by Minka Kent
Sure, it makes me look obsessed, but it doesn’t make me look like a murderer.
“Get your things and get the fuck out,” Ben says through gritted teeth.
“Wait, what?” I laugh. “Don’t be like that.”
I move to him, placing my hand on his forearm, but he brushes it away.
“Ben.” I tilt my head, and I feel the officer watching us from his periphery.
“I mean it. We’re done. You lied to me once, and then you lied to me again. I don’t know you. I can’t be with you.”
“You’re overreacting. It’s just a box with stupid things in it. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s weird, Autumn. It’s not normal. You know that, right? Normal people don’t have boxes of other people’s shit hidden in their houses.” He has a point, and I’ll admit it looks bad at surface level. “And to think you worked for them. You took care of their kids. You were in their home every day. This . . . this is fucked up.”
“Ben, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
I know my words are false the second I speak them. I didn’t expect him to react this way, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to fix this.
“What if I had a box of some random family’s photos and . . . and . . . and cards and recipes and jewelry?” he asks. “That would be insane, wouldn’t it? You would think I’m some kind of creep.”
I don’t nod, but I silently agree. On the inside. If this were anyone but me, it would be insane. I’m not crazy. But I don’t know how to convince him right now. Desperate. Lonely. Heartsick. But not crazy.
“Get a bag, get your shit, and get out.” He moves away from me, breathing hard.
I do as he asks, padding across the living room and heading for the bedroom we once shared. I throw as much as I can into a bag. Hopefully, in a few weeks’ time, I’ll be in Mexico. With Grace. And all of this will be a cloudy memory.
Fifty-Seven
Autumn
“Name, please?” The woman at the front desk of the Bleu DuBois Hotel in downtown Monarch Falls peers over her wire-framed glasses. Her mouth is painted pink and her lipstick bleeds into the fine lines around her mouth.
“Hannah,” I say, pulling a name from a hat in my mind. “Hannah Gable.”
I don’t need to give her my real name. All she needs is a valid, signed credit card and my signature on the dotted line. I decide to be someone else tonight because I don’t want Ben changing his mind and begging me to come back to him. I could imagine him crumping to the ground after the police leave, feeling the weight of loneliness sink into him when he realizes he’s literally all alone now, and I don’t want him calling every hotel in the tri-city area looking for me.
I have a plan. And I’m putting that plan into action. I’m leaving this life behind. Shedding this skin for another, and this is my most important metamorphosis yet because this time, it isn’t about me.
I can’t leave my daughter with a murderer.
I can’t sit idly by, watching as her life falls apart when Daphne can hardly afford to care for them. She’ll be working two jobs just to get by as Graham rots in a jail cell, and my beautiful baby’s Technicolor life will turn to ash and dust.
“Here you are.” The woman assisting me hands me my credit card and prints a form for me to sign before handing off a plastic room key. “Third floor. Room 345.”
“Thank you.”
I wheel my bag to the elevator and follow the signs. The faint scent of chlorine fills the hall, and it reminds me of summer days with the children, swimming and laughing and splashing around without a care in the world.
My eyes water with bittersweet longing when I realize those were some of the best weeks of my life.
I swipe my card through the lock on my door and wait for the green light. My room is dark and smells of bleach and industrial-grade cleaning supplies, but I flip on the light and hoist my bag on one of the spare beds and collapse on the other.
Emancipation sinks into me, marinating through to my bones.
I’m no longer Ben’s girl.
I’m no longer Autumn Carpenter.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this free.
I’m anyone I choose to be, and my options are limitless.
At five in the morning, I sit up straight, lucid yet disoriented. The room is pitch black, and I can’t see enough to see my hand before my eyes, but I feel around and crawl out of bed until I reach the nearest lamp.
My pajamas are soaked and the sheets are soaked, and I must have been having a nightmare, but I’m wide awake, and all I can think about is Daphne and the marijuana cigarette I found in her makeup bag.
Massaging my temples, I rock back and forth on the edge of the spare bed. If Daphne had access to marijuana, she could’ve known how to get her hands on harder drugs.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.
Pacing the room, I piece it all together until it makes perfect sense, and then I call down to the station and ask the secretary when Detective Barnes will be in.
Fifty-Eight
Autumn
“And if Daphne knew about the affair and knew about Marnie, she would have every reason to want her dead,” I finish telling Barnes my theory. Today we’re in his office instead of the interrogation room and the playing field feels slightly more level than before, but not by much. “Graham loved Marnie. I saw it in his eyes. Do you think a murderer would visit his victim’s gravesite and cry?”
“But you don’t know if Mrs. McMullen knew about the affair,” he says, chewing the end of his pen.
“Trust me. I worked there every day for weeks. I saw the way they acted, the way she’d slink away at odd hours and he’d find every excuse not to be around her,” I say. “And the kids! They’d repeat things all the time. Grace said her parents fought all the time and she thought they were going to get a divorce. Trust me, she knew.”
“Welcome to marriage, sweetheart.” He chuckles, like I’m kid with a Nancy Drew complex. “You ever been married?”
“I don’t think you’re taking me seriously, Detective Barnes, and that concerns me. I want to solve this case just as badly as you do.”
“Of course you do.”
I rise from my chair, rolling my eyes. “If I’m wasting your time, I’ll gladly be on my way.”
“No, no.” He motions for me to sit then checks the clock on the wall when he thinks I’m not looking. “I’m interested in this little theory of yours.”
“Really?” My head cocks. “Is that why you’re taking such diligent notes?”
Our eyes meet at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. Maybe I underestimated him. Maybe he doesn’t care about accolades. Maybe he’s lazy and one of those assholes who is really good at making themselves look proficient when they’re really just going through the motions.
“Anyway, I suggest you look into Daphne’s alibi that evening,” I say. “And then I suggest you dig a little deeper, figure out who supplied her drugs.”
God, I could do his job in my sleep. I really could.
“Will do.” His lips press together and stares at his still-empty sheet of paper. I hope he’s lost in thought, but he could be reminiscing about last night’s baseball highlights for all I know.
“All right, well.” I stand, gathering my bag and eyeing the door. “You have my number if you have any more questions.”
There’s a tap on the door, and another officer waves for Barnes.
“Autumn, would you mind waiting here one minute?” he asks.
I frown. Yes, I do mind. I have things to do. Lots of planning and preparation ahead of me. Tomorrow’s the first day of school, and Grace is attending a new 5-8 middle school three blocks from Linden street. I vividly recall a conversation from this summer in which Daphne agreed to allow Grace to walk to and from school from now on, since it’s such a short distance.
That will be my shot. I’ll pull up, flag her down, and ask if she wants a ride, and she’ll trust me because she love
s me. She wants me to be her mother now, she said so herself. I can’t imagine a scenario in which Grace would go running and screaming in the opposite direction.
I know her. I know my daughter.
Barnes returns a few minutes later, and my eyes flick from the clock to his concerned expression.
“New development in the case?” I ask, half joking. My arms are folded.
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “We’re going to have someone look into Daphne’s alleged involvement in all of this…”
“Thank god.”
“But there’s something else.” He speaks slowly, carefully, and it’s killing me.
Just spit it out!
“I need you to come with me,” he says.
“Go with you where?” My feet plant firmly on the concrete floor of his office.
He motions for the door, and I follow, though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to run. Running would be very bad for me right now. Running would point their scrutiny directly at me instead of where it needs to be: on Daphne.
And so I follow, because I don’t have a choice.
Fifty-Nine
Daphne
This late summer Sunday is particularly chilly, and today I’ve got the fireplace crackling and a warm cup of coffee in my hand. The children play in the family room, and the morning news displays across the TV.
They’re talking about Marnie. Again.
The caption on the screen says, “New details . . .” so I grab the remote and tap the volume button a few times.
“New leads in the mysterious death of Monarch Falls resident, Marnie Gotlieb, have police scrambling to identify a new suspect. Gotlieb’s death was ruled a homicide last month, declaring the cause of death to be a drug overdose which was not self-administered. Police have also analyzed security footage of Gotlieb’s residence and confirmed that someone left the back door of her townhome shortly after eleven PM the night of her death.”
My heart pounds in my ears.
He was supposed to be careful.
And he told me there were no cameras behind her house.
Hands trembling, I grab my phone and text Mitch. The message turns red and I get a failed delivery notification.
Resending, I wait, shaking.
It fails again.
Grabbing my phone, I carry it to the other room and call him, getting an automatic greeting on the other end telling me the number I have dialed is no longer in service.
“Son of a bitch.”
Sixty
Autumn
“Autumn, hi.” A middle-aged woman with white, cotton-candy hair and kind chestnut-colored eyes extends her hand when Barnes leads me to a small office at the end of a hallway. I don’t think this is her office. Nothing about it is personal. There’s a laptop, some folders, a plain white mug full of navy blue pens, and a scratched oak desk but not much else. “I’m Dr. Whitmore. It’s nice to meet you.”
I turn to Barnes, a single brow lifted as if to ask, “What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?”
“Do you need me to stay?” he asks her, his voice low as if this is a question meant only for the two of them.
Why would she need him?
“We’ll be fine, thank you.” She gives him a warm smile and sends him off with the flick of her wrist. A gold watch jangles against a silver and turquoise bracelet. I can tell she wants so badly to be eclectic or funky or free-spirited, but it’s just not working. The doctor pulls her chair closer to me, her fingertips pressed against a manila folder that rests between us, and then she peers across the desk in my direction as if I’m the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
“I’m sorry,” I say, clutching my bag against my stomach. I’ve yet to sit. “I’m confused.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she reassures me so casually I almost believe her, but nothing about what’s going on right now makes me think this is all going to be “okay.” Dr. Whitmore points to the seat across from her. “Please, have a seat. I’ll explain everything.”
Barnes closes the door behind him, and I watch through the sidelight window as he lingers outside the door.
“I want to show you something.” She opens the folder carefully, her modest diamond ring glinting under the fluorescent lights above. Dr. Whitmore retrieves a piece of paper and slides it across the desk, flipping it around for me to see.
It’s an 8x10 photo of a girl dated approximately ten years ago.
Her teenage face is chubby and lightly freckled and she’s not smiling. Beneath the photo are the words PATIENT 00765, and at the top of the photo is the name SARAH THOMAS.
“Do you recognize her?” the doctor asks, and it feels like a trick question.
I say nothing.
I don’t know what she wants me to say.
“Sarah,” she says a name that feels vaguely familiar, but it doesn’t register that she’s speaking to me until she says it again. “Sarah.”
“Why are you calling me that?”
The doctor lifts a finger, pressing her lips together as if she’s not sure how to explain what she’s about to explain.
“You are Sarah,” she says. “Your name is Sarah Thomas.”
I shake my head. This feels like a dream. A nightmare. And I want out.
“Ten years ago, you were hospitalized in the psychiatric ward of Saint Andrews hospital in Stamford, Connecticut,” she says. “This is a copy of your file, which I’ve read. The Monarch Falls police department called me in to speak with you after your brother saw you on TV with the Gotlieb family and came forward.”
I’m motionless, unable to speak or move, pinned down by the weight of what this woman is suggesting.
“What are you saying?” I flip the photo over and scoot my chair away from the desk. I can’t look at that face anymore. That girl. She’s unhappy. I see it in her eyes.
“Ten years ago, you were hospitalized for severe depression, and while you were there, you were also diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder,” she says. “And during your stay, you made a friend by the name of Autumn Carpenter. Autumn gave birth to a baby girl while she was an inpatient, and the two of you were very close. The best of friends. You told each other everything, even read each other’s diaries because you didn’t want to have any secrets. Autumn gave her baby up for adoption, and it was a very difficult thing for her to do. You helped her get through it. You never left her side. You even helped her choose the family. The two of you were discharged around the same time and you moved into an apartment together, but within a few months, her family reported her missing. And you were no where to be found.”
My face pinches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Autumn.”
Her eyes soften. “This is part of your disorder, sweetheart. Your personality is compartmentalized. It’s a coping mechanism. It usually stems from a traumatic or abusive childhood, both of which are detailed here in your history.”
She rifles through the papers in the folder, licking the pad of her finger. The stack is thick.
“You can read them if you’d like, if you absolutely feel the need to,” she offers. “Though I’ll warn you, it could trigger unpleasant memories, ones your personality has been blocking out, apparently, for years. I’m told you’ve been living as Autumn Carpenter for several years now?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to believe any of this.
“Anyway, your brother reached out to Benjamin Gotlieb, whom I understand is your long-term boyfriend,” she says. “He said he saw you on a news clip standing with Marnie’s family and recognized you, and when he reached out to Ben late last night, they started piecing everything together. Ben made a phone call to Barnes and Barnes made a phone call to me, and now here we are. I’m so glad you were able to come into the station today. Your family has missed you. They’re anxious to see you again, Sarah.”
I press my finger into the desk. “I’m here because Barnes needs to look into Daphne McMullen as a suspect in Marnie
’s murder.”
My words shock even myself. They taste different on my lips than they felt in my mind.
“Yes, I’m sure he’s doing that, sweetheart. He’s very good at what he does. Very thorough.” She pushes her glasses up her nose, and she smells like cookies and fabric softener, and I officially resent her boringly comfortable life and easy-going attitude.
“This is very important.” I raise my voice at a complete stranger, and I’m not proud. “Daphne McMullen had access to drugs, I saw it with my own eyes. Marnie Gotlieb was poisoned with heroin. Daphne’s husband was sleeping with Marnie. Do you see what I’m saying here? Everything adds up!”
My daughter.
I cannot have my daughter living with a murderer and an adulterer.
I have to get out of here. Immediately.
I never should have come.
“Yes, I do. I see what you’re saying, and that’s a very interesting theory, Sarah.” Dr. Whitmore reaches for my hand, placing her palm over top like that one little move could possibly calm me down. “But sweetheart, right now we need to focus on you. Your family has been searching for you for years. Your brother’s on his way to the station, and your parents have been called.”
“No!” I don’t recognize my own scream.
Everything goes black.
Sixty-One
Autumn
I come to in a room with gray cinderblock walls and a thin mattress. The clothes on my body are not the ones I dressed in this morning. There’s a heavy metal door with bars on a small window, and I run to it, yanking on the handle, but it won’t budge. Two voices on the other side of the door, a man and a woman, grow closer.
The iron lock on the door creaks, and I step back, watching as it swings open and Dr. Whitmore stands with her arms wrapped around a clipboard.