TF: I don’t think she—
BJ: Thank you, Tarin Fry. What a character, ladies and gentlemen! Didn’t you love her? We’ll be back with you after a short break so stay tuned.
14 October 2017
The sound of jangling keys wakes me with a start. For a fraction of a second, I’m in my bed at home with Patrick snoring next to me and the ceiling shaking as the kids stomp around on the floor above, getting ready for school. Another ordinary day …
Then it hits me: where I am, where I’m not, where I might never be again.
Another day in this nightmare. Another morning in hell.
By the time the trailer door opens, my mind has plunged through every feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Except my abductor. I’d wish all bad things on him. He’s the first worst enemy I’ve ever had.
I don’t blame him less because none of this was his idea. I blame him more.
This morning he has a tray in his hand.
‘I got you another sausage and bacon sandwich. Made sure the bacon was crispy. And coffee, and juice. Pink grapefruit this time, for a change. You like grapefruit? Cara? You okay?’
I don’t answer. What’s the point?
He puts the tray down on the kitchen counter. I wait for him to start his usual routine: take the gun out of the drawer, then come over and untie me. Instead he turns and starts walking back to the door.
Is he leaving? How can I eat or drink if he doesn’t untie me? ‘Wait!’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting something else. Can’t carry everything in all at once.’
I close my eyes and swallow hard as I try to imagine what something else might be. Another weapon? A knife?
When he returns, he’s holding a thick pile of papers and a smaller, flat object with a pattern of hexagons on it, like patchwork – green with white dots on one patch, solid pink on another …
As he comes closer, I see that the papers aren’t loose but bound. Though not properly, not with a spine like a book. See-through plastic covers …
‘You need to read this,’ he says, putting it down beside me.
‘What is it?’ There’s nothing where I’d expect the author and title to be, only a blank white front page beneath the plastic.
‘A book. Read it.’
Something about his expression makes me brave enough to ask, ‘Are there … answers in it?’
‘Yes. There are.’ He allows the smile that was playing around his mouth to show itself.
I try to copy it, reflect it back to him. He thinks he’s brought me a treat.
‘What you said yesterday … you were right. I figured you deserved to know some stuff, and it wouldn’t do any harm. Like you said.’
And Melody agreed?
A thought I had before I fell asleep last night comes back to me. She’s fourteen now, but when her murder was faked she was only seven. There’s no way a seven-year-old could formulate and carry out a plan like that. Was Gun Guy in charge at first and then, gradually, as she got older, Melody took over? Did she figure out a way to manipulate him over the years, so that he finally ceded all power to her? Could a twelve-, thirteen-, fourteen-year-old do that?
If she can do it, maybe I can too.
‘I want this … time you spend here to be as bearable for you as possible, Cara. Look what else I’ve got.’
He holds up the flat thing. It’s a laptop computer in a patterned case – that’s what the patchwork thing is.
No way he’d choose that pattern. A fourteen-year-old girl would choose it, though.
My throat tightens. The computer’s a step too far. Why is he giving me so much of what I want all of a sudden? It makes me feel uneasy.
‘Are you going to let me send a message to my family?’ I ask. Hearing myself say the words makes me feel faint with hope, dizzy with terror. If he says no …
‘Breakfast and bathroom first. Then we’ll talk.’
It seems to take forever, but finally it’s over and Gun Guy sits beside me on the sofa. Puts the gun down on his other side. There’s no way I could lunge and reach around him to get it. It’s too far. ‘Which first?’ he asks. ‘Do you want to read a bit of the book first, or watch something you might find interesting on the laptop?’
Both. Both now.
I shrug helplessly.
‘Okay, let’s start with this, then.’ He opens the laptop and types in a password. I can’t see what it is. He typed it too fast. ‘I’ve got a video to show you, but first I want you to read something – a public statement Jeff and Kristie Reville made after Melody’s parents were charged with her murder. Take your time to read it. There’s no hurry.’
Because I’m going to be locked in here till I die?
He says, ‘Kristie and Jeff remained loyal to Annette and Naldo Chapa till the end. As you’ll see.’
There’s a reference number at the top of the screen that’s something to do with Philadelphia police; a date, a title – ‘Statement made by Kristie and Jeff Reville’ – and their address. I skim over all this and start to read the statement itself.
We have been informed today by our lawyers that Annette and Naldo Chapa have been charged with the murder of their daughter Melody, and that we will face no charges relating to this matter. It is impossible to put into words the immense relief and gratitude we feel to have been finally exonerated. We both adored Melody, and would never have dreamed of doing any harm to her. We loved her as if she were our own daughter.
These past few months have been distressing and gruelling for us as our good names have been dragged through the dirt that is the court of uninformed public opinion. We have discovered that knowing yourself to be innocent of a crime is of scant consolation when the whole world believes you are guilty. There is a very real, life-ruining sense in which guilt truly dwells in the eye of the beholder and is not merely the objective fact our justice system believes it to be.
We are deeply grateful for the support of all those people who spoke up for us, and even those who did no more than point out that nothing had so far been proven against us. And to everybody out there who believed we were guilty of murder and continues to believe it, we say this: we do not hold it against you. If we had not known for certain that we were innocent, we too might have been convinced by the media and the online mob that we must be murderers. We understand that the harsh and widespread condemnation we received was a reflection of how much people cared about Melody – and for that love and care shown for her, we will always be grateful, even if we suffered as a result.
We are and always will be grateful, also, for the support of Bonnie Juno and the Justice With Bonnie team. They argued for our innocence from day one and we appreciate their efforts on our behalf. However, we cannot endorse or condone the punitive and accusatory approach that the same team has taken with regard to our neighbors and friends Annette and Naldo Chapa.
Annette and Naldo are now in the position that we were in not long ago: the whole country, it seems, believes they murdered Melody. There is much talk of evidence against them, as there was when we were suspected. We would ask that people reserve judgment and keep an open mind. In our opinion, Annette and Naldo cannot have harmed Melody. Knowing them as we do, we cannot bring ourselves to believe they are guilty. We also know from our own experience that the same piece of solid evidence can be used as the basis for any number of made-up stories, and often the story that sounds the most likely on a superficial level, the one that’s easiest to tell, is the only one that is heard, irrespective of the facts.
Evidence, in this case as well as in a more general sense, only goes so far. We have no proof but we believe in our hearts that Melody is still alive and out there somewhere. Her body has not been found, and so we cling to our hope that she is safe and well.
Until she is found – until the person who stole her away from her life is caught and punished – we intend to stand by Annette and Naldo Chapa. We know that, for taking this posi
tion, we will be accused of disloyalty to and betrayal of Melody, and all we can do is restate our firm belief that her parents are innocent. The real betrayal of Melody would be to accept as the truth what feels to us like a lie, and allow the truly guilty party in this matter to escape the consequences of his or her heinous actions.
‘Did Kristie and Jeff Reville change their minds after Annette and Naldo were convicted of Melody’s murder?’ I ask.
‘Nope.’
‘So are the four of them still … friends?’
Is that a stupid question? Do convicted murderers who’ve been imprisoned for life have friends? I suppose some of them must: friendships conducted by letter, occasional meetings across a table in a room full of other murderers and their loved ones …
‘No.’ My kidnapper’s voice hardens. ‘That’s Annette and Naldo’s doing, not Jeff and Kristie’s. Won’t let them visit – nothing.’
One thing seems clear: he’s pro-Revilles, anti-Chapas.
‘Can I see the book now?’ I ask him.
He nods and hands it to me.
I open it and turn to the first page with writing on it. It starts without a chapter heading or number or anything:
For the longest time, I thought my sister Emory was the lucky one. Sometimes I still feel that way. She died before they could kill her. No life at all is better than a life spent waiting to die …
Priddey was glad to be out of Swallowtail’s spa complex. He’d known such places existed, dropped Althea off at one once for a friend’s birthday celebrations, but seeing it from the inside was something else. It made him think of a religious cult: blissed-out people walking around in identical white robes – walking too slowly, all with the same blank eyes and bland smiles.
He had seen only one interesting facial expression the whole time he’d been in there: a young woman had looked at him almost aggressively. Perhaps he’d broken a spa rule.
The staff didn’t wear the white robes. They had a different uniform – baggy pants, tunic, name badge. As far as Priddey could tell, they’d all told him the truth: none of them had seen Cara Burrows in the spa more recently than her husband Patrick had last seen her.
Priddey had been allowed to look at the contents of the silver pot in the crystal grotto. He’d found many dubious expressions of angst and also the bit of paper Tarin Fry had talked about, with ‘Cara Burrows – is she safe?’ written on it. Beneath those words, someone – maybe Cara herself, but Priddey knew better than to assume – had written a reply to the effect that she did not feel safe, having read the above.
That piece of paper was now in Priddey’s pocket. As he’d slipped it into an evidence bag, he’d caught himself wondering: could it be true? Could Melody be alive?
Just take the note to Sanders. He can do the wondering.
Priddey was about to climb aboard his club car when he heard a raised voice. Female. ‘Hey, cop!’
He turned. The girl with the aggressive expression was marching toward him, barefoot, still in her white robe. Out here, she looked a lot younger – not much more than sixteen or seventeen. ‘Are you here to find Melody Chapa?’ she asked.
‘Melody Chapa was murdered seven years ago,’ Priddey said.
‘You don’t sound sure about that.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. You don’t. Don’t sound like you care either. Have you found Cara yet?’
‘You know Cara Burrows?’
The girl nodded. ‘Kind of.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Giselia Fry. Zellie, colloquially.’
Colloquially? Hold on – Fry?
‘Are you the daughter of Tarin Fry?’
‘Yeah. Shoot me. It’d be the kindest thing.’
Priddey couldn’t help smiling. ‘Your mother’s been helping us.’
‘No, she hasn’t. That’s why I’m out here in a bathrobe. She’s lying to you.’
‘What lie?’
‘She told you that she saw Melody, after Cara Burrows disappeared. She did not see Melody.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. Boasted about it – how the two jackass cops had totally fallen for it.’
‘Your mother boasted about lying to the police to you, her daughter?’
‘Yep. And much as I don’t want to be, like, an informer, Cara and Riyonna Briggs are missing, so I thought I’d better say something, in case it matters.’
Priddey wondered if this was some sort of joke.
‘So when your mom told us she’d seen Melody Chapa alive, here at the resort yesterday, that wasn’t true?’
‘No.’
The girl seemed genuine enough.
‘Why’d she lie?’
‘According to her, or according to me? Because, personally, I think she can’t bear for there to be a drama unless she’s got a main part. But that’s not what she’d say. She’d say she did it to make sure you’d take the story seriously, about Melody being alive. With Cara gone and that crazy old lady as the only other witness, she feared you might not, so she decided to step up.’
‘Lying’s not going to help us find Cara Burrows,’ said Priddey.
‘I know that. She disagrees. Why do you think I’m telling you? Assuming you think at all.’
Priddey let the insult pass.
‘Also, just before I came over to the spa, I walked into the bathroom of our hotel room and she was sitting fully dressed on the side of the bath. She saw me and stuffed something up her shirt sleeve, then completely denied it. Even though I’d seen her, and she knew it.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘Paper. That’s all I could see,’ said Zellie.
Priddey nodded. ‘Well, thanks for telling me.’
‘Are you going to speak to her?’
‘I s’pose so. I’ll keep your name out of it.’
‘Don’t bother. It’s pointless. Who else would have told you?’ Zellie shook her head in disgust. ‘You suppose so? Are you just pretending to be a cop? You don’t seem much like a real one to me.’
Priddey cursed under his breath as she walked away.
‘Why’ve you stopped reading?’ asks my kidnapper.
‘Did you expect me to read it all in one go, immediately?’
‘You don’t find it interesting?’
No, it’s just that I have such a busy schedule: first staring down the barrel of the gun you’re pointing at me, then praying I’ll think of a way to get out of here, then wishing you dead …
‘I’d like to hear your thoughts, when you’re ready to share them,’ he says.
‘Well, it’s clearly supposed to be written by Melody Chapa.’
He tenses. He didn’t like me saying that. Was I not meant to work it out? It’s so obvious.
‘Supposed to be?’ I can hear in his voice that he’s scared of the answer I’m going to give him.
‘There’s no way this was written by a fourteen-year-old.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s too polished. Sentence by sentence, it’s too neat and flowing. I have a very intelligent, well-read thirteen-year-old daughter, but she doesn’t write like … like a published book by an adult. Neither did anyone I worked with when I was education officer for a charity and working with teenagers and reading their stuff every day.’
‘Fourteen’s plenty old enough to write well. Mozart did some of his best work when he was under five, didn’t he?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t?’ My captor frowns. ‘I heard he did.’
‘I think he wrote “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” when he was a child, but I’m not sure you can call that his best work. I’m not actually sure he wrote it. It might be one of those things everyone thinks is true but isn’t. Like Melody being dead.’
‘Are you going to start being unpleasant? Is that what you think I deserve?’
He’s serious. It makes me want to fight for my version of reality – the true version. ‘You mean because you haven’t
beaten me or starved me, or killed me yet? You’ve brought me bacon sandwiches, so I should be grateful? Here’s a tip to help you with the rest of your life: no one you knock out with chloroform, tie up with ropes and lock in a trailer against their will is ever going to be grateful to you. There: I’ve just saved you a lifetime of disappointment.’
He sucks in his lips. The skin around his mouth turns white.
I shouldn’t have said it. I need a strategy, not to flip back and forth between placating him one minute and attacking him the next.
‘What charity?’ he asks quietly.
‘What?’
‘You said you used to work for a charity.’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘Doesn’t.’ He shrugs. ‘Just making conversation.’
‘Please don’t feel you have to.’ I don’t mean to sound sarcastic and I hope I don’t. There’s no point in antagonising him. I just don’t want to have to talk to him.
‘I’m not doing it out of a sense of obligation,’ he says. ‘If things were different, you and I might be friends. Don’t you feel that? Cara?’
‘We could still be friends,’ I say expressionlessly. ‘On one condition: you let me go. Right now. If you do that, I can forgive everything that’s happened so far.’
Hearing my cold, rigid voice, I want to cry. I know I’m handling this all wrong. Not that there’s a right way to react when kidnapped, but … I ought to have a carefully thought out plan. I should decide how to act around him, how to talk to him, and then stick to it, but my fear and anger make it almost impossible to pretend, to stop myself from blurting out what’s inside my head at any given time.
A mix of disappointment and disgust contorts his face. ‘Cara—’
‘It’s not hard,’ I talk over him. ‘You care about Melody, clearly. All you need to do is care as much about me. I have a husband and children. She doesn’t. You want to get to know me better? All right: I was education officer for a charity called Heartlight. My husband’s name is Patrick. He runs a company that frames sports memorabilia. My kids are Jess and Olly. I gave up my job when I had Jess and suddenly my family was all that mattered to me. But then I got pregnant again by accident and I discovered that I was the only one who cared about our family. The rest of them said, “New baby? No thanks.” That’s when I wondered, for the first time, if I’d been wrong to give up my career for a family that, it turns out, no one gives a shit about apart from me.’ Why am I saying this? I sound as if I hate Patrick and the kids, when all I want is to get back to them.
Did You See Melody? Page 21