Look for Her

by Emily Winslow

  “Is this intended to cheer me up?”

  She threw up her hands. “You don’t need cheering up. You need shoring up. What’s the worst that can happen? Spencer embarrasses you? He’s rude to you? He’s not going to apologise, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I’m not after anything,” I managed to squeeze in.

  “You should be. You should be after finding out what Anna knows about Cathy, and who killed Hannah-Claire, and who attacked Anna. That’s what there is to want. Everything else is just …” She shrugged.

  Dan walked into the kitchen holding the baby, doing that bounce that everyone handed a baby automatically does. “Are you talking about King Tut again?”

  “I am,” Chloe said, accepting their reaching daughter. She seemed to have grown in just this short time since I met her.

  Dan asked by way of welcome, “Did she tell you the name?”

  “Name?” It took me a moment to mentally get from ancient Egypt to baby names. Besides, I’d got used to thinking of her as “the baby” the way that some people end up with a pet still called “kitty” years in.

  Chloe said, “Stephanie. After Stephen Fry.” Her voice had the cadence of citing a beloved grandmother or admired heroine as inspiration.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “That is actually true,” Dan admitted. “But the name belongs to her now, and it’s lovely.”

  “It is lovely,” I agreed.

  Chloe snuggled. Stephanie had been fed, so she wasn’t rooting; instead she was playing a rudimentary game of peekaboo then mashing her face blissfully into Chloe’s shoulder.

  “I’m going back early,” Chloe said. “Not immediately, but sooner than planned. I’m ready.”

  Dan kissed her on the top of her head. “It only took her months to tell me the truth.”

  “No!” Chloe protested, but she was beaming. “It took me months to admit the truth to myself. You see, Morris, it wasn’t just mummies and attractive archaeologists that kept me from madness while on bed rest. I watched a lot else, including a documentary about sea horses. Did you know that the males look after the babies? I normally don’t care much about sea life apart from what’s on my plate, but I was entranced. It seemed magical. You’re not allowed to think I’m awful! I love Dan’s work. I love what he creates. But I finally got up the nerve last night to ask him to stick with part-time freelancing, instead of joining a firm. This job I have—this job we have, Morris—you understand. You asked it of Gwen. It’s not something I can do from the house if Stephanie has a cold and can’t go to nursery. It’s not something that promises I can be home at the same time each day. It’s not something that can be picked up and laid down as needed. It just helps if one of us can do that.”

  Dan didn’t look like he minded. He looked relieved, actually. Maybe he wanted to stay home; maybe he wanted to be able to be more picky about the jobs he would take on. Maybe he had been worried that suggesting it would make him look weak, or would constrict their finances too much; just as she had been worried that suggesting it would make her seem uncaring.

  “Have you told Spencer yet?” I asked Chloe. I don’t know why that popped out of my mouth.

  Chloe held back her answer for a few seconds, looking at me quizzically. “Is this a test of friendship? Of partnership?”

  “Curiosity,” I muttered.

  “No, I haven’t. You’re the first. Well, technically, I told Stephanie first, last night, after getting off the phone with Laurie Ambrose. You got told at earliest convenience. It is just eight o’clock in the morning, after all.”

  Eight already. I stood. “I have to go.”

  She stood too, hoisting Stephanie, and having caught a rocking version of the contagious bouncing from Dan. “Spencer’s not stupid. I know he’s done … non-optimal things. One specific non-optimal thing. But he’s not stupid. That’s a good feature in a cop.”

  “And what do you tell him about me?” Again, my mouth was just powering ahead without my dignity.

  “You think we gossip about you? What else do you think we get up to, painting each other’s nails and plaiting each other’s hair?”

  “Never mind,” I said, grabbing my coat from the back of my chair. My hands were under control. Good. I was determined to not drop or fumble anything in Spencer’s presence, and that determination made it about a thousand times more likely that I would.

  At the door, Chloe whispered, “I tell him you’re the best I ever had,” giggling.

  “Fuck off.” We never have, never would. She was having a laugh.

  “I tell him,” she said in a normal voice, “that I trust you. And he should too.”

  I nodded, grateful. That’s what I’d come for.

  It won’t be so bad, I told myself in the car. It’ll be over in an hour, I figured, at least the awkward-direct-conversation-with-Spencer part. Hopefully we could split up with specific tasks.

  I thought of Annalise, and whether there would be anything left for Chloe to find, under all of that metaphorical desert. She was right: all the searching in the world couldn’t find what isn’t there.

  Maybe Spencer and I shouldn’t split up… . I considered. An idea was coming together. Maybe there was something we could do as a team.

  Chapter 17

  Anna Williams

  I HATE THIS HOUSE.

  Mum was so proud of it when they got married and it became hers too. Never mind that half of it is for the office, and we were put upstairs, like tenants. She acted like she was the lady of the manor.

  It turned out that she was right about Hannah-Claire’s landlord not wanting to let me keep the lease after he found out that she had died. Sadie was relieved not to have to babysit me any more; she headed back to York immediately. Nigel had to let me come back here. He always hated me here no matter what, but he hated this more because I needed a ground-floor room for a month at least, and that meant I’d be taking up a small conference room, instead of one of the actual guest rooms.

  This looked like it had been a bedroom once before, when this place was a boarding house. Marks on the floor implied that there was once a heavy wardrobe against one of the walls. And it felt like a bedroom, even with chairs shoved into the corner to make room for me to sleep on an actually really comfortable sofa that they moved from the lobby. It had a watercolour of flowers on the wall, which was six hundred times better than the portraits in the big room. I’ve looked it up, and old paintings like that look like they’d cost a lot, but unless they’re painted of or by someone famous, no one really cares. They’d been screwed to the wall in case of attempted robbery, not because they’re actually valuable, but because they’re the sort of thing chance thieves might imagine are valuable.

  I stretched, and rolled up the sheets and blankets under the sofa. I had to get dressed but that involved bending and pulling in ways that hurt. Maybe I’ll sit in this T-shirt and socks forever and just get colder and colder until I die.

  The portraits made me think of Annalise again. The newspaper photos were her “portraits.” I wonder if the people who sat for these paintings felt flattered by them, if they recognised themselves, if the results matched the way they saw themselves.

  Hannah-Claire’s picture had been in the news after she died. It was from her registry-office wedding. She’d had her hair blow-dried that day and it looked really good.

  I knew what picture I’d give if anyone wanted it. Detective Spencer told me that journalists shouldn’t be allowed to bother me, and I could tell them to leave me alone if anyone tried. No one had asked me yet, but I had a picture ready if they did.

  I looked at it on my phone. It was a really good picture. It was better to look at than a mirror. A third of my actual face had become bruise-brown in a kind of weird continent shape, but in the picture, no one had hit me yet.

  I knew about the news almost right away, because I kept track of what people said about what was done to us, me and Hannah-Claire. That’s how I found out that Dr. Ambrose called m
y bluff. The article mentioned new DNA evidence in the Annalise case and that Hannah-Claire had been looking and looking to prove—well, disprove—the Annalise connection, as if possibility-plus-imagination weren’t completely, utterly sufficient. Did they mean Hannah-Claire was the new link? Was it her DNA the police were investigating?

  There was nothing mentioned about Hannah-Claire’s death except just that it happened. They made it sound like an accident. So Dr. Ambrose hadn’t told them the most damning bits. Or she’d told the police, and the police had leaked out only a little.

  I would find out soon. Sergeant Spencer had said he was coming to see me.

  I had to get clothes on.

  I had to figure out what I would do. I’d only threatened Dr. Ambrose with blaming Blake because I thought that would mean something to her. I didn’t want to actually do it. But now she may have told the police even that. She may have told them anything. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know.

  Well, I decided, starting with yoga pants. I could pull those up without overstretching too much of myself. I can just tell Sergeant Spencer that she’s obsessed with me. That she makes things up. That she doesn’t like me dating her son.

  That’s something else I gave up. I told Blake to fuck off. I hope that’s appreciated. I made a lot of sacrifices.

  I pulled on a long jumper and popped earrings in and brushed my hair. Every time I lifted my arm my side sparked with pain.

  I didn’t use makeup. Nothing short of theatre stuff would make any difference. The colours and lumps of the bruising would come through anyway, like if you try to frost a really crumbly cake.

  I could hear the doorbell. Rosalie would answer it. I leaned towards the window to see if I could tell by the car, but it was just a blue car. Could be a law client. Could be the detective. Hell, could be an Amazon delivery. You just didn’t know any more. You just don’t know anything, Anna. Not a thing.

  THERE WERE TWO of them.

  I knew that there could be, but I had expected the second one to be a woman detective. A few days before the funeral, I heard Rosalie on the phone with her sister or cousin or whoever she is, saying how Nigel—excuse me, “Mr. Rigg”—had been pretty upset that a policewoman had come and spoken to Mum, and that Rosalie wasn’t allowed to say anything to them any more and was almost in trouble. I didn’t think Nigel would ever let her go; I suspect she may be running the office, actually. But she believed that he might and that had been enough to make her quiet. To the woman detective, I mean. She kept blathering to her relative. That’s when I realised I had to do something. That’s how I knew that Mum needed help. Nigel telling the detective to stay away wasn’t going to stop anything.

  She’s lucky to have me, I reminded myself. And, look, now there are two detectives. Two men. Nigel would have a more difficult time warding them off.

  Mum was with me. Sergeant Spencer explained that she didn’t have to be, because I’m an adult, but that in consideration of my fragile state I should have support. We sat at the big conference table in the once-a-dining-room. The portraits made the room feel crowded, almost party-like. Rosalie brought us coffee. I decided to act like a hostess. I asked our guests about milk and sugar while Rosalie first poured and then tactfully withdrew.

  The sergeant sat at the head of the table, with a coffee so overfull with milk and sugars that I thought it would spill when he lifted it. He was a baby-faced ginger oozing sympathy while the other man, with dark hair and no expression, seemed to blend in among the dour paintings.

  “Ms. Williams, Mrs. Rigg, I can’t thank you enough for your time.” That was the sergeant. You can tell by the deference. He must be the designated good cop. That made me worry about the other one.

  He continued: “We’re obviously deeply concerned about what happened to Hannah-Claire, and to you, Ms. Williams. That’s why I felt I had to deliver this news personally.” He looked down. He cleared his throat. He glanced at the other man, who was leaning back in his chair feigning a lack of interest. “Mr. Keene here has been brought in to review our work on your cousin’s case.” I liked that he used the word “cousin.” That meant he was talking more to me than to Mum. “We’re concerned that if the two incidents, her death and your attack, are linked, then our own possible failures must be examined. If Henry Ware had abused his wife and then another family member, well, that would warrant some serious self-examination on our part for having failed to prevent what was done to you, Ms. Williams. I take that very seriously.”

  I was blushing. I could feel it in my cheeks.

  “Ms. Williams,” he said again, as if he just liked saying my name, “we had to let Henry Ware go this morning. Please,” he requested, “please don’t be alarmed. He’s been instructed to keep his distance from you and we’re confident”—here he exchanged a look with the other police person, this “Mr. Keene,” who nodded—“very confident that he means you no harm.”

  Mum did what she was supposed to do, which genuinely surprised me. “How dare you!” she said, standing up, the wheels of her chair squeaking as it rolled a bit away behind her.

  “Mrs. Rigg,” said Mr. Keene, who didn’t bother standing to match her. He just sat up straight, as if that small effort were sufficient. “Sit down.”

  She did.

  “I think you’ll be relieved when you hear the explanation!” the sergeant said, jollying his story along. I glanced around, but the portrait faces outnumbered friendly ones. “Mr. Ware has been released because we now know who attacked you and I assure you he’s in custody.”

  I swallowed, and somehow even swallowing hurt. Maybe because of the medicines I’ve been taking. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I understand that your memories of the attack itself are hazy at best, once we’re past the incident in the closet, as witnessed by Dr. Ambrose.”

  “You can’t trust her!” I interjected, quickly, while she was still supposedly on my side in his version of events. They wouldn’t believe me if I waited until I was told she’d said something against me.

  The sergeant smiled and said in a gentle, hand-patting tone, “We do trust her corroboration of your story, Ms. Williams. Should we not?”

  “She doesn’t like that I was dating her son. She might … she might tell you things … to make me look …”

  “You agree that you were kissing your cousin’s widower at the funeral, do you not? That’s the story you told us.”

  I nodded. I could hear Mum breathing heavily. She sounded like she was pinching her nose but I didn’t dare look her way to see for sure. I kept my eyes squeezed shut.

  “Did you ask Dr. Ambrose to tell us that, Ms. Williams?”

  “No.”

  “Did you plan with her to tell us a coordinated lie?”

  “No!”

  “So you both, individually, told us the truth about that. That’s what I believe.”

  I nodded, and rubbed my cheek and eye that weren’t bruised. If this is good cop …

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Williams, but the person who hurt you is someone closer to you than Mr. Ware. Blake Ambrose has voluntarily confessed to us—”

  “What?” I blurted.

  “He has voluntarily confessed to us that after the funeral and your, hm, interaction with Mr. Ware, that he, Blake, attacked you and left you in the car park. Now, I believe him to that point but this, this is where I diverge with Mr. Ambrose’s version of events. He claims that he did this at your request. He tells us that you were so convinced of Henry Ware’s temper and his culpability in your cousin’s death that you wished to provoke him to reveal himself, so to speak, to reveal the darkness behind what you believe he’d done to your cousin, and by taking it on yourself, you could become the evidence that we lacked. He told us that you begged, even insisted, that he do it for you, when he saw that Henry had stopped himself at a mere slap and walked away.”

  “No. No. That’s not how it was. I never. I would never. Blake … If he—” It’s a lie, I
reminded myself. It’s a lie that I threatened Dr. Ambrose with. Now she’s just told it herself. But it isn’t true. It can’t be. But then I remembered my fingernails, the scrapings under my fingernails in the hospital. Had they found Blake’s DNA there? And a corresponding scratch on him? Was this true? I didn’t know; I didn’t know.

  Of course not. Of course not. I hadn’t asked him for that. He wasn’t even there. He wasn’t at the funeral. He’d wanted to come with me and I hadn’t let him.

  But what if he had followed me? What if he saw me with Henry? What if he was jealous then, and angry, and making this all up now?

  I grabbed the possibility. “No. He. He. He must have seen me with Henry, and been jealous. Blake hurt me because he was jealous. I would never ask for this. I would never ask for this!” I covered both halves of my face with both my hands, which hurt my black eye, and my sobbing hurt my abdomen, and it was another two hours before I could take more medicine.

  Mum stood again. I know because I could hear her voice coming from well on top of me. “Don’t say another word. I’ll get Nigel.” Because he’s a solicitor. But, He’s not that kind of solicitor, Mum. Shit. She exited the room.

  The sergeant switched seats to sit in the chair next to me. “That’s what I think. You’re a beautiful woman. Blake being jealous of Henry makes much more sense to me.”

  He was close to me. This is what a man is supposed to say. This is what people would have said to Annalise if she had survived: You’re beautiful. That explains everything.

  The other man cleared his throat. “If Blake Ambrose acted out of self-interest, and his attack on Ms. Williams had nothing to do with the death of Hannah-Claire Finney, then the police did nothing wrong in their handling of Hannah-Claire Finney’s death. I can see why that version of events appeals to Detective Sergeant Spencer.”