Where We Went Wrong

by Andi Holloway

  CHAPTER TEN

  NEITHER OF US KNOWS what to say. We arrive home, me with a car door full of used Kleenex and you with the slumped posture of a defeated pugilist.

  A man who went rounds with his former life and lost.

  “You all right?” I ask. We’re dealing with today differently, the distance between us growing at a time when we can’t afford for it to.

  You shake your head. “Matthew deserved better.”

  “I thought everything was beautiful.”

  Expensive.

  The best.

  “I don’t mean the funeral. I mean in life. The fighting. Us and her. Him always caught in the middle. Maybe if we had just talked to her, things wouldn’t have been so goddamn hard, so much taking of sides.”

  I’m slightly offended that you’re including me, the one person who has talked to Ella, as being remotely culpable in creating or fostering the domestic fracture upon which you’re ridiculously blaming Matthew’s death.

  Talking to Ella is almost always useless, and if doing so could have prevented this horrible event, the fault lies solely with her.

  That you’re willing to discuss any of this is progress.

  “Bert, this isn’t our fault.” While not exactly true, it’s what needs to be said in this moment. You’re beating yourself up unnecessarily and I need you to stop. The last thing you need to seem in front of the police is guilty.

  “Was I a bad father?” you ask.

  The question lingers long enough that I probably don’t need to answer. Were you a bad father? You were a selfish one, and by that measure you are a bad husband, too. You’re driven, career-oriented in a cutthroat, low-success-rate business, in which your advantage is in selling people—including your son—out.

  Perhaps that makes you despicable, but could you have provided for Matthew otherwise?

  If being a good parent is providing for your child, then you ensured Matthew didn’t go without. It’s hard to balance emotional well-being with financial security, particularly for someone who doesn’t give love as much as craves it for himself.

  We’re not all meant to be caregivers, but you’ll take no comfort in my excuses.

  “Every parent wonders,” I say. “What is a good parent anyway?”

  “One who doesn’t treat parenting like a burden? We should have helped Matthew.”

  “We did,” I say. “The best we could.”

  We provided for him—saw to it that he had the lawyers, therapists, and material things he needed, though we probably saved him to some extent from Ella as well.

  “I let my son end up murdered.”

  Not exactly, though you contributed in ways to the events leading to his death, risking my life in the process. There’s plenty of blame to go around, and you’re asking me if you were a bad father at a time when you should be asking that of yourself.

  If you had done so sooner, things might have ended differently for all of us.

  “Do you think he suffered?”

  I have no idea where this version of you came from who questions everything, but I don’t prefer him. I’d rather deal with what I’m used to: a man unable to accept blame and impervious to guilt.

  “Deon said he went unconscious.” I let you cling to the hope that Matthew felt nothing, because no parent, regardless of their relationship with their child, wants to think of them dying in pain.

  I turn off the car to prevent two more tragedies: a pair of carbon monoxide deaths in a closed garage. The air-conditioned cabin heats up almost instantaneously. It’s nearly a hundred degrees outside and has to be north of eighty in here. The stale air is torturous. I want to shower, to wash this day off me then pour myself a stiff drink.

  I need you to join me, to know that even if you’re not okay now, you will be.

  “Come on, let’s go inside.” I tug your sleeve.

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bert. It’s a thousand degrees in here. You can’t sit in the car.”

  “I can, and I will.”

  Maybe sweltering feels like penance, but I won’t join you in this self-flagellation. I collect the used tissues from the door. “Suit yourself.”

  I can’t force you inside any more than I can compel you to accept what’s happened, and I can’t keep you from projecting guilt when the police return—and they will be back. Vern guaranteed it. I leave the door between the house and the garage open. You’re determined to suffocate. I won’t let that happen any more than I’ll take up residence inside our car, though as soon as I’m inside, I wish I were back out there; away from the unexpected flood of memories.

  I pass the guest room we haven’t called Matthew’s in over a year and close the door. His smell permeates the carpet, the drapes, and the walls I feel the sudden urge to tear down. His presence weighs on me, and probably on you, too, which is why you still haven’t gotten out of the car.

  Maybe you can’t bear to be in this room.

  Maybe you can’t bear to be in this house.

  Maybe I can’t, either.

  Not anymore.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I DON’T BLAME YOU FOR leaving. I’m just jealous I didn’t act on the impulse first. Why can’t we be a normal couple who escapes this together? The complicated answer to that question hurts to think about. I never expected today to be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this hard.

  I foolishly convinced myself that if I could keep Ella from harassing you, you’d be all right.

  Now I’m not sure either of us can or will be.

  All I want is a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a night’s sleep to restore whatever balance is left in me. Your needs are undoubtedly more complicated. You’re angry and embarrassed that I didn’t jump at your beck and call, particularly not in front of your ex. I’ve seen how you cope. I’d put money on you coming home smelling of perfume and beer, of hotel sex and some young girl’s Designer Imposters body spray.

  You’ll be smug and think you’ve somehow evened the score between us.

  I stopped keeping track a long time ago.

  I’m headed to the kitchen for a bottle of Chardonnay when a knock comes at the front door. I expect one of the neighbors we rarely speak with to be on the other side, coming to extend their condolences, but find Vern instead, shamelessly resurfacing on Matthew’s funeral day.

  I consider why he might be here. If he’s been watching the house and knows you’re gone, I fear that the timing is too coincidental.

  I consider ignoring him, but he’ll come back.

  You weren’t as forthcoming with him as you should have been, and maybe this is an opportunity for me to fix some of the damage you’ve caused, though why I’m inclined to do so is beyond me.

  I open the door, needing for him to trust at least one of us.

  “May I come in?” Vern asks.

  I wave him inside. “Of course, please. Have a seat.” I’m cooperative. Polite. Maybe overly so.

  A rush of hot air follows Vern inside. “Is Mr. Stone here?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” I say. “He had to run out.”

  Vern looks skeptical, like no one just “runs out” on their son’s burial day, but you have, and he already thinks so little of you that this doesn’t matter.

  He sits, and I offer him something to drink before joining him. He politely refuses, taking the familiar notepad from the inside jacket pocket of the dark suit he’s been wearing since this morning. “I’m sorry to have to do this today but I have a few more questions, and I’m sure we all want this settled as soon as possible.”

  I wonder what his true intentions are. The impromptu interrogation feels opportunistic, if not exploitative. He’s come to prey on weaknesses that don’t exist, on fleeting grief and perhaps guilt.

  “The sooner the better,” I say. “How can I help?”

  “Tell me about Ansley Davis.”

  After the scene she caused, I’m not surprised by Vern’s interest. I am, however, concerned how h
e identified her so quickly when so few people—maybe even only you, me, and Deon—had any idea who she is.

  “Like what, for example?” I won’t be tricked into saying too much.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Ansley and Matthew dated. Maybe they were still dating.” I shrug, having no way of knowing for certain.

  “For weeks or months?”

  “For years, though maybe they were seeing other people now.” I remind Vern of the estrangement from Matthew that we’ve already admitted. “I haven’t seen Ansley in ages.”

  “Of course.” He makes a note, probably something innocuous meant to make me more uncomfortable. I’m not sure that is possible. “Would you say her behavior this morning was characteristic?”

  “Is anyone’s behavior characteristic at a funeral?”

  Grief makes people do strange things, such as fleeing their homes and evading the police.

  “Let me rephrase. Did you ever know Ansley to be volatile?”

  Volatility equals unpredictability, and he seems to be suggesting that Ansley might’ve been impulsive and even responsible for Matthew’s death.

  “Absolutely not”—I don’t like what Vern is implying—“which is why I tried to help her.”

  “You, but not your husband. In fact, you had other help.”

  “Are you asking about Bert or Deon?”

  “Both,” Vern says. “Why involve Detective Fitzsimmons?”

  Using Deon’s title rather than first name serves as a reminder of the conflict of interest I’m already hyperaware of. I refuse to add to our problems by pretending there isn’t familiarity between us. “Deon is police academy trained and far more capable of doing what might have needed to be done in an emergency than my husband.”

  “Might I ask how the two of you know each other?”

  It is common knowledge Deon single-handedly exonerated Matthew in Hannah’s disappearance. “He’s a friend.” I don’t say how good a friend or under what circumstances we met. I want to avoid further inference of bias.

  “A friend?”

  Vern and Deon are in the same precinct, which makes me worried he’s heard chatter. “Of Bert’s and mine, but mostly Bert’s.” The lie sits uncomfortably. “They worked together on several of my husband’s books.”

  “And on Matthew’s case?”

  “I guess, sure.” I need to keep things in perspective, to protect Deon as well as myself—and you and Ansley. How this all became my problem is beyond me. “Mostly on books. Deon’s a procedural advisor for Bert’s novels.”

  Vern rolls his eyes.

  I want him to like me, but I can’t help pushing his buttons because honestly, I don’t feel that likeable.

  He must sense a shift, because rather than pursue questioning about Deon, he returns to the topic at hand, though I guarantee it’s not the only one. “Are you aware of anything that might’ve caused Ansley’s unusual behavior this morning? Any clue what might have set her off?”

  “She recently lost her mother.” Whether this is the reason for Ansley’s extreme grief or not, it makes sense. “She’s only twenty-one, and just lost two people close to her months apart. Someone her age shouldn’t know this much tragedy.”

  He nods, and for once we agree on something. “What about drugs or alcohol use?”

  I’m not shocked he asked. I’m offended on her behalf. “Definitely not.” Ansley has never been the type.

  “And Matthew? Does he have a history of recreational drug use?”

  It would be easier to explain his mood swings that way, but he had passed a drug test as recently as a week before leaving our home. “None. He couldn’t have used drugs if he wanted to with his prescriptions.”

  “Antidepressants, correct?”

  Whether the toxicology reports uncovered them or Ella divulged Matthew’s medical history, the fact that you portrayed him as a normal, successful student without mention of his psychiatric treatment makes you look evasive.

  All I can do is be honest about this now. “Along with antipsychotics and sedatives.” I only include the prescriptions I know about. If Ella had Matthew treated over the past couple of years, his regimen could have changed, and likely did.

  “Antipsychotics?” He raises an eyebrow. “For how long?”

  “Four years.” The exact date eludes me, but not the reason for the script. He was seventeen at the time, a high school junior.

  “After he attacked a classmate, correct?”

  Inflicting an orbital fracture, broken nose, and concussion.

  It occurs to me that Vern had heard of Ansley before the funeral. “Yes, kids get into fist fights.”

  “But not all kids end up on heavy psychiatric medication afterwards.”

  “Agreed, but the school pushed.” I displace blame, not entirely unjustly. We had been issued a number of ultimatums over the years by school psychologists who believed they knew better than we did what Matthew needed.

  “Can you tell me the reason for that fight?”

  “Machismo.” I skirt specifics and belittle the point. “Two boys fighting over a girl.”

  “Over Ansley Davis.” Vern’s picking at threads to see what unravels.

  “Yes, over Ansley.”

  “Who also went to Briarwood.” He names the private school as though affluence is a crime in itself.

  I want to explain that Briarwood was a last resort, something we couldn’t always afford but that became necessary after repeated public school expulsions. Drawing attention to our financial situation, however, probably isn’t wise. “Yes, they went to school together.”

  “You mentioned Ansley’s mother’s passing.” He again flips back several pages in his notes which have expanded significantly since our first encounter. “Claire Davis.”

  I shiver at the mention of her name, the reality of her death so young—so close to my age—hammering home fears of my own mortality. While Matthew died younger, his wasn’t a natural end.

  “As I understand it, Claire worked for a domestic violence shelter.”

  “I think so.” Ansley spoke about Claire as infrequently as she did about the absentee father she claimed never to have known. “Why does Claire’s job matter?”

  “Bear with me.” He makes another couple notes and sets down his pen. His posture changes, and I sense something coming I can’t put my finger on. It feels like more bad news. “Briarwood is an exclusive school, Mrs. Stone. Not the kind of place a single parent can easily afford. Are you aware of any financial arrangements that might have made Ansley’s attending Briarwood possible?”

  “You mean like was there a scholarship program?”

  Vern shrugs. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

  It wouldn’t be uncommon for a private school to admit at least a few underprivileged students with high grade point averages, though I never knew Ansley to be particularly scholastic. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess there might have been.”

  “But nothing that Mr. Stone was involved in?”

  “Of course not, no,” I say, but doubt and fear surfaces, the realization of exactly what Vern’s getting at. I search my mind for memories of you with Claire. You’ve had mistresses over the years, some you’ve lavished gifts upon, but never without getting caught. Never something this extravagant. This isn’t a necklace on a credit card statement. I don’t know what it is or what it has to do with Matthew’s murder, but I’m determined to find out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT ISN’T BEER YOU COME home smelling like, but whiskey. You stumble through the door around midnight, leaving me to pay the driver the bar called after cutting you off. I know something’s wrong the second I see the cab. It’s eighty degrees outside and all four windows are rolled down. A cool breeze indicates the air-conditioning is on, but the smell emanating from the back seat explains why it’s just not cutting it. The driver is sweating, and while his isn’t the first cab to be puked in, the man’s rightfully annoyed.

  “For the cleanup.”
I double the fare.

  He doesn’t thank me for the crisp hundred, but he stops staring at the front door like he wants more than anything to burn our house down or barf on our rug. He does a three-point turn, tearing up a patch of lawn.

  We deserve it.

  Rather, you deserve it, and so much more.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I slam the front door behind me, hoping your head is killing you. You don’t even flinch, which tells me the gesture would’ve been more effective tomorrow morning. “I have been calling for hours.”

  Calling, texting, leaving berating voice mails.

  I’ve imagined the worst since Vern left, seeking proof that he’s on the right track about you and Claire Davis so I have irrefutable evidence to nail you with. I’ve found nothing but a series of safeguards I hadn’t realized you put into place. Passwords I’m unable to crack.

  You teeter, grabbing the newel post to keep from falling flat on your ass.

  “I gotta go to bed.”

  This is twelve years ago all over again, you drunk in public with some reporter who recognizes you from your book jackets when you should be home. She’s always good-looking, seeking affirmation from some hack news outlet. You’ll later admit you don’t recall talking to her, but not until after some damning Internet story I’ve warned you to avoid. I reminded you only yesterday of what happened back then, but you never listen. Nothing I say will convince you of the danger of public opinion, not even telling you Vern’s been here. Not in your condition.

  “Why didn’t you answer? Where the hell were you?”

  “Bed,” you slur. “I gotta go to bed.”

  You’re wasted beyond belief.