by A. V. Geiger
HART: Yes. How did you—
INVESTIGATOR: And what other drugs did Dr. Regan prescribe for you besides Ativan?
HART: Nothing else. Just some behavioral psychotherapy.
INVESTIGATOR: So if we were to call up Dr. Regan right now, she would confirm that you were never prescribed anything other than Ativan?
HART: No, she’ll probably tell you to talk to her malpractice attorney. That’s what she told the police in Midland.
INVESTIGATOR: Tessa, did Dr. Regan or any other physician ever prescribe you a drug called phenobarbital?
HART: No, that’s a barbiturate. That’s like a hard-core sedative.
INVESTIGATOR: How do you know that?
HART: I don’t know, I read about stuff. It relaxes me. I’m thinking about majoring in psych if I go to college.
INVESTIGATOR: Were you ever given phenobarbital?
HART: No! Why do you keep asking about phenobarbital?
INVESTIGATOR: As you said, it’s a sedative. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for such a drug to be prescribed to a patient experiencing an acute emotional disturbance.
HART: I was never given phenobarbital, OK? Just Ativan.
INVESTIGATOR: Do you have any idea why our victim might have had phenobarbital in her system at the time of death?
HART: I told you, I don’t know anything about that! Maybe she was a junkie. I don’t know!
INVESTIGATOR: OK, Tessa. Calm down. Let’s go back over your statement. You say you spent the afternoon in Eric Thorn’s private trailer. You then got a ride from a limo driver with no last name who took you to an unknown motel in the vicinity of—
HART: Am I under arrest?
INVESTIGATOR: Not at this time.
HART: Am I free to go?
INVESTIGATOR: We just have a few more questions. Please bear with me if you don’t mind.
HART: No. I think I’m done now.
INVESTIGATOR: That’s fine, Ms. Hart. You’re free to go. If I were you, I wouldn’t make any plans to leave town.
16
UNRELIABLE WITNESS
May 1, 2017
Blair stretched. His back ached from too many hours hunched in front of his laptop. He needed to shut down for a while. Go outside. Get some sunlight. Work the kinks out of his legs.
He looked toward the door, shut tight with the chain lock fastened. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to rise from his desk chair. Not now. He didn’t want to miss her…
He needed to see Tessa’s face. He needed to hear her voice. He couldn’t go too long without the craving coming back. She was like a drug, and he was an addict. He started breaking down if he went too long without a fix.
Blair slammed the laptop closed and pushed it aside. Useless. He’d have a better chance of seeing Tessa and her idiotic boy toy on the pages of Us Weekly. He already had the pictures from the Daily Mail tacked to the wall, blown up three times their original size. But those grainy images would never be enough to satisfy him. Not by a long shot.
He knew he’d allowed his hopes to rise too high yesterday. He’d spent all afternoon unable to keep still, thrumming with anticipation—counting down the minutes until he would catch a glimpse of Tessa’s face.
But in the end, she hadn’t appeared. It was only Eric. Alone.
Blair made a fist and smacked it against his palm. His patience had worn thin. Just look at his cell phone screen. Barely usable. Cracked from being chucked too hard onto the surface of his desk. It was Tessa’s fault. She made him do that. Why couldn’t she cooperate? It drove him to the brink of violence every time. Now she was on the loose, and Blair had no idea when she might turn up.
Tonight? Next month? Next year? Or maybe not. Maybe never…
The thought sent a tremor through his shoulders. For all he knew, she’d left LA. Slipped between his fingers once again.
Blair stood and paced the narrow room. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way. She could still appear at any moment. He needed to be patient. Enjoy the chase.
But the sweet flavor of anticipation had given way to bitter fear. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. He’d grown tired of this game. Cat and mouse…
Or maybe more like catfish and mouse…
Blair’s lips twisted. His screen was cracked but not beyond redemption. He picked up the phone and balanced it gently in his palm. Was she dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice? Did she realize he had access to that fake account with its asinine username?
Blair turned the cell phone on, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to spook her. There was no telling how she might react to a DM.
“No,” he said aloud. It was an unnecessary risk. He should wait. Bide his time. She’d wander back between his crosshairs soon enough. He set the phone back down and returned to his perch before the laptop.
He didn’t need to mess around with Twitter.
Not anymore.
Not when he had a connection…
• • •
Tessa hesitated on the concrete steps in front of the Los Angeles police station, unsure which way to turn. The bright afternoon sunshine warmed her face, but it did nothing to dispel the fogginess in her head. How was it still daylight? She felt like she’d spent hours in that stuffy interrogation room, answering question after question. She’d thought it would be well after dark by the time she stepped outside.
Now what?
She needed to sit down. Her knees felt weak. She couldn’t get the sound of that policeman’s final words out of her head:
If I were you, I wouldn’t make any plans to leave town.
Tessa understood what that meant. She wasn’t under arrest, but she probably would be soon. She knew how she must look to the police. All those leading questions—those hints and innuendoes. Now it all made sense.
What was the nature of your relationship…?
No one else knew…?
If we were to call up Dr. Regan right now…?
I have to confess, I find that very odd…
“Very odd,” Tessa muttered, remembering the way the detective had looked at her as he said it. An assessing look, with his chin tilted up and his eyes narrowed, viewing her down the bridge of his nose. A look that dripped with skepticism. “Very odd, indeed.”
Tessa knew where the interrogation was heading, and the thought made her heart judder and skip inside her chest. She’d seen this story before, played out across the headlines. Look what had happened to Dorian’s alleged killer. It didn’t matter what that girl had to say in her own defense. Tessa could only imagine the horror the girl must have faced as she sat there in the witness box, testifying on her own behalf and seeing that same look of skepticism on every face in the courtroom. That girl had sworn under oath that she was nowhere near Dorian’s hotel the day he died. She’d told the same story again and again. She was home alone that morning, fast asleep in bed. But no one had believed her.
Tessa gave her head an angry shake. Unreliable, unstable—and quite possibly a danger to everyone around her. That was how a good portion of the world still viewed mental illness. Didn’t matter if it was anxiety or depression or schizophrenia. Sure, they might pay lip service to the notion that a mental disorder was a health condition, not a reason to judge. But plenty of people didn’t believe that. Not deep down. Even her own mother thought she was out of control. The memory of that messed-up conversation made Tessa feel like vomiting all over again…
Or maybe that was the pregnancy hormones racing through her veins.
Tessa sucked at the inside of her cheek. She wished she’d told Eric last night. She should have gone back to his house and talked to him face-to-face. It would have given her an alibi if nothing else.
Unless, of course…
Tessa pressed a palm against her collarbone. What if Eric believed the same thing as the police? What if he thought she was guilty? That would explain why he hadn’t contacted her since their chat last night—those rushed messages, just before he wen
t to meet another girl at a hotel…
Honestly, Tessa didn’t know what was worse: the idea that might have Eric cheated on her or the idea that he considered her capable of murder. The thought left her light-headed, and she reached out for the handrail to steady herself. She eased herself down slowly to sit on the bottom step, burying her face in her hands.
She should have trusted her instincts about Katrina, the way that girl always manhandled Eric and his clothes. Obviously, Eric and his wardrobe assistant were up to more than “alterations.” How long had he been seeing her? Maybe they’d been in a secret relationship the whole time. Sneaking around, DM’ing each other from secret Twitter accounts to arrange their secret meet-ups…
Of course, Tessa thought, her back stiffening. Why was she surprised? She knew exactly how Eric operated. She knew firsthand.
Maybe Katrina was the murder victim. The police hadn’t said… But if so, Tessa could only imagine what Eric must have been thinking.
She could forget telling him about the baby, obviously. Would he back up her statement that the two of them were in a relationship? Why did she have this horrible feeling—like everything her mother had ever warned her about was coming true?
Tessa slipped her phone out of her pocket and flicked it on. No new Snapchat notifications. The sight of her empty lock screen filled her with a fresh jolt of despair.
No one knew where she was right now.
And no one cared.
Still, a voice whispered in the back of her head that these might be distorted thoughts. Catastrophizing? Leaping to conclusions? The list of cognitive distortions suddenly seemed endless.
Tessa forced herself to breathe. She couldn’t write off Eric as a liar and a cheat. She didn’t know his side of the story. She’d be as bad as the police if she presumed Eric guilty without giving him a chance to defend himself. Maybe there was some other reason he hadn’t messaged her. Maybe…maybe the police had confiscated his phone?
It seemed awfully hard to believe.
Tessa shook her head. Something didn’t add up. The police said he’d set up his booty call over Twitter. Direct messages…
The very thought made her stomach heave. Tessa pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from retching while she waited for the bout of morning sickness to pass. She needed to get over this DM aversion. It wasn’t rational anyway. If she wanted to know the truth about Eric, all she had to do was look.
Small steps, Tessa thought. That’s what Dr. Regan would have told her. She would just look for a minute. If she felt her panic level rising, all she had to do was close the app.
With a resolute nod, Tessa flicked on to Twitter, already logged in to the usual account: @EricThorn.
And there it was.
For a moment, she closed her eyes. Was that real? Was she hallucinating? She blinked rapidly, and her vision blurred with sudden tears.
Of course Eric still loved her. How could she have doubted? There was all the evidence she needed. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. That message was real. A new DM from an account she didn’t know she followed.
Snowflake734: Sit tight. Don’t be scared. Everything’s OK.
Tessa let out a tiny sob. “Oh thank God,” she whispered. He hadn’t abandoned her. She wasn’t alone. Her finger shook as she messaged back:
EricThorn: I’m so confused. What’s going on?
Snowflake734: Shhhhh…not over Twitter. I’ll tell you face-to-face. Get in the car.
The car?
Sure enough, a black SUV with tinted windows appeared at the end of the block. Tessa could just make out the silhouette of a shadowy figure sitting in the driver’s seat.
She put away her phone and stood to meet it at the curb.
THE INTERROGATION
(FRAGMENT 8)
May 1, 2017, 3:24 p.m.
Case #75932.394.1
OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPTION OF POLICE INTERVIEW
—START PAGE 3—
INVESTIGATOR: Eric, are you aware of the victim’s identity?
THORN: The one at the hotel? No. It was a woman. I never saw her before in my life.
INVESTIGATOR: You didn’t meet her in Midland, Texas, when you were there?
THORN: No. Why? Who was it? It wasn’t…it wasn’t Tessa’s mom, was it?
INVESTIGATOR: No, Eric. The woman found dead at the Beverly Hilton was Tessa Hart’s former psychotherapist.
THORN: Wait. Dr. Regan?
INVESTIGATOR: Do you have any idea why Laura Regan would be in LA?
THORN: No. That’s totally random.
INVESTIGATOR: She was pronounced dead at the scene, and her cell phone was taken into evidence. We found this.
THORN: W-wait a sec. Let me see that.
INVESTIGATOR: Let the record show that Mr. Thorn is looking at the home screen of the Twitter account with username @MrsEricThorn. The account was found open on the victim’s cell phone.
THORN: Seriously? Are you telling me that MET was being run by Dr. Regan?
INVESTIGATOR: You tell me, Eric. Does that scenario sound plausible to you?
THORN: No. That’s completely bizarre.
INVESTIGATOR: I agree. It seems more likely that the person running the MET account is our murderer. He or she may have logged the victim’s phone into Twitter in an attempt to throw off our investigation.
THORN: It must’ve been Blair. He’s behind it somehow, I’m telling you.
INVESTIGATOR: Do you have any reason to suspect that Blair Duncan was in communication with Dr. Regan?
THORN: I don’t know. Dr. Regan was with Tessa when Blair went to Midland last December. Maybe the two of them were working together somehow.
INVESTIGATOR: Blair and Tessa were working together?
THORN: No! Blair and Dr. Regan.
INVESTIGATOR: That seems like a stretch, don’t you think?
THORN: I don’t know. None of this makes sense.
INVESTIGATOR: We have no evidence of any involvement in this case from Blair Duncan.
THORN: I know but—
INVESTIGATOR: Eric, is there any chance that the MET Twitter account could have been run by Tessa?
THORN: No, of course not! That’s ridiculous.
INVESTIGATOR: Is it? When you first came into contact with Ms. Hart last year, you met her on Twitter. She was running an Eric Thorn fan account with username @TessaHeartsEric. Isn’t that true?
THORN: Exactly. She had a different username. She wasn’t running MET.
INVESTIGATOR: It wouldn’t be unusual for someone to run more than one account.
THORN: No. Detective, listen to me! You’ve got it all twisted.
INVESTIGATOR: I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Eric. At this point in the investigation, our best guess is that Tessa Hart may have planned the murder and used your rendezvous with MET to frame you for the crime.
THORN: You obviously don’t know Tessa. Where is she right now? Did you talk to her?
INVESTIGATOR: We tried. She left here shortly before we sat down with you. She refused to answer further questions.
THORN: Good!
INVESTIGATOR: The fact remains that someone else beat you to the Beverly Hilton last night. Who else other than Tessa could have seen the messages setting up your meeting?
THORN: I don’t know. Maybe…maybe I killed Dr. Regan myself. Did you ever think of that?
INVESTIGATOR: Is that a confession?
THORN: No, but it wasn’t Tessa, OK? I’m telling you for a fact. I know her.
INVESTIGATOR: OK, Eric. Let’s pull up your Twitter account one more time. I want you to look through and point me to anything here—any tweet or direct message—that could have been sent by someone other than yourself or Tessa Hart. Can you show me a single one?
THORN: I don’t know! Probably not, but that doesn’t mean… [pause]
INVESTIGATOR: Eric?
THORN: Wait. What is this?
INVESTIGATOR: What?
THORN: This message. The top thread
.
INVESTIGATOR: Let the record show that Mr. Thorn is indicating a direct message sent today at—
THORN: What time is it right now?
INVESTIGATOR: —from a Twitter account with username @Snowflake734—
THORN: Did you guys send this DM? Who sent this?
INVESTIGATOR: Eric, please take your seat.
THORN: This was twenty minutes ago!
INVESTIGATOR: Let me read the message into the record, please.
THORN: F*** the record! Don’t you see? That’s me! I’m @Snowflake734! That’s my other handle!
INVESTIGATOR: The message states, and I quote—
THORN: You said she left half an hour ago? Did she get into a car with someone?
INVESTIGATOR: Andy, can you go see if anyone out there has a visual on Tessa Hart leaving the station?
THORN: Holy shit! Will you listen to me now? I told you! I told you she was being stalked!
INVESTIGATOR: Eric, we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Please calm down.
THORN: You know I didn’t send that message. You know! I was sitting here talking to you!
INVESTIGATOR: Who else had access to the account with username @Snowflake734?
THORN: No one! I never even sent a tweet from that handle. It’s just an empty second account on my phone that I never bothered deleting. Blair must have—
INVESTIGATOR: Hold on, Eric… [unintelligible] Go ahead, Detective. I read you. Copy that. Did they get the plates?
THORN: What? What is he saying?
INVESTIGATOR: Ms. Hart was seen entering an unmarked black Cadillac Escalade outside Los Angeles Police headquarters this afternoon at approximately 3:15 p.m. The car proceeded northwest in the direction of the 101 Freeway. A license plate number was not obtained.
17
RADIO SILENCE
Tessa gazed out the rear passenger window as the Escalade weaved in and out of traffic. She wished they would slow down. It was enough to make anyone motion sick, the way they kept switching lanes.
She’d expected to find Eric in the back seat of the car. Her shoulders had slumped with disappointment when she popped the door open and found it empty—except for Clint, waving a friendly salute from the driver’s seat.