Tap-tap-tap. “Any ex-boyfriends or ex-husbands we should talk to? Disgruntled coworkers? Employees?”
I start to shake my head, but then stop. “There is someone from my past, a man I was involved with. But it was years ago.”
“Why don’t you give us his name?”
“Paul Adamson.”
“And what makes you think this Paul Adamson may be involved?”
It’s a good question, one that I am not sure I have an answer to. “Maybe because he lost his job due to our relationship.”
Khoury’s eyebrows shoot up. “And why is that, Ms. Ross?”
“That,” I say, ice in my voice, “is because he was my high school teacher at the time.”
“I see.” He turns to his iPad. “And was he arrested and charged?”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. The details on this matter are muddy for me. “Yes, but charges were dropped.”
“And when is the last time you had contact with Mr. Adamson?”
I press hard on my temples. “When it happened, which was more than sixteen years ago.”
I don’t tell Detective Khoury that every moment of the last day I ever saw Paul Adamson is seared into my memory.
He doesn’t need to know that I had planned to meet Madeline at the movie theater that Sunday afternoon in May, but instead at the appointed hour I was miles away, wading into the Long Island Sound with Paul.
He doesn’t need to hear how our brief excursion, to dip our toes in the water, had found us driving up the Connecticut coast in his rusted old BMW looking for a public beach that wouldn’t charge us twenty dollars just to pull into the parking lot.
Or that by the time we finished dinner at a seafood shack overlooking brackish water, I was drunk on two beers and sucking the melted butter off my fingers.
Or that I never made it to the movie theater to meet Madeline. That Paul and I stumbled across the restaurant parking lot to a motel.
That my mother did not notice that I never came home.
“I realize this is a sensitive topic, Ms. Ross. But can you think of someone else, maybe someone you’ve crossed paths with more recently?”
“No.” I shake my head, clearing it of thoughts of long ago.
“If there is someone you are, or were, involved with more recently—romantically, that is—we won’t have to share that information with your husband.”
He twists the stylus in his slender fingers, a light smirk causing the left side of his mustache to rise. It hits me. He thinks I’m having an affair. Or that I’ve slept with some random psycho who’s now out to get me.
“There’s nobody, Detective. Just Paul Adamson.”
“It’s just, usually these things have one of two causes. One is financial, and the other is personal—revenge. We’re seeing a lot of revenge porn these days, you know—exes posting nude pictures online after a breakup.”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Now calm down, Ms. Ross. I’m very sympathetic. You’re not the first person who’s come in here with this kind of complaint.” He lifts his hands in resignation. “We’re seeing a lot more of this online harassment. Most of it is harmless, people playing pranks.”
“This isn’t harmless!” I yell. “I just lost my damn job, and my whole neighborhood is turning against me. It’s destroying my marriage, Detective.” I close my laptop and put it back into my bag. In a calmer voice, I add, “Detective, this is ruining my life, and I don’t feel safe. I’ve even thought, why don’t we just move? But wherever I go, unless I change my identity and basically go into hiding, this person can find me and do it all over again.”
“There’s a saying in law enforcement: if they call first, they aren’t coming.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the truly dangerous folks don’t announce they are coming to harm you. This type, the type to make fake social media accounts, they get off on just harassing you.”
“Just harassing? There’s nothing just about this.”
He looks at the iPad on his desk. “Tell you what, let me take a peek at this Paul Adamson fellow, and I’ll be in touch. Unfortunately, there’s no federal law, or Maryland law, that makes it illegal to set up an imposter social media account. I’ll tell you what I say to the high school students during my cyberbullying presentation.” He hoists up his pants and leans in to deliver his pearls of wisdom. “Three words, Ms. Ross. Shut. It. Off. Shut off the computer, the phone, the iPad. Shut the damn router off. Go outside for a bit. Take a bike ride, garden, do something, Ms. Ross. There’s more to life than what’s on these little screens—”
A knock at the door distracts him, and Detective Khoury stands up and answers it. I can’t see whom he is talking to, but he glances back at me, shaking his head. “I’ll be back in a jiff. Can I get you a coffee or soda?”
“No, thank you.” A jiff. How long does a jiff last? Suddenly, my anger melts into paranoia. Coming here was a bad idea. I am gathering my things when the door opens and Detectives Katz and Lopez enter.
I stand frozen. This was a mistake, thinking I could come in here and file a complaint and not be questioned about Rob Avery.
“Mind if we have a few minutes of your time, Ms. Ross?” Detective Lopez asks, slipping into the seat across from me. She is wearing a light blue oxford with a dried coffee stain down the front. This is not the kind of woman who lets little inconveniences stop her.
“Actually, I have to be home,” I say.
“This will only take a minute,” Detective Katz says, and beams a warm smile. “We understand someone has been harassing you online?”
I slide back into my seat, harboring a tiny shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, she will take my concerns seriously. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Tell us,” Detective Katz says.
“I already told you about this, the fake Tinder account?” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Remember?”
“Tell us again.”
I launch into what has happened once more, detailing the fake Tinder and Facebook accounts, and finishing with the hacked photos at work. I am careful not to mention I have my laptop with me. I decide if they ask, I will turn it over, but I’m not going to offer it up.
“When would you say you became aware of the online harassment?”
I think back. “I guess I knew for sure a week ago, maybe Wednesday? When my sister found the fake Tinder page.”
“So after Rob Avery’s murder.” Detective Katz does not meet my eye when he says this.
“Yes.”
A small smile dances at the corners of his mouth. It seems like I’ve walked into a trap, but I don’t know exactly to what I’ve confessed.
Detective Lopez leans her elbows on the table, her biceps clearly definable beneath the sleeves of her shirt. “Let me tell you what I think is going on, Ms. Ross. I think you and Rob Avery had an affair—”
“No.”
“I think something happened—maybe he wanted to go public, maybe he threatened to tell your husband?”
I shake my head and open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand before I have a chance. “You were both at Daisy Gordon’s party. People saw you flirting, tongues started wagging. You had an argument. Made you realize the clock was ticking on your little secret. So you went home, got up early, walked down the alley behind your house to his. He let you in—why wouldn’t he?”
My throat is tight, and I can barely choke out an answer. “No. Wrong. That’s not what happened.”
She continues in a soothing monotone as if I hadn’t spoken. “You fought. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt him. Maybe it was an accident. Didn’t have your story fully fleshed out when we first interviewed you, but once you realized you were on our radar for Avery’s death, you concocted this whole backstory. Explains the texting, the pictures you two traded.”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.” But I don’t make a move. I’m not sure what my rights ar
e. “I want to call my lawyer.”
Detective Katz frowns, gives me puppy-dog eyes. “I know you’re freaking out, Allie. Can I call you Allie? You’re a good person who got yourself into a jam. But all this lying, it’s not going to help you in the end.”
“I’d like to go home.”
“Why do you want to do that?” Detective Katz furrows his brow. “Makes me think you have something to hide.”
Detective Lopez cocks her head to one side, knitting her eyebrows in an aww-shucks way. “We’re just having a conversation here. Why don’t you want to cooperate with us?”
“It’ll be easier for everyone if you just tell us what really happened,” Detective Katz says. “We know you killed Rob Avery. We want to hear your side of the story.”
Something in me snaps. I stand up. “Either you let me call my lawyer, or I’m going home.”
The look of kindness on Detective Katz’s face vanishes. He looks to Detective Lopez, who pushes back her chair and walks toward the door.
“You’re not under arrest, Ms. Ross. You’re free to go at any point.”
37
“You what?” Artie Zucker’s voice booms through the car’s speaker. “What part of never, never, never talk to the police without me present didn’t you understand? Jesus, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t think I’d see them,” I say, cringing. “I was there about my computer getting hacked. I didn’t kill Rob Avery. I had nothing to do with his death.”
“They’re trying to rattle you,” he says in a calmer voice. “That’s all. Get you to say something incriminating. They shouldn’t be talking to you at all, frankly, but because you came in on your own, it’s a gray area.”
“They said they knew I killed him. Knew.”
“Allie, listen to me, it’s important you know that the police are allowed to lie and mislead during an investigation. They have a lot of leeway, and they use it to freak people out and get them to confess. Sometimes people confess to crimes they have not even committed. That’s why I don’t want you talking to anyone without me present. Capeesh?”
“Got it.” I feel slightly reassured by this. The police can lie. It’s all part of the investigation.
“Now, tell me every last little detail, and do not leave a single thing out.”
I recount the whole episode, first meeting with Detective Khoury and then when the other two took his place. It takes the entire drive home, and I’m just winding up the story as I pull up in front of my house.
“Well, at least now we have a pretty good idea of the direction their investigation is going. I think you need to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“That you may be arrested. Hopefully, I’ll get a heads-up first.”
I sit stunned in my car, shocked to my core. I guess I knew this was a possibility, but to hear him say it so bluntly terrifies me. How am I supposed to prepare myself to be arrested? The thought of what this will do to Cole sends me spiraling down into darkness. I’ve heard about innocent people getting caught up in the criminal justice system, but I never in a million years thought it would be me.
A rap on my window startles me, and I turn to see a scowling Heather standing by the door. I’ve never seen her without an ear-to-ear grin. At once, I think of Sarah. She knows. I get out of the car and brace myself for a confrontation.
“Hi, Heather. I’m guessing you talked to Sarah.”
“Sarah is a mess. I don’t blame her. She showed me screenshots of what you wrote. Allie, how could you? She trusted you. I trusted you.”
“I know it looks bad—”
“Looks bad? Looks bad?” Her voice grows louder as her face turns a mottled red. “Is that what you care about? How this looks?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I did not write those things, Heather. Someone made a fake Facebook account.”
“Ha!” She takes a small step back, a triumphant smile on her face. “Vicki Armstrong said you would say that.”
“Vicki Armstrong doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Rage builds in me at the thought of that woman buzzing around the neighborhood trying to turn everyone against me.
“You know, I defended you,” Heather says, stabbing the air with her pointer finger. “When people said you were having an affair with Rob, I told them no way. To think that I recommended you to Sarah, even to my boss! But I’m done. We’re done.”
She pivots and heads next door to her house.
“Hold up,” I say, catching up to her. I grab her shoulder and spin her around. “Did you photograph the police at my house the other day?” I ask, ignoring the way she dramatically rubs her shoulder as if I’d hurt her. “And post it on Facebook?”
A flicker of something crosses her face. Guilt? “Yes. Yes, I did,” she says, half sputtering. “So what? Aren’t I entitled to know why the police are swarming my block?”
“And what about the pool, Memorial Day weekend?”
“What about it?” She sticks her chin out in defiance.
“Did you photograph me at the pool, Heather?”
She holds up both hands and starts backing away, her eyes wild. “What? You’re crazy.”
“And what about Overton Academy? Do you know someone who went there?”
“Stay away from me. I mean it.”
“Why won’t you answer the question, Heather? What’s your connection to Overton?”
I watch Heather back up to her front path, then turn and speed-walk past a giant inflated jack-o’-lantern and into her house.
It’s probably my imagination, but I swear I can hear the deadbolt lock.
* * *
No one is in the kitchen, but the scent of browning meat permeates the air. A quick peek in the oven reveals a roast nestled in a bed of potatoes and carrots. Susan’s doing.
Upstairs, I find Cole lying on his floor, an island amid a sea of colorful LEGO pieces. They’re tiny but can cause a surprising amount of pain when stepped on in the middle of the night.
“Hey, Cole, you know you’re going to have to pick up all these before dinner, right?”
He grunts in response but does not look up.
“Where’s Susan?”
He does not answer, keeping his eyes fixed on the little pieces in his hand.
I walk down the dark hallway to my bedroom. When I open the door, Susan is standing on the other side. She gasps, hand fluttering to her throat.
“You startled me!”
I step back, surprised myself. She looks so out of place in my bedroom, less than a foot from my unmade bed.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I was using your bathroom. Cole was in the other one.”
“No, not at all.” Suddenly, I think of the Overton T-shirt that found its way into my laundry.
I watch as Susan steps past me into the hall and then into Cole’s room. There’s nothing threatening or even remarkable about her. She’s nondescript, with her mannish haircut and medium-wash jeans. But what do I really know about her? I never even checked her references. Just knowing that she had watched the Zoni triplets had been enough for me.
Maybe that was a mistake, I think, as I continue through the bedroom to the entrance of our bathroom. There, in the silence, an uneasy feeling settles on me. Our bathroom was renovated sometime in the eighties, when pink tile was in vogue. Whoever owned the house did a cheap job. They installed an oversize Jacuzzi tub that’s impossible to clean and a toilet that grumbles for a full five minutes after you flush it. It’s on our list of things to fix.
But now the toilet is quiet.
Susan couldn’t have been using it, not recently.
Stop it, I tell myself. Maybe she was washing her hands. Or her face.
When I turn, I notice a slice of light under my closet door. I pull the door open and stare inside. My clothes hang as they always do. Nothing looks out of place. Did I forget to turn off the light this morning when I left? Maybe Cole was playing in here.
&nb
sp; “I’m taking off,” Susan calls from the hallway. “There’s a pot roast in the oven.”
I rush to the hall. “Thank you, Susan. You didn’t have to do that.”
She stops halfway down the landing and gives me a little smile. “Oh, it’s my pleasure. I know how busy you are, and it’s not easy with Mark working late.”
I nod as if I already knew this. “Right.”
“He called about an hour ago. Said he couldn’t reach you.”
Now I remember. The call I sent to voice mail while I was meeting with Detective Khoury. I forgot to listen to his message. Still, for some reason I can’t quite pinpoint, I am irritated that he passed the message on through Susan.
“You or Cole weren’t in my closet for any reason, were you?” I ask, hoping to sound casual and not accusatory. “Maybe playing hide-and-seek or something?”
She blinks twice. “No.”
“It’s just that the light was on. I’m sure I shut it off this morning.”
Susan frowns. “Is everything all right, Allie? You look exhausted, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I feel my eyes widen. What has she heard? It’s naive to think some gossip has not reached her ears. “Everything’s fine. Good night, Susan.”
* * *
I let Cole watch television with dinner, something I am normally loath to do, while I surf the internet. To distract myself, I try to read an article that Leah sent me on the four styles of parenting and how only one of them does not damage your children. It’s the usual clickbait nonsense, but I can’t focus enough to be outraged. Bits and pieces of the day swarm my mind like a sick collage. Mike firing me. Detective Khoury dismissing my concerns. Being accused of murder. My confrontation with Heather. I need to talk to Mark, but he won’t be home until late, so to calm my nerves, I pour myself a tall glass of cold sauvignon blanc, not even trying to hide it from Cole.
After Cole is in bed, I come back down and pour myself another glass as fortification while I do the dishes.
I once read a story about a happy couple that lived in a cute, little blue house for years until one morning, they came down to discover the kitchen had fallen into a sinkhole. By the late afternoon, the entire house had been swallowed, their lives vanished before their eyes.
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