Where We Went Wrong

by Andi Holloway

  Vern doesn’t appear to buy it, but that doesn’t mean a juror won’t. “Are there other things you might not bother your husband with?”

  I don’t know what Vern’s implying, but when the hell did I become the one on trial?

  “I don’t follow.” Of course, I don’t tell you everything. What spouse does?

  “Let me rephrase. Would you characterize yours and Bert’s as an open marriage?”

  I wonder if Vern’s aware what he’s implying or whether he means to ask if ours is an honest marriage. “Are you asking me if we see other people?” This line of questioning can’t go anywhere good.

  “I’m asking if you tell your husband most things.”

  “Generally, sure.”

  “Then how come Bert has no idea that on the night of June the thirteenth you were at the Holiday Inn?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WHAT DO I SAY? THAT I wasn’t there? That I have no idea what Vern’s talking about? Was I followed, or did I make the critical mistake of rendering myself memorable with the front desk clerk when I swore I wouldn’t?

  You and I made a pact not to mention Hannah to the police—not yet, anyway—and given this line of questioning, I don’t see how I can avoid doing so, besides doing the other thing we promised not to do.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to stop here. I’d like to call a lawyer.”

  Verbalizing this makes my heart race, and I speculate about what, if anything, Vern reads in my expression. Panic? Guilt? Fear? I feel all three in unequal measures.

  Vern starts to speak but thinks better of it. Once the right to an attorney has been invoked, he legally has to stop questioning me. The wind goes out of him. He sits straighter in his chair, his hands folded on the table between us. “You’re sure?”

  His tack reads of intimidation, of his implying my asking for counsel makes me look culpable, and maybe it does, but the option is either that or blatantly lying. Only one of those things will eventually bite me in the ass. “I’m positive. Yes.”

  Whether or not we hire a lawyer, that I’ve asked for one puts this conversation on pause. Hopefully, things die down, and Vern won’t call my bluff. I won’t hold my breath.

  “Then I guess we’re done for now.” Vern excuses me from further questioning. He doesn’t thank me for my cooperation, apologize for my situation, or give any indication that I’ve cleared a final hurdle. He gives me nothing but the same terse closing I’ve become more or less used to from him.

  “May I please see Bert?” I ask.

  Vern has already said he isn’t finished with you, and while I mistrust the tone in which he said it, I can’t ask for an attorney on your behalf.

  “Right this way.”

  Vern leads me into a room among several down the hall, a replica of the one I’ve been in for the past two and a half hours.

  You smile, but I can see how far worn down you are.

  “Hey.” I turn to Vern, who clearly isn’t sure he wants to leave us alone together. “A minute, please?” This room is the farthest thing from private but I need to know you haven’t said things you shouldn’t. If you’ve divulged things I invoked counsel over, it will make me look like the one hiding something. As with everything to this point, I’ve done this for you.

  “A minute,” Vern agrees, “and then we need to finish up.” He speaks to you alone, squared off to me as if I weren’t standing here.

  You nod, overly eager, and I can see how badly you want out.

  Vern leaves, closing the door behind him.

  “You’re done?” You say this like you can’t believe it, as if I, too, should have taken hours instead of minutes.

  The third time is the charm. I nod in the direction of the camera, with its prying lens and blinking red eye. I assume Vern’s already told you you’re being recorded, which I doubt has stopped because he’s left the room. “For now. I requested a lawyer.”

  You look about to protest, to tell me we can’t afford one—thanks to Vern, you’re further enlightened on our financial situation—but you’ll understand, when and if we speak in private, that I did what I had to. What we agreed upon.

  I stare directly into what is likely a one-way mirror with Vern on the other side. Incidentally, I look terrible, and since you dragged me here almost directly out of bed, my insecurity makes me wonder if I don’t also stink.

  “What do I do now?” You shrink in your chair, childlike in your need for direction, as if waiting for me to insist that you, too, invoke your right to counsel. Even if I did, you won’t, and you can’t get out of here until Vern lets you out. For some reason, you feel you have something to prove to him. The two of you have been at odds from the beginning, and this dick-measuring contest you’re in can hurt only you. Vern has nothing to lose.

  “Whatever you have to.” I play the supportive wife, which I am, for the most part, if not mostly for show. “Or do what I did, it’s your choice.”

  “I’d rather get this over with.” You believe that if you talk, this might be for the last time, assuming you give the right answers, and maybe Vern’s supported this idea. What you don’t seem to realize is that nothing you can say, short of a confession, is going to appease him.

  “Then you should,” I say, “but I need to go.” My nerves can’t take much more of this place. I’m tired, and tired of being scrutinized. There’s also someplace else I need to be. Better Vern keeps you busy while I go there.

  The door opens.

  Vern returns before you can demand that I stay and wait.

  I don’t doubt for a second that our trust has further eroded, in light of our near-bankruptcy status and the fact I haven’t said a word to you about it. Fortunately for me, I’m the only one standing behind you. I’m also the one most poised to destroy you, but you’ll forgive me this, as I’ve forgiven you for so much, because, really, what choice do you have?

  “We all set in here?” Vern is refreshed, renewed. Pleasant even, as he comes at you not as the stern detective but as a friend, someone who only wants to listen. He smells of institutional soap and has a cold soda in each hand, one of which he holds out to you, the man marinating in his own sweat. You’re a suspect, if not the prime suspect, and you’re at a distinct disadvantage. While Vern’s hit a sort of reset, stretched his legs and perhaps taken in some fresh air, you continue to be worn down even further.

  “We’re all set.” You force a smile as you accept the soda, pop the top, and prepare to go the next five rounds with a boost from sugar and caffeine.

  It’s the comfort items that endear us, the unexpected gifts from our enemies that speak to the subtle doubt about their intentions. I want to warn you, but can’t, and as I exit past Vern, feeling anything but free, I worry that somewhere deep inside he’s realized all you want is for people to like you.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  FOR ONCE, VERN DIDN’T run anything past me I didn’t already know. More importantly, I know things he doesn’t. Now is not the time to get cocky, but he’s losing steam. There are answers to his questions—honest, non-incriminating ones—and a quasi-legitimate reason for us not giving them without your publisher’s legal department’s go-ahead. While I doubt the nondisclosure clause in your contract covers conversations relating to the investigation of a crime, we can easily claim ignorance.

  I don’t know why I let myself get so flustered.

  I blame being startled awake, dragged out of bed to a police interview at a precinct where I was kept waiting for nearly two hours in a room the size of our walk-in closet. Anyone might have been stressed under those conditions, with that awful water and that camera recording every wrinkle. I shouldn’t be so self-conscious. I’ve asked for a lawyer, and when the time comes, I will proceed with that route.

  You constantly tell me not to worry over what I cannot change, and I’ll remind you of this when you confront me about our financial predicament. Unable to improve our situation, and expecting you would catch on sooner or later, I watched and waited
. Your book is the reason we’re in this mess, at least as deeply as we are. Had you told me the truth sooner, I could have done something—the thing I’m doing now, before you have the chance to stop me.

  I return to Hannah’s, and upon arrival am faced with reconciling the fact that the girl who lives here isn’t who I thought she was. Neither had Claire been, not that I could say we were well-acquainted.

  I have dozens of questions, but more than anything, I need to apologize. I accused Hannah of terrible things, for which I need her forgiveness and cooperation. I need to prove to her that I am trustworthy, not at all a threat, and that my interest is in smoothing things over between the two of you. Yes, there have been talks of discontinuing the project and an interruption of payments, but it’s not too late to fix any of it. We will honor your agreement and protect Hannah’s identity for as long as we can. I wish I could say this stems from us being good people, the kind of folks who put others first, but we’re not. Either of us. We’re opportunists who want to resurrect Hannah Harman for profit, and maybe to exonerate Matthew, because while he wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t a murderer, either.

  I check over my shoulder for neighbors, in particular the ones I assume called the police several nights ago, and find none. I ring the bell, waiting for the feral-eyed wraith of a girl to shout at me to leave her alone, insisting she doesn’t know anything. I expect her to tell me how you tricked her, or maybe how Matthew did, and that the police won’t stop harassing her. I expect blame—no, I deserve it. We both do, and there’s nothing we can do but express regret and take advantage of Hannah anyway.

  I ring again, but despite Hannah’s car parked in the driveway, no one answers. I press my ear to the door and hear nothing. The house might as well be a tomb. Dread shifts to alarm, and I nearly dial the police myself. But what would I say? Would they remember how they hauled me off from here before? Is this technically considered stalking? I’m unclear on the fine points of that charge.

  All I know is there may or may not be a fragile girl inside, who as recently as weeks ago crashed a funeral and nearly threw up on a priest. Whether it’s the right thing to do or not, I can’t walk away. I have to know that there isn’t a second corpse in this mess, rotting inside where no one will find her.

  I reach for the door handle, and to my surprise, I find it unlocked. Morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I let myself in. Stalking becomes trespassing, but there’s justification. Probable cause. If the police can claim it, why can’t I? This doesn’t feel exactly right, but I keep going anyway, telling myself this is for Hannah’s benefit, convinced that if something terrible has happened to her, someone must bear witness.

  The living room is cluttered, but no one is here.

  Dishes, several of which have sprouted blue and green mold, sit delicately balanced in a pile in the sink. No one has been home in a while, maybe since I was here last. Did I scare Hannah off? Jesus, why is this girl always missing?

  I suppress the nagging voice that tells me Hannah has permanently vacated these premises.

  A breeze blows through one of two tiny bedroom windows. Medical devices, including a commode, suggest this was Claire’s room. Dozens of pill bottles line the nightstand, none of which are empty, though that doesn’t mean Hannah’s alive.

  Any number of household items could be used to end one’s life.

  I approach the second bedroom. The door is closed, and I consider knocking, but there’s no point. If Hannah heard me she would be out here investigating by now. I shove the door open and brace for the worst, such as a vivid death scene or the smell of decomposition, but I find what’s inside almost more disturbing.

  Dozens of photographs of Matthew lie scattered on an unmade bed, cover the desk, and are haphazardly taped to all four walls. Some have been printed on photo paper, others on standard copy paper that spills from a destroyed printer. It looks like somewhere near the end of a printing marathon either the ink gave out or Hannah’s temper did. The printer is an all-in-one with the lid completely broken off, the glass smashed, and the paper tray in two pieces on opposite sides of the room. Blood colors the wall. Not a lot, but the impression of the side of someone’s hand is stamped in dried reddish-brown fluid.

  I pick up one of the incomplete printings, stare into familiar eyes, and shudder. I’ve seen this look too many times before, and cowered from it. How Hannah’s invoked this side of Matthew is beyond me, but her capturing this image is akin to someone photographing the touching down of lightning. I can’t imagine the police have seen this, or they would never accept Hannah’s silence. She, too, seems to have things to answer for.

  I snap several pictures with my cell phone, because you’ll never believe this unless you see for yourself. I’m not sure I can do this level of extremism justice, and if you weren’t with the police, I might call you here to see whatever this is firsthand. The funeral scene was apparently not a one-off.

  “Hannah, where are you?” I say to no one in particular.

  A female voice replies, “She isn’t here.”

  I hadn’t been expecting an answer.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  IT’S THE WOMAN FROM the church, the overdressed mourner who left during Hannah’s outburst. In any other context, I wouldn’t recognize her.

  Twelve years ago, Marjorie Harman wore a blunt bob hairstyle and oversized glasses like Annie Potts in the second Ghostbusters, only about a decade too late to be trendy. “Frumpy” might be an apt description, with sagging posture and ill-fitting clothes. She’d been a woman who hid behind an overbearing if not distraught husband, and who knew then what he would turn into?

  I certainly didn’t, nor did I know Marjorie, really, other than from news reports and police interviews, but the woman I remember cowered from cameras and flashes, from the onslaught of questions and accusations slung by the media. She was weak. A victim.

  The woman standing before me is neither of these things.

  Heels aside, she appears taller, leaner, and more confident, with her legs crossed at the ankles and her arms folded. Her designer blue dress, substantial diamond stud earrings, and Michael Kors bag hint at a kind of privilege I’d never known her to enjoy.

  “Marjorie?”

  “Good to see you again, Harper.”

  Marjorie speaks as though we might have been friends at some point, which we definitely were not. We were two people on opposite sides of a possible murder investigation, and though she never accused Matthew of a thing, she didn’t defend him, either. That she knew the entire time Hannah was safe, and had in fact orchestrated her disappearance, worries me I might not understand the kind of woman I’m dealing with.

  Marjorie isn’t weak, but she plays the role well.

  “Where’s Hannah?”

  Yes, I’ve placed numerous calls to this woman, and yes, I even made threats, but her unresponsiveness regarding your book isn’t my primary concern after seeing whatever this shrine is. I’m worried about what Matthew might have done here and about what Hannah knows and isn’t yet saying.

  “Come out here and sit, would you?” Marjorie clearly doesn’t want to be in this bedroom any more than I do. There are too many photographs for anyone to be comfortable. That they’re of someone so recently deceased makes them that much harder to look at.

  “I—” I hold out my hands as if to ask how she’s able to dismiss this, but can’t find the words.

  “Come, please. I’ll explain.” Marjorie leads, as if my going along is inevitable.

  I guess it is, because I follow her into the living room, where we sit at opposite ends of a three-seat sofa, which is plush and decidedly feminine in its cream linen finish. It bespeaks of elegant, tragic Claire, with her gladiolas and her secrets. Unlike me who sits here as an unwashed wreck roused from sleep, subsequently questioned by the police, and committing not breaking—the door was unlocked—but entering. Marjorie doesn’t mention any of this, which feels a bit like getting off on the right foot in spite of everything.<
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  I’ve left this place in a police cruiser one too many times already. “Where is Hannah?” I repeat.

  “She’s under observation.” I assume she’s referring to mental health observation, a thing I’m all too familiar with, having spent long nights in the emergency room with Matthew tethered in four-point restraints to a gurney, both of us waiting for a bed to open up or a psychiatrist to admit him. “She isn’t taking any of this particularly well.”

  Who among us is?

  “Is she all right?”

  “She will be,” Marjorie says. “I’m sorry about Matthew.”

  Maybe she means his death, but we accept the apologies we need to hear. I extend hers beyond our recent loss to the years of police interrogations, which I’ve done far more than my fair share of, therapists, which I might seek for myself once this is all over with, and the total invasion of privacy from twelve years ago that seems destined for a repeat performance. This is more satisfying than general condolences.

  “I appreciate that,” I say, and I do. We’re alike in this, she and I, two women who have lost children, though one of us less permanently. “It’s been hard, between the funeral and the investigation, to find out about Hannah.” I shake my head. “It’s overwhelming.”

  “I figured as much from your messages.” Marjorie cuts me a break I hadn’t expected. I crossed a line, but she’s done worse.

  I start to apologize, but I’m not sorry. Not to her, and not for this. “Would you have called back?” If we hadn’t run into each other here, I doubt we’d be speaking.

  Marjorie shrugs. “Eventually, maybe, though to be honest, if it weren’t for Hannah’s insisting I leave this alone, we’d be having a different conversation.”

  Writing nonfiction is tricky, particularly when it comes to painting someone in an unflattering light, and with Marjorie, I see no other way. Hannah has signed a release relieving you of legal responsibility, but Marjorie has done no such thing—nor has Peter, who could still be a problem, whether or not he’s a convicted felon—which means you’re vulnerable. I tread carefully, not wanting to render Marjorie combative when what I need most is her cooperation and participation in finishing this manuscript.