Don't Believe It

by Charlie Donlea

  Sidney took a deep breath. In one, articulate sentence from Gus Morelli, she felt her blockbuster documentary falling to pieces.

  “You remember the Henry Anderson case well?” Sidney asked.

  “No. It was almost twenty years ago.” Gus pointed to the closet. “But I pulled my old files from that case and read through them. Your girl was hiding something when I interviewed her. I’m certain about that, and I noted it way back when.”

  “Grace?”

  Gus nodded. “I brought my suspicions to my superior when the case was getting shuffled off as an accident. The problem was that I could never figure out what, exactly, she was hiding. The autopsy report came back indicating the manner of death was accidental, and that put an end to my official investigation.”

  “But not your suspicion.”

  “No, that never went away. I had other cases throughout my career that did the same thing to me—where the facts didn’t add up, but I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Each one bothered me and nagged me, caused me to lose sleep and maybe lean on the whiskey a bit too much. But then another case came along and stole my time and attention and I had no choice but to move on. There were a few cases over the years I couldn’t let go of. To make myself feel better, I took the ones that bothered me most and copied everything—every evidence report, every autopsy report, every interview. Boxed them up and shoved them in a storage unit in the Bronx.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it helped me let go. I convinced myself that if I stashed everything about those cases away, then someday I’d come back to them and figure out what I missed. I’ve got a few from Wilmington, a bunch more from NYPD.”

  “How are you doing so far?”

  “The Henry Anderson case is the first one I’ve come back to,” Gus said. “I’ve seen that kid so many times in my dreams and in my thoughts. I never forgot about him. About the case and about the details? Yeah. But never about him. Then I found myself laid up in this godforsaken place and I came across your documentary about Grace Sebold. Two boyfriends fall off a cliff? I wasn’t buying it during her trial in 2007, and I’m not buying it now. And when I saw the episode where the forensic expert showed how his skull fracture could not have come from a boat oar? That episode reminded me a lot of Henry Anderson. Henry’s skull fracture was unique. I remember sitting in on the autopsy. The pathologist noted it and showed it to me during the exam. It was ruled, ultimately, to be the result of his fall down the mountain. But when I watched your documentary”—Gus stared at Sidney—“that’s your link.”

  “What link?” Sidney asked.

  “The one between Henry Anderson and Julian Crist.”

  Gus leaned forward and patted the bed where his leg should be.

  “I’m a sixty-eight year old man who just lost his leg to cancer.”

  Sidney saw the blankets flat and empty on his right side. The hollowness of the space sent a flutter through her.

  “I know people will think I’m making these claims to stay relevant, or to find some piece of myself that I’m not sure exists anymore. And trust me when I tell you that folks will call me crazy for what I’m about to say, but I’ve been called worse. It’s only logical to conclude that both of these young men’s deaths are connected. And I’ve got a hunch that the same tool used to strike Julian Crist was also used to strike Henry Anderson. And I’d wager a shot of Johnnie Walker that Grace Sebold was holding it.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  GRACE SEBOLD SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE ACROSS FROM HER BROTHER. It was Wednesday morning. She’d been a free woman for eight days. From his wheelchair, Marshall scrutinized the chessboard in front of him. Grace had just taken his bishop in a devastating move, and she watched now for how he would react. She was beginning to remember her younger brother’s strategy and game play from years ago. His ability to tackle everyday activities varied widely since the accident. Some days he seemed like his old self; on others, he was a stranger, lost and confused in a world he did not understand.

  It was during the bad days, Grace was remembering, that Marshall was the most difficult to handle. A tumultuous circle of aggravation could develop suddenly from something as benign as forgetting that he was not allowed to drive. The loss of this privilege was nothing new. Since the accident, and the traumatic brain injury, seizures had plagued him, and the risk of suffering one while driving a car was too great to climb behind the wheel. So on good days, when Marshall was feeling like his old self and wanting independence, telling him that he could not drive was a trigger that sent him into a rage. Depression was a major factor in his life and something, Grace was learning since her return, her parents were badly mismanaging.

  But somehow, back then and still today, playing chess put Marshall’s mind in a state of ease, where he was calm and happy. In front of a chessboard, a level of focus and concentration came over him that transformed Marshall Sebold, if not entirely back to the person he once was, as near as Grace had ever seen him come. It was his only oasis from a world he had lost control of years ago.

  She and Marshall had played chess every day since her return from Bordelais. Grace had yet to beat him. She fought hard, and occasionally the game could last for hours. Sometimes Grace felt like she was strolling to victory, only to see that Marshall had cleverly lured her into a trap, her queen falling first as an early indication that she had taken the bait, her king following shortly behind. Their connection, once fierce, was one of the greatest things she missed about her brother, who had such a difficult time communicating in this world. But in the world of chess—where speaking was unnecessary, where people of different cultures and languages could play one another as simply as brother and sister—in this world, her brother was free. She missed him greatly.

  Grace moved her gaze to the tall windows that lined Ellie’s high-rise apartment, while Marshall considered his next move. She stared out over Manhattan: at the streets and the traffic and the lights changing from red to green, at the commuters shifting on the sidewalks below like colonies of ants. She considered that what was happening today was the same thing that had happened every day of her incarceration.

  She studied the skyline, framed by the blue sky and horizontal clouds brightened by the early sun. Today’s view was in stark contrast to a few days ago when palm trees bent by the constant push of ocean breeze were her only escape from the monotony of Bordelais Correctional Facility. Palm trees are a universal image of relaxation and vacation, but years of staring at them from the prison yard had jaded Grace to them. Grace Sebold was a free woman, and she planned to never lay eyes on them again.

  “Check,” Marshall said, sliding his rook into position and capturing Grace’s bishop.

  “What?” Grace pulled her gaze from the window back to the board. “How? You totally set me up.”

  Marshall smiled.

  “You wanted me to take your bishop.”

  “And you did,” Marshall said. “It left you vulnerable.”

  “You didn’t play at all while I was gone?”

  Marshall shook his head. “Just sometimes. But only online. Not with them.”

  Them. Her parents. In all his letters over the years, Marshall had never written the words Mom and Dad when referring to their parents. Grace wanted to ask how he could stay so competitive without playing regularly for ten years, but she already knew the answer. His mind worked differently than most. There was something about her brother’s brain that clicked on and off. Grace had been aware of it since the accident. She had always enjoyed the times her brother was on, when his conscious thoughts settled in the undamaged portion of his brain, where the old Marshall could still be found. These moments only happened during chess games, which explained why they had played so much over the last week.

  “Why don’t we play on my old chessboard?” Marshall asked.

  “I told you why.”

  “I brought it here so we could play. I didn’t know you had bought me this new board.”<
br />
  “Don’t you like the new one?”

  “I do, but my old set is . . .” He picked up one of the new pieces. They were mass-produced pine, not handcrafted porcelain. “The pieces are more elaborate, that’s all.”

  Grace paused for a moment. “I don’t think there’s any way to fix this, Marshall.”

  He made brief eye contact. “There’s not.” He pointed to her rook. “But you can make two moves before checkmate.”

  Grace stared at her brother for a moment longer, then took her king and laid it on its side. “I think I’ll concede this one, and look to get even tomorrow.”

  Grace’s king rolled slightly until it came to rest.

  “You’re going to have to deal with Daniel,” Marshall said.

  Grace looked at her brother. “Daniel is a dear friend, that’s all. And one of the few who kept in touch with me over the years.”

  “And why do you suppose that is?”

  When Grace offered no response, Marshall gave his own.

  “Because he’s still in love with you. Just like this one here.” He pointed toward the hallway where the bedrooms were located. “She’s another problem you’re going to have to figure out.”

  “Okay, Marshall. Let’s not get into this right now.”

  “If not now, when? After she’s allowed you to take over her tranquil house on Lake Placid? After you owe her everything?”

  Grace swiped her fallen pieces into her hand and dumped them into the chess case. “Game’s over, Marshall. We’ll play again tomorrow.”

  “Charlotte is still upset about you and Daniel.”

  “Marshall!”

  “You didn’t see her the other day at your homecoming. I’m tired of everyone thinking I’m a damaged buffoon unaware of the things that go on around me. I was watching her, Grace. She cringed every time Daniel touched you. I don’t want her to be a problem for you.”

  “It was a long time ago, Marshall. I can’t change the past. And if Charlotte can’t get over it, then I’m not the one to help her.”

  “Perhaps Daniel should help her get past it. She’s his wife. He should have helped her get over it years ago.”

  “Marshall, I’m tired today. We’ll play again tomorrow. Okay? I’ve had enough for now.”

  “Charlotte was a raging lunatic when she found out about you and Daniel. Are you forgetting the fight you two had at Sugar Beach?”

  “I’m not forgetting, Marshall. I’m choosing not to dwell on it.” Grace stood.

  “You better hope she chooses the same thing.”

  Marshall stared at her a moment longer, then turned his attention to his new chess set, lining the pieces in careful order before closing the chessboard on itself and sliding it into the case as he wheeled his chair away.

  “No,” Grace said. “You can walk. No more chair when you’re around me.”

  And just like that, her brother was gone. The fierce mind and coherent conversation Marshall had displayed during their chess game was like steam on a fresh cup of coffee, present for only a short time. When the game was over, Marshall’s attention span and comprehension evaporated, as if it had never been there at all. As soon as the chess set was packed away, her brother retreated to the ravaged part of his brain and was lost to the world.

  Grace stared into his lost eyes and saw some hint of understanding. If he wanted to avoid the full-care facility their parents were considering, he needed to help himself. Finally Marshall pushed himself upright, and shuffled his orthopedic shoes in a staggered gait toward the guest bedroom, his chess set still hanging from his shoulder.

  * * *

  With Marshall in his bedroom, Grace found herself alone. It was one of the rare moments in the last week when she could claim such a thing. Ellie was at work and her parents had gone to the hotel. She was surprised to find she enjoyed the solitude. The last ten years had been spent in isolation. Twenty hours of every day spent in her prison cell. She got to know herself well in that time. For many years, she longed to be back with her family and friends; but now that she was here, she craved the privacy she had wanted so badly to escape. Her years in medical school, and the many books she’d read in prison, told her this was merely a habitual response to a new environment. It was normal to retreat to the solace of isolation because it was all she had known for the last many years. In time, it would pass. But today she craved the solitude. Marshall’s comments had stirred fear in her gut, something only a free woman would feel. At Bordelais, her future was invisible, so she never sensed the worry that was hidden in the spent years of her life.

  She walked to her bedroom and closed the door. From the top drawer of her dresser, she pulled out her love lock, which held Julian’s name below her own. She held the heavy, vintage lock in her palm and stared at their names. A strange sense of loss had found her in the past week. The ghost of Julian Crist, a bizarrely comforting presence during her incarceration—and a thing that Grace hated and blamed during various spans in the last decade—was softening only to the man she once loved.

  She placed the lock on the desk and opened Ellie’s laptop. With no Internet access during her time in jail, suddenly all the information she had ever wanted was at her fingertips. Facebook was still a new medium when Grace went to prison, and she hadn’t been an active user. But she understood the website’s ability to track people down. She logged into Ellie’s profile and typed Allison Harbor into the search area. Grace scrolled through a few profiles before she found her. Julian’s ex was now a pediatrician in New Jersey, married with two kids, and with a hyphenated last name. She was different from what Grace remembered. Heavier and less attractive than the image Grace had kept in her mind during her time in prison. A nauseous feeling stirred in her stomach at the thought that this plain-looking woman had nearly stolen Julian from her. Grace spent thirty minutes looking at pictures of Allison Harbor and her family. Then, she logged out of Ellie’s Facebook account, and pulled up the Internet search engine.

  She typed Julian Crist into the browser and was inundated with thousands of options. The first few pages of results pertained to The Girl of Sugar Beach. Grace read through them, but she was more interested in the stories from just after Julian was killed, before Sidney Ryan’s documentary had brought him back from the dead. Arrested two days after Julian’s death, Grace had never gotten the chance to read many details about the case—only what her negligent defense team presented to her and the articles Marshall had sent.

  She searched the Internet for nearly an hour without pause, sucking up the information like she was reading a riveting novel. She found no stories that made the connection. She turned finally from the computer and walked to the bedroom door, quietly engaging the lock. Knowing Ellie would soon be home, Grace hurried back to the computer. The antique love lock sat on the desk. She stared again at Julian’s name, knowing that another had once taken his place. Her fingers moved over the keyboard as she typed the name into the search engine: H-E-N-R-Y A-N-D-E-RS-O-N.

  CHAPTER 47

  Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  THIS MORNING’S ESCAPADES WOULD BE ON HER OWN DIME. SIDNEY didn’t dare expense any of it to The Girl of Sugar Beach budget. The documentary was a cash cow pulling in millions in advertising revenue, and Graham and the rest of the lot wouldn’t bat an eyelash if Sidney told them she needed to fly back to St. Lucia for some last-minute footage, let alone expense some mileage and a lunch meeting. Dollars, however, were not what concerned her. Sidney wanted to keep the suits in the dark about the recent developments. The less they knew about Henry Anderson, the better. At least until she understood what, exactly, it all meant.

  She stood in the lobby of Alcove Manor Rehabilitation Center, having just finished hearing Gus Morelli’s story and his startling theory of how Julian Crist and Henry Anderson might be connected. She held the phone to her ear and listened to the voice mail.

  “Sid, production was down asking for the cuts for episode eight again, which obviously aren’t ready because you hav
en’t been in the studio for two days. The shit is hitting the fan! Graham Cromwell’s having a heart attack, and our entire staff is hiding in their offices to avoid him. Where the hell are you? Call me back. Or better yet, get in here.”

  Sidney tapped her phone and ended the voice mail. In her mind’s eye, she could see Leslie at her desk, biting her nails and running a hand through her hair. Sidney knew she should call, but lying had never been her strong suit. And she was particularly bad at fabricating stories to her friends. Within a minute of starting the discussion, Leslie would know the documentary that had America on the edge of its seat was about to crash and burn in spectacular fashion. And once Leslie knew this, corporate would know it, because the only person worse than Sidney at lying was Leslie Martin.

  Standing in the lobby, Sidney punched the numbers into her phone. It was the third time this morning she had called the number. This time, a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Anderson?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Sidney Ryan. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your son.”

  “David?”

  “No, ma’am.” Sidney hesitated. “This is regarding Henry.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Henry passed away years ago, Ms. Ryan.”

  “I know that. It’s the reason I’m calling.”

  * * *

  Betty Anderson lived in Saratoga Springs, New York, a three-hour drive from Manhattan. Sidney arrived just after two o’clock. A pleasant neighborhood with tree-lined streets—red maple and sycamore—Sidney found the home easily. She rang the doorbell and a moment later Henry Anderson’s mother answered. Frail and gaunt, Betty Anderson looked older than her sixty-seven years. Cloud-white hair was cut short, framing a face that sagged with wrinkles. Heavy, hooded lids nearly shut her eyes, and only the constant effort of her pinched forehead kept the world visible.