.” He sighed. “You should never have gone over there.”
“I was so stupid going there. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I looked down, tears rolling down my nose and onto my chest.
“Yeah, what were you thinking?” he asked, staring at me.
“Honestly? I know you said it was Sarah. That she attacked Celia. But I couldn’t reconcile that with the person I know. Knew. Was it all a lie? I mean, I sat next to her for two years. How is that possible? Ugh, you wouldn’t understand.” He wouldn’t. He didn’t know Sarah, not like I did.
“That was pretty damn stupid. You could be dead now.”
“I didn’t think she’d come after me. I was helping her with her things. So . . . why?”
“Well, you got her job, right?”
I nodded.
“So maybe it was payback.”
I shuddered, tears forming in my eyes. “This is all just too much. I need to rest, I feel so tired.” He nodded and left the room. I gave myself extra points for the emotions. The tears were worth two cookies.
* * *
I spent a couple days in the hospital. I kept waiting for the detective to come in and arrest me. Each time the door opened, my heart beat faster. And the monitor showed it.
Sarah had lived. I was pleased with that. She was in the same hospital as me, in surgery, since her wound was deeper. I even showed relief when an officer told me the news. I didn’t want her dead. Honest to God.
Finally, they let me leave. Jack came to get me and take me home.
“They’ve been grilling me,” he said. “Like, did I know that Sarah was homicidal and all that. I mean, we did know, but we didn’t?”
“I’m so happy you’re here.” I hugged him. And I was happy. Nothing sadder than having no one to pick you up from the hospital. “How’s Sarah?”
“Um, so busted. She doesn’t remember anything, she claims. Like, I guess she lost a lot of blood or something?” He shrugged and grimaced. Like it was all so ghastly.
I hid in my apartment after that. Reporters camped outside the building, trying to get a story with the victim of the La Vie Slasher. I had no interest in speaking with them. A little press was good. A shitstorm paparazzi fest was bad. It made me anxious.
Greg called repeatedly to find out if I was alive, okay, happy, going to sue. Let him sweat. I paced around wearing black Gap yoga pants and a tank top. This was my veg-out, no-one-can-see-me outfit. I wore it for days.
Don’t get me wrong, I was happy. I got what I wanted. I was free. I could walk away from everything right now. I was the queen. Sarah would take the fall for most, if not all, the murders. All the supplies—the Botox, the handsaws, even the mood boards and glue—were bought with her credit card. (Sarah had five different cards, all paid by her parents. She never checked the bills. She never noticed when one went missing.)
Both our prints would be on the mood boards from when I handed them to her. But I’d worn gloves when I made them, each and every time. The selfie stick had her prints and my blood. Her phone had both of our prints, but that was easy to explain.
I had done a good job. I felt happy deep down for helping all those people achieve their big goals in life. Mulberry was more famous than her mother. Cassie learned to be an original. Lisa learned to never, ever threaten me. Zhazha became the biggest fashion blogger in the world. Celia would never have to worry about wrinkles again. But right now, I felt depressed. This must be what that postpartum shit was all about. I’d given birth to a masterpiece, and now I was bored. I had nothing. I had . . . just Stabler.
I think I was on hour seven of an SVU marathon—thank God for small favors—when there was a knock at my door. Dammit, someone let a reporter in.
“Anya? It’s Detective Hopper.” My heart jumped to my throat. I glanced down at my outfit and shrugged. He probably liked girls who looked homely. I did an armpit smell test, smoothed my hair, and went to answer the door.
“Um, hi.”
“Hey there. Can I come in?”
I nodded.
“I’d ask what you’ve been up to, but . . .”
“The reporters won’t let me go anywhere. I don’t like the attention. And I’m not ready to go outside.” I sat down.
“Are you doing okay? Do you need me to call someone?” he asked, concern dripping from his voice. This wasn’t a date. It was pure charity.
“No.” I glared. “I’m fine. I just need time to process everything and figure out what I’m doing next.”
“Just making sure. You don’t seem like your usual self, is all.”
“Even fashion girls need downtime, Detective. It’s how we stay sane.” I felt a bubble of laughter rise up on that line. I fought the hysteria. Now was not the time to laugh in his face. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve come to talk to you about Sarah.”
I flinched when he said her name. I’d practiced this. I’d watched hours of SVU and forced myself to pay attention to the victims, their movements, their simpering faces. It was a subtle flinch, not a don’t-hit-me flinch. Just enough for him to notice.
“She doesn’t remember the attack on you. But the evidence backs up your story. She stabbed first, you defended yourself. She even had planning boards in her kitchen. Her lawyer has agreed to a deal, so there won’t be a trial. However, part of the deal is that she is going to be sent to an institution.”
“Like a mental one?”
“Yes. The DA had her examined and found her incompetent to stand trial. She’s not right in the head. They said she has,” he pulled out his small notebook and read, “‘disassociated personality, paranoid delusions, and psychotic episodes brought on by her depersonalization disorder.’” He stumbled over the last part. “She basically had no recollection of the murders but fantasized about them. It was an out-of-body experience for her.”
“So what, she gets sent away for ten or eleven years and starts a new life?”
“No, she never gets to come out. And she won’t be in such a nice facility. She has to go to a state hospital.”
I grimaced. “That’s . . . dark. Wow.”
“I wanted you to know before you read about it anywhere. Also, Sarah wants to see you. She’s asked to meet with you to apologize. The judge and the doctors think it might help.”
“But she doesn’t remember.”
“It may still help her to make amends.”
I sighed. “Do I have to?”
“Only if you want to. She’s being held at Bellevue right now.”
I nodded.
“There’s just one other thing. Your shrink. Are you sure his name is Jacques Moritz?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I snapped. Why wouldn’t he drop this?
“Anya, Dr. Jacques Moritz hasn’t practiced in years.”
I blinked at him.
“What? That’s not right. You must have the wrong info. Let me call him.” I dialed. Straight to voice mail. “He’s not answering.”
Detective Hopper gently put a hand on my arm. “Anya, Dr. Moritz has been dead for five years.”
I sat dow
n, wincing from my stitches. “This has to be a mistake. Look, he gave me prescriptions.” I tossed a pill bottle his way. Right on the label was the name Dr. Jacques Moritz. Detective Hopper stared at it.
“It’s possible his prescription pad was stolen.”
“By who? Some freak who wants to hear my problems? That’s not right. Did you email him?”
“Yeah, he never replied. Who have you been seeing?”
There it was. Pity. It filled his eyes as he gazed at me. Like I was the victim of some weird con. He felt sorry for me.
“I think I need some rest. Thank you for coming to see me.”
He had to leave. Now. He was bringing my world crashing down. That’s not how things were supposed to be. He needed to leave me and Dr. M alone.
“Of course. We need to get to the bottom of this. When you’re rested.”
I nodded as he opened the door and left. Was he lying to me? All of this some clever ruse to get me to confess? They do that, you know. Lie. All the time.
“Anya, you always pick people who betray you,” Dr. M said. He was sitting on the sofa, holding a bowl of popcorn. He had watched everything. He was my best TV buddy. “You need to break things off with the detective. For good.”
He was right. He was always right.
* * *
Every time I heard mention of Bellevue on TV, I assumed it was a nuthouse, but it’s not. It’s a regular hospital. They just happen to have an inpatient psychiatric ward. The area for the criminally insane was separate from the rest of the psych ward, and that’s where Sarah was being kept. Where she was going next wouldn’t be as nice. Overcrowded, dirty, and no amenities. I didn’t know why she didn’t fight for a private institution. Even I wouldn’t wish this on her.
I stood across the street on First Avenue in a black Saint Laurent leather jacket, a Helmut Lang black jersey pencil skirt, Valentino boots, and a ripped white tee from Alex Wang. I wore a McQueen skull necklace. It seemed fitting.
I met Hopper outside the hospital, and if my nerves gave me away, I played them off like I was scared to see Sarah. He smiled and rubbed my arm. I pulled away from him.
“It’ll be fine. There will be guards there too.”
“Will she be medicated?”
“Probably. The doctors said she’s had a psychotic break.”
I let him check us in and take us to the nineteenth floor. We had several more check-ins before being buzzed through even more doors and then into a visitor’s area. This was where these wards became more like prisons. Doors onto doors onto doors. Buzz, buzz, buzz. The patients here were criminals, and no one let them forget it. I shuddered. Bile rose up in my throat as I smelled that distinct disinfectant odor all state facilities have.
“You’ll be fine. We’ll leave here soon.”
I nodded, trying to not panic. I’m not checking in. I’m not checking in. I’m not checking in. This wasn’t a trap; I’d get to go home after this. Fuck, what if this was a trap? Deep breaths. My Xanax wasn’t working.
I sat down and waited for Sarah. I was in a medium-sized room, no windows, no air, nothing to stab anyone with. There were a few comfortable armchairs, nothing that anyone could easily pick up. A stained sofa was against one wall. Everything was in those horrible coral-pink and sea-green colors that only existed in hospitals. I imagined this was the room the nurses and orderlies slipped into for late night fun. Except there was a camera in the corner. Nothing was private. They would record everything. This was a trap. They wanted to catch me slipping up. I knew it! Detective Hopper was not on #TeamAnya. He was a faker. The worst kind—he made you think he liked you. The buzzing noise started up again. I ground my teeth.
“Are you okay?” Detective Hopper asked.
I didn’t reply. I sat looking at my nails. I’d gotten them painted black and gold because I was a rock star.
“Okay, she’s coming. I’ll be right in the hall.”
The guards showed her in.
I was ready for goth Sarah or tough and dramatic Sarah. But this was not who I thought would shuffle in. Her hair was stringy and oily, her skin waxy and pale. She was wearing an overwashed, threadbare pajama set with a mismatched robe. Her nose was bandaged, and the bruises under her eyes were a deep purple. This was intake Sarah. And she was a hot mess. My heart fluttered. My Sarah Taft had been replaced by this version. And the pain, the neediness that wafted off her (along with some pretty bad BO) was almost overwhelming.
Then it hit me: I was her only friend now. I was all she had. I had taken everything from her. I had won.
“Hey, Sarah . . .” I started tentatively, testing the waters.
She raised her head, squinting. “Anya?”
“Yes, it’s me.” The guards sat Sarah down on one of the armchairs and then moved to stand in the doorway. I sat in the chair across from her—not so close that she could claw my eyes out, but close enough that we could speak.
“How are you?”
“Are you dead?”
“No. I’m not dead. Don’t you remember?”
“There was blood.”
“Yes, there was blood.”
“What happened? Why am I here?”
I sat back, watching her. Was this an act? Sarah was craftier than I’d given her credit for, but this acting job was too much for even her. Unless Detective Hopper put her up to it?
“You tried to kill me, Sarah. Don’t you remember?”
She shook her head, holding her hair in her hands. “No. No, I didn’t.”
“You stabbed me with a knife. And you tried to kill Celia. And Cassie and Zhazha—”
“But . . . I don’t remember . . .” she whispered.
I sighed. This was getting me nowhere. “You wanted to talk to me. Why?”
“I . . . I didn’t do it. Help me . . . ?”
“You did do it—I was there. You tried to kill me. If that’s all, then I’m leaving.” I stood up to leave, and she grabbed my arm. Alarmed, the guards moved in, but I shook my head, motioning for them to stay where they were. “What is it?”
“I know who killed them.”
“Who killed them?”
“You did.” She grinned. “Mariana.”
It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. She knew me, the real me. This was it. She was going to signal the officers and arrest me at any moment. I braced myself. “You did! You killed them! You did!” She grinned wildly.
A bubble of hysteria started sliding up my throat. I was going to laugh. I knew it.
“You killed them, Anya! I know what you did! Admit it! You were always a liar. Mariana! Your name is Mariana!” She threw her head back and laughed. “Your boyfriend told me who you really are.” She cackled. “You killed everyone. I saw you do it.” She practically sang the last part.
I had pictured how I’d tell her about myself. One day, after we’d had decades of friendship between us, after I knew all her secrets, I’d tell her mine. But this wasn’t my fantasy. She knew. And Detective Hopper was the one who told her. He’d betrayed me just like Dr. M said he would. My heart was racing so fast I couldn’t distinguish between each beat. Sarah knew everything. My mouth was dry. I swallowed. Panic engulfed me.
Stop, Anya. You can do this. The evidence all points to Sarah. Dr. M’s voice was loud in my ear. He was right. Still, I glanced at the guards. They hadn’t moved; they weren’t even paying attention.
Deep breaths, Anya. Don’t smile, don’t show anything, Anya.
“Are you serious?” I asked loud enough for everyone to hear. “You are nuts!”
Her eyes widened. She was the crazy one. She was the one locked up. She’d taken the deal. This was Sarah’s fate, not mine. She could have been by my side instead of sitting here, making fish faces.
“I mean, that’s just crazy, Sarah. Totally. Fucking. Crazy.”
You’ve got this, Anya. You can walk out of here, Dr. M whispered. No one will stop you.
I smoothed my skirt. It was just like Sarah to try to bring me do
wn, even when she was at her lowest. We could have been the closest of friends. BFFs. Forever and ever.
Before I walked out, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You’re nobody now. A nothing. How’s it feel, Sarah? All you had to do was love me. You did this to yourself.” I wanted to grin. To taunt and leer. But Dr. M was shouting at me about restraint.
Detective Hopper was waiting for me outside the room. “How’d it go?” I nearly ran from him. Was he going to charge me? Was this it? I couldn’t end it here, with the ugly walls.
“She didn’t want to apologize at all. That was . . . wow.”
“Yeah, she’s accused several people of being the killer. She has good moments when she’s lucid. Sorry this wasn’t one. What did you whisper to her?”
“Just wished her well. I hope she gets better.”
“She may never recover.”
“Is there anything else you need from me?” I asked stiffly. I needed to get out of there. I needed to be free.
“No, that’s it. You know, even if she hadn’t taken the deal, we had enough to convict her. You didn’t see her plan boards . . .” He smiled encouragingly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over for you.
“You should know, however, we’re looking into the death of Dr. Moritz. It looks like there may have been foul play involved. We’re thinking it was a former patient of his. Can you work with a sketch artist so we can get a better idea of what this impostor looks like?”
“Of course, anything I can do to help,” I heard myself say.
And I would help them with Dr. M. Why wouldn’t I? Dr. M was always there when I needed him. He was the most attentive shrink I’d ever had. We almost broke up once though. Almost. He said I wasn’t making progress, that I was too obsessive with people. He was just mad because I made mood boards of him. After that, our little fight, he became so helpful. And he really took a personal interest in my life. He even gave me his prescription pads for when I needed them. He was the best. Really.