Where We Went Wrong

by Andi Holloway

  Where We Went Wrong

  Andi Holloway

  Published by Andi Holloway, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WHERE WE WENT WRONG

  First edition. November 21, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Andi Holloway.

  ISBN: 978-1978078895

  Written by Andi Holloway.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  To my husband, who is nothing like Bert.

  "Marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence. Second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience."

  –Samuel Johnson​

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’M SORRY, BUT YOUR son is dead.” Detective Vern Wilkes inspects your study, workplace of the great Bertram Stone, former bestselling and now bereaved novelist. This is a career-making case, and though he apologizes for your loss, he isn’t sorry. He’s suspicious, and I wonder how much he knows.

  You double over with your hands on your knees and gasp for breath. You’re not prone to anxiety, but this is what a panic attack looks like. You clutch your chest, an indication of pain that in anyone else might signal a broken heart. But you’re not sentimental either, and given what we’ve been through with Matthew, this isn’t anything to do with love.

  I ease you into a nearby chair. My hands come away damp with nervous sweat that could belong to either of us.

  “Breathe,” I say. “Bert, take a deep breath.”

  You white-knuckle the chair arms, and for a second, I think you might faint.

  Vern makes no attempt to assist. Perhaps, to the trained eye, you appear to be acting. He does the polite thing and asks, “Are you all right, Mr. Stone?” He doesn’t seem as much concerned for your physical well-being as he is worried you might keel over, given the stress of his questioning.

  There’d be paperwork—an inquiry.

  “Sorry, I need a minute,” you say.

  You’re in shock. Your only child is gone, and I don’t know how to help you. Your voice drops two octaves. Your lower lip trembles, and whether you want to cry or not, you won’t, but the pain has to come out somehow. Better to share your grief now, in front of a detective who needs to see it, than lash out at me later.

  “Take your time.” Vern sweats through his dress shirt. His jacket covers the stains but not the smell. I expect someone in his position to be consistently cool, but he wouldn’t be the first person made to feel small in the presence of a celebrity. You’re everything he is not: successful and famous. Handsome and fit.

  Vern is paunchy and unattractive, not only by comparison but in general. A man no woman would look twice at. He’s a cliché in an ill-fitting suit, overweight and aged beyond his years. His crooked nose sits off-center on his sagging face. Two chins melt into a flabby neck, and there is no wedding band on his left ring finger. He would say it’s a hazard of the job, but that’s a cover for his failings as a man, as a provider, or both. He glances at me standing behind you with my hand on your shoulder. The sunlight catches the two-carat diamond you gave me during better financial times. Vern’s likely making assumptions about our age difference—about us—and I bet the phrase “gold digger” has come up more than once.

  After an overlong silence, he asks, “What can you tell me about Matthew?”

  The question feels loaded, too vague to be useful to the investigation but broad enough to be a barometer for your and Matthew’s damaged relationship. I want to warn you not to say a word, to talk to our lawyer first—though he’s an intellectual property lawyer, and this isn’t at all in his wheelhouse—but the last thing we need is to add to the presumption of guilt.

  “He’s studious,” you say. “Straight A’s.” Rebellious and destructive, though this isn’t the light you choose to cast him in. You cling to the one thing about him for which you’re proud. “He’s pursuing a doctorate in psychology.”

  To be accurate, he was in a psychology program which could have led to a doctorate, but you’re not ready to talk about Matthew in the past tense. This is too new, and it’s good you’re speaking of him in the present. To do otherwise could be misconstrued as some kind of giveaway. Regardless, Vern will still say he knew something was off from the beginning. How could he not think that, surrounded by overfull shelves of books with titles like: Forensics for Dummies, Investigating Crime Scenes, and Committing the Perfect Murder? To an outsider, it looks like you’ve been studying for your serial killer SATs.

  “Mr. Stone, can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your son?”

  You shrug; a non-committal act in the face of a loaded question. Of course Matthew had enemies, whether you want to admit it. Whether you can admit you might be among them. You should tell Vern the truth, but instead you say, “Not that I’m aware of.”

  I consider dredging up the details of the unsolved disappearance Vern’s surely aware of, but this isn’t something we speak about. Not anymore.

  “Mr. Stone, where were you three nights ago?”

  “I was in the city, attending a signing set up by my publisher and meeting with my agent.”

  As alibis go, this one is easy enough to confirm. Dozens of people can vouch for your whereabouts. There are photographs online and a brief write-up in three separate Arts and Leisure sections that I know of.

  “When did you return home?”

  “Last ni
ght. Sometime after ten.”

  “And you?” Vern addresses me directly for the first time since his arrival.

  “I stayed behind. I wanted to do some decorating. That’s the smell.” I point toward the ceiling. “Paint.” I have been looking for a way to casually mention this since Vern’s arrival. Despite my airing out the bedroom I’ve updated at the absolute worst possible time, the fumes linger, and now the simple home improvement project reeks of a cover-up.

  Vern jots a brief note, the detail important enough to warrant being kept track of. “And where did you stay during your trip, Mr. Stone? A hotel room? Airbnb?”

  Something he can confirm, maybe a place with security?

  “Our loft,” you say, adding the fact that we own two homes to the lists of reasons for him not to like you. “Verifiable with the doorman.”

  And I was alone.

  That’s what you’ll say next, if he asks. You’d go to prison for murder before admitting you cheat; that you’re addicted to girls in librarian glasses—girls half your age, whom you fuck and talk to about Dostoevsky in the afterglow. You think I don’t know, and now isn’t the time to tell you that I do, but you’d be amazed how wrong you are about everything.

  Vern makes another note, this one longer.

  “Have you spoken with Matthew recently?” he asks.

  I straighten in anticipation of your answer, worried you’re about to lie, and am relieved when you say, “I have not.”

  “Can you tell me when you last spoke to your son, Mr. Stone?”

  You writhe, uncomfortable acknowledging how long it’s been; displaying your uneasiness for Vern’s interpretation.

  “A while,” you say, and you’re like a mouse in a sprung trap, gasping for breath, your neck not quite broken. There’s no easy explanation for estrangement, least of all for one as long as ours has been from Matthew.

  “A week? Two weeks? A month?”

  “Two years,” you answer reluctantly. “Matthew left two years ago, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.”

  What you don’t say is why he left or that when he did, at least one of us was afraid for their life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVEN IF I’VE NEVER been like one of your bespectacled loft girls—smitten, shallow, attaching themselves to your fame and your industry connections—I was the first.

  The naïve writer struggling to make ends meet after her debut novel never quite earned out.

  The black mark on my fledgling career secured me a back seat to your achievements, you telling me all the while that “these things don’t matter,” that “first novels rarely sell.” While your books entered subsequent print runs, mine were stripped of their covers. Destroyed, returned to the publisher or otherwise disposed of. Pulped. Recycled into paper products deemed more useful than the tortured years I spent articulating a story that never quite caught on.

  You convinced me my writing had worth, that the influencers had failed me. I’m grateful for every time you told me my words were good enough, whether or not you meant it. You are Bertram Goddamn Stone, a literary legend whose career hinged on personal tragedy.

  Ours.

  Matthew’s.

  Despite speculation about what kind of parent raises an alleged killer, you came out on top. With the exception of your divorce from Ella, you almost always do—though you claimed back then I was your biggest win, the product of an unfaltering lucky streak. Your Harper Woods. That I could have been your anything might have been the ultimate compliment at that point.

  To this day, I wonder if Matthew and Hannah hadn’t run away—if Matthew hadn’t turned up blood-stained, delirious, and borderline starving—if I’d ever have known that he or Ella existed.

  You would tell me only afterward things had been long over between Ella and you, and I believed you because I wanted to; because you’re a compelling storyteller.

  But the stories you tell are destructive.

  I couldn’t have guessed the notoriety Matthew’s case would bring, but in hindsight I think you might have suspected. You seized the publicity, forsaking its impact on everyone else. The book, the television appearances, and the print interviews rendered Matthew indistinguishable from your main character, a child found innocent of his best friend’s murder, though in your rough draft, he was guilty.

  This was the single change I was able to get you to make, a decision meant to avoid comparison and suspicion. I never imagined how bad it would get for us—for him—or that your novel would set us on this path.

  Regardless, Revealing Jacob released to critical acclaim, fact masquerading as fiction. Even Ella, who isn’t at all well-read, succumbed to the hype, reading your book and calling you an “opportunist” when some slum Internet media type approached her for the kind of salacious interview only an embittered ex could give.

  You’d later say, “There’s no such thing as bad press.”

  I wonder how you feel about that now, when the story being sold is that of your son’s murder.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHAT CAN YOU TELL ME about Jacob?” Vern approaches the difficult subject not from the angle of the crime Matthew was suspected of committing, but from the perspective of the controversial book you wrote about it in the aftermath.

  “Jacob who?” Your failure to make the connection is an indication of how in denial you are that this is what happened.

  “The character from your book,” Vern says, and God help me if this line of questioning isn’t straight out of your ex-wife’s mouth. She’s blamed Revealing Jacob for so much, but that doesn’t stop her from accepting her share of the royalties. “I understand it caused problems between you and Matthew.”

  It made you a hefty sum of money, too, which makes you a profiteer—someone willing to sell out your only child for a price, with his life as the ultimate cost.

  Writers write what they know. Your novel is inspired by our enduring a relentless investigation, and the authenticity is apparent. The characters are three-dimensional—in particular, the overzealous detective who, not unlike Vern, set his sights early and fully on a single suspect. He was a man who wanted an eight-year-old to be guilty of murder because those kinds of stories sell.

  Everyone involved gets famous or infamous, depending. Maybe this is Vern’s motivation in attempting to break rather than comfort you, to gain attention for himself. I can’t imagine someone like him gaining notoriety otherwise.

  “Jacob is a work of fiction,” you say. “Nothing more than that.”

  Even Vern doesn’t believe you, which isn’t to say you had bad intentions. You did what we all do: you wrote through a crisis as a coping mechanism, seeking the line between truth and fiction and failing to see where you’d crossed it.

  You hadn’t meant for Matthew to be ostracized, beat up. Called “lunatic” and “murderer.” People refused to separate him from your main character, and like you always do, you blamed them. Those same people will undoubtedly consider it karma once Matthew’s death goes public.

  “But a little girl is dead.” Vern tilts his head, hinting that he might be part of that faction.

  “Hannah’s remains were never found.”

  The lack of a body is the best, if not only, evidence in Matthew’s favor.

  “Because your son refused to cooperate.” Old case files have been exhumed and reviewed. Vern has carefully parsed and committed to memory the pertinent, if not damning, details, and this is his way of telling you that.

  Warning you not to lie further because he knows things.

  I’d say he doesn’t “know” so much as he “assumes.”

  None of us knows the truth.

  “Matthew wasn’t uncooperative,” you say. “He was a traumatized eight-year-old boy who had lost his best friend.”

  “Yet there are those who wonder if someone might have known more than they let on.”

  By “someone,” I suspect Vern means you, the unrelenting father who wanted nothing more, after inadvertently destroyin
g his son’s reputation, than to repair it. To make amends by exonerating Matthew for whatever happened to Hannah by absolving your main character.

  It’s a good thing Vern didn’t read the original ending.

  Matthew had always been short-tempered, a trait you explored and tried to understand through writing him. Your perception colored others’, whether you meant for it to or not, and I see the familiar shame resurfacing. Your body language becomes closed off, arms and legs crossed, eye contact weak. You’re defensive with good reason because the groundwork being laid puts you and Matthew at odds.

  Hints at motive.

  “I’m done talking about this.” You shut down, blocking this line of questioning because God knows you’ve taken enough criticism over this particular topic already. “Hannah’s disappearance is twelve-year-old news, and Matthew was cleared.”

  “I understand that,” Vern says. “But given this history, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume a connection. Are you aware of anyone who might’ve held a grudge, who might have attacked your son?”

  “Has Peter Harman been released from prison?”

  Hannah’s adoptive father fell on his own hard times after Hannah’s disappearance.

  “I assure you, Peter Harman couldn’t have possibly been involved.”

  You shrug. “Then I can think of no one else.”

  “What about Hannah’s mother?” I ask.

  There’s always been tension between you and Marjorie Harman, and while that doesn’t make her a killer, you’re not one, either.

  “Marjorie moved out of state.” Vern dismisses the possibility a little too quickly.

  People move but are not tied to their new locations, a fact I feel Vern might need reminding of.

  “She did,” you agree. “She lives in Oregon.”

  With as many years as you spent researching this case, it wouldn’t surprise me that you know Marjorie’s historical whereabouts, but why all these years later? And why in the hell in a two-on-one situation are you joining Vern in taking a side against me?

  Your response raises red flags with Vern as well.