9
“WHY AM I EVEN HERE?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why am I here?”
“Today’s your appointment.”
“I know, but I shouldn’t be here.”
“Then where should you be?”
“I don’t know,” she says, “but not here.” She stares at Peterson, the mid-afternoon sunlight filling the white empty space around him, bouncing across the walls. Earlier that day he’d called her up and given her an ultimatum, told her that if she missed another appointment (it would be her third in a row), he’d have to give up her spot. But still, why had she cared? Why had she come?
“We were talking about Elson,” he continues. “You were telling me how you spent the night with him last night.”
“I did,” she says, sighing, “but not in the way you’re thinking.”
“No?”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t sleep with him. He just spent the night at my house. We slept together in the same bed. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
Peterson looks at her, says nothing, and already she regrets saying anything about it. If she weren’t feeling so vulnerable right now, so confused, if she had had her head on straight earlier, she would have never even brought it up. But suddenly she feels like she’s lost all sense of judgment. As soon as she sat down, she’d blurted it out, almost on cue, and now she realizes that she’s going to have to deal with the fallout, with Peterson, with his inevitable questions and probing.
“I was feeling vulnerable,” she continues. “I didn’t want to be by myself last night. That’s all. I had a horrible day, you know, and he came over to talk to me about it, and then suddenly it was late, and it just seemed natural that he should stay with me. That’s all it was. It was nothing more than that. There’s nothing to read into here.”
“No?”
“No.”
Peterson nods, scribbles something down on his pad. “And that’s all you want to say about it?”
“That’s all.”
“So why did you have such a horrible day?”
“That’s another story.”
“Humor me.”
She looks at him, considers what she’s told him already, then sighs. “It’s about my daughter,” she says finally. “Chloe. Things have gotten worse with her situation.”
“Worse?”
“More complicated.”
He nods.
“Yesterday some men came by the house to talk to me about her. Some detectives.”
Peterson leans forward, suddenly interested. “Detectives?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you were so upset?”
“Yes.”
“And did these men talk to Elson, too?”
“No,” she says. “Just me. They’re going to be talking to him today.”
Peterson puts down his pad. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you talked to them about.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“You can’t.”
“No,” she says. “I can’t, and I won’t.”
“Because of your daughter.”
“Because of me.”
Peterson leans back now, picks up his pad, and then puts it down again. She expects him to be mad, but he’s not. He’s surprisingly calm. “Well, I’m glad you came by here at least, Cadence,” he says finally. “I think that’s something.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” he says, smiling, picking up his pen. “I actually do.”
Driving home, Cadence has a sudden desire to call up her own mother and talk to her about it, to tell her what’s happened. Throughout it all, she’s told her nothing, has barely even spoken to her. She and Elson had both decided to keep their parents out of it. But suddenly she feels a need, a desire even, to talk about it, to get another perspective. A perspective other than Elson’s or Gavin’s or Peterson’s. A female perspective, a mother’s perspective. The perspective of someone who might actually understand what she was going through.
Ever since her divorce, she’s found herself longing for female company. It was strange. Usually after a divorce, one person got all the friends, or the friends were split up evenly, but in their case, neither of them had ended up with any of their friends, which had made her wonder whether any of these friends had actually been friends to begin with. Most of their friends had been couples, and what they had done with them had been couples’ things. Now, however, she realized that nobody wanted to invite a single woman over to dinner, nobody wanted to bring a third wheel out on a date. There’d been an initial outpouring of support, of course, from the women she knew, but after a couple of months, that support had dwindled, their interest had waned. Even Cheryl Millhauser, her former best friend, had stopped returning her phone calls, had stopped answering her e-mails, had stopped inviting her over for lunch. Was divorce really such an uncommon occurrence? she wonders. Such an unforgivable offense? Or was it something else? Was it simply that she was a symbol now, a reminder of the unhappiness in their own lives, their own marriages, of what could one day happen to them?
Had she had someone to talk to, what would she have even told them about yesterday, about what happened? Even now, it seemed like a dream, something surreal, an imaginary conversation she’d had with two imaginary men. Not a real-life conversation she’d had with two real-life detectives. She’d invited them inside, and she’d been surprised at first by how friendly they’d been, by how they seemed almost apologetic about having to be there. Everything they said involved a “please” or a “thank you,” a “yes, ma’am” or a “no, ma’am.” She’d even made them some tea, shown them some pictures of Richard and Chloe as children. But then at some point the conversation had changed. She couldn’t really remember, but at some point their friendly dialogue had turned into a formal inquisition, and “a few minutes of her time” had turned into almost half an hour.
Initially, she had almost wanted to tell them everything, but after a while it became clear to her that they were not here to help her, nor to help Chloe. They had told her some horrible things about the incident itself, about how Raja and his friend had broken into the dorm room of Tyler Beckwith and terrorized him, how there’d been a fight, a terrible fight, and how Tyler Beckwith had come out on the losing end of that fight. They’d told her about how Tyler had been rushed to the hospital, about the concussion he’d sustained, about his facial lacerations, about his three broken ribs. They’d told her about the blood they’d had to excavate from his chest cavity, about the swelling in his brain, about the heart monitor that was right now tracing his heartbeat, the ventilator that was right now, at this moment, keeping him alive.
They’d told her some other things, too, details she’d chosen not to remember, but it had been enough to unsettle her, which was perhaps the point. Finally, they’d said that they now believed that her daughter was involved. Not in a direct way, but still involved. What she was doing, they believed, was harboring a fugitive, which in itself was a crime. A felony. A third-degree felony, to be frank, and this could involve jail time, not to mention the fact that she might be embroiled in conspiracy charges if the Beckwith boy didn’t recover. They looked at her very solemnly as they said this. So, that’s where they were, they said. The Kittappa boy was gone, that much they knew, and since she could give them no explanation for where Chloe might be, they could only assume that she was helping him. It was that simple, they said. Basic logic. They didn’t have any proof, of course, but they had a strong suspicion, and usually when they had a strong suspicion, that suspicion was right.
Cadence had sat there, listening to them, nodding her head, very aware that anything she might say could later be used against Chloe. They told her that they now had evidence that the boy, the Kittappa boy, was down in Houston. They’d followed a trail of airline tickets he’d bought, and that trail had led them here. Had she talked to her daughter
recently? they wanted to know. Had she had any contact with her at all? Cadence, now realizing that her daughter’s safety was at risk, had decided to tell them the truth, or at least what she knew of the truth. She told them about the last time she’d seen Chloe, about how they’d fought, about how Chloe had seemed very upset. Then she’d told them about the text message she’d sent her, her phone call, and how she was now worried she might have left Houston. When they asked her why she thought she might have left Houston, however, she’d said very little, only that it was just a suspicion she had.
The two men had looked at each other and nodded, clearly not buying this last part, but not persisting either. Was there anyone else, they’d finally asked, anyone else who might know where Chloe might be? Cadence had paused at this, thinking first about Richard and how he would inevitably be dragged into this as well, how he would inevitably be questioned. Not wanting to implicate him, though, she told them instead about Simone and gave them her address, hoping they might have better luck with her than she’d had, hoping they might be able to crack her shell.
Seemingly appeased, they’d finally stood up and thanked her, explaining that they’d probably be in touch again in the next couple days and that they’d be talking to her husband as well.
“My ex-husband,” she’d said as she walked them to the door.
“Right,” the taller one said. “Your ex-husband.”
“In the meantime,” the shorter one said, “if you hear anything at all, you need to let us know, okay? You’re required by law to let us know.”
Cadence nodded.
“Believe it or not, we’re not out to lynch your daughter here, Mrs. Harding. If there’s any way for us to help her, we will. Trust me. But at the same time, she needs to cooperate with us, okay? All of you do.”
Cadence nodded again and took the men’s cards and then watched them as they walked to their car. As soon as they were gone, she’d closed the door behind her and then collapsed into a chair in the hall, and that’s when she’d thought about Elson. It was strange, but his name had been the first that popped into her head.
As it turned out, Elson had not been able to come over right away. He had to work late at the office, he’d told her when she’d called. He had to make sure that everything was in order before he took his “leave.” This was the first time she’d heard of his leave, and it surprised her. Throughout their marriage he had always been so busy, so preoccupied, with his work, that he’d rarely even taken a vacation, let alone a leave, and now he was taking off several weeks, he said, all for their daughter, and for her. To support them.
With nothing else to do, and with her mind racing, Cadence had decided to make them both dinner, and when he arrived, they’d eaten together out by the pool. She’d told him about the detectives, about what she’d said, and about how she was now worried she’d said too much. She’d expected him to be angry at her for saying what she had, for breaking their promise to Chloe, but he wasn’t. Instead, Elson had just sat there, listening to her earnestly, patiently, perhaps sensing her uneasiness, her fear, and he hadn’t persisted either, hadn’t pushed, as he usually would. He had just sat there, listening to her, occasionally patting her shoulder or touching her hand. If he was still feeling wounded about what had happened the other night, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even allude to it. He just smiled at her and then told her that it would all be fine, that she’d done the right thing, and that what they needed to do right now was stay calm, take stock of their options, and figure out a plan.
Tomorrow, he said, he’d be talking to his lawyer, Albert Dunn, and after that, to the two detectives. Depending on what Albert said, he’d shape his answers accordingly. The point was to work with these detectives, but not for them. They needed to remember that these detectives were not their friends. They were not out to help them, as they’d promised, but to find Raja, and they would use whatever methods possible to find him, even if those methods hurt Chloe. Then he reminded her of what Albert had told them the previous day, that these detectives were simply trying to scare them, that they wouldn’t actually be prosecuting Chloe because prosecuting her would mean losing her testimony, which they’d need later on to prove intent. It was all just a ruse, he’d said. A mind game. This was what they needed to remember.
It was strange. Hearing Elson talk in this way disarmed her. She wondered why he’d never acted this way during their marriage. Had it taken a crisis of this proportion for him to finally grow up? Or had he always been this way, deep down inside, and she’d simply never noticed? A part of her didn’t trust it, not completely, but another part of her found it oddly endearing. As much as she hated to admit it, his presence in her life these past few days had been a calming one. He’d seemed to have genuinely changed. Perhaps his contrition the other night had been sincere. Perhaps he’d seen the error of his ways. All she knew then was that she didn’t want to be alone that night, not with everything that had just happened, and she didn’t want Elson to leave either, so finally, after dinner, she had opened up another bottle of wine and then asked him if he would stay with her.
It was late by then, they were both a little drowsy, and it had seemed, at the time, a natural thing to suggest.
He’d looked at her, a little perplexed, but said nothing.
“You shouldn’t be driving home tonight,” she’d added.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” she’d said. “And besides, I’d like you to stay.”
“You would?”
“Yes,” she said. “I would.”
He’d looked at her again, and she could tell now that he was genuinely confused, and so she’d taken his hand and led him upstairs and then down the long hallway to her room, to their room, where she’d taken off her shoes and then lay down on the bed. After a moment, he’d lain down beside her, and they’d remained like that for quite a while, both of them fully clothed, saying nothing, until she’d finally turned off the light.
“Don’t go getting too comfortable,” she’d said after a while. “This is only for tonight, okay?”
But he’d said nothing to this, and she had wondered then what he was thinking, what was going on in his mind. There was only a foot and a half between them, but somehow, at that moment, he seemed farther away. She had an inclination to reach over then and touch him, to pull him toward her, to embrace him, but she didn’t.
It wasn’t until later that night, after he’d fallen asleep, that she’d finally nestled up close to him and put her arm around him. She’d pressed her body against his, hoping he wouldn’t wake, and he hadn’t. She’d told herself that this was only for tonight. She’d told herself that none of this had anything to do with anything.
10
SITTING ACROSS FROM the two detectives in the dim-lit bar area of the Brunswick Hotel, Elson is second-guessing his choice of meeting places. He’d initially chosen the Brunswick Hotel because he considered it a neutral location. A neutral location, but not too neutral. It was a place where he felt at home, a place where he felt in control, comfortable, but he realized now it was also a place that he felt strangely protective of, a place that he considered his own, a place that was now being sullied by the memory of a conversation he’d rather not be having.
At Albert Dunn’s suggestion, he’d told them almost nothing so far. Nothing they didn’t already know. Nothing that Cadence hadn’t already told them. Anything you say, Albert had warned him, could be potentially damaging to your daughter. At the same time, he’d said, you don’t want to lie. Lying could be even worse. The best thing to do was to play it cool, tell the truth, to give them something, but not too much. Albert had asked Elson if he’d like him to join him, if he’d like him to be there while he was questioned, but Elson had told him it wasn’t necessary, that he thought he could handle it. Now, however, he isn’t so sure. He can tell they’re getting antsy, frustrated, discouraged. They’ve been sitting here now for almost an hour, going over the same details ad nauseam, going over
the same facts again and again.
“And that’s all you have to tell us, Mr. Harding?” the taller detective says finally. “That’s it?”
“I’ve told you what I know.”
The two detectives stare at each other, then share a knowing smile.
“Let me ask you something,” the taller detective says after a moment, picking up his iced tea. “Would you describe your relationship with your daughter as a good relationship?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Harding.”
“I just don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Please, sir,” the shorter one says. “Just answer the question.”
“How would you define good?”
The two detectives stare at him, but say nothing.
“Good?” Elson says. “Good? I can tell you I love her very much.”
“That’s not what we’re asking you, sir.”
“Well, I don’t really see what you are asking me.”
“Let me put it another way,” the taller detective says. “Would you say your daughter trusts you?”
Elson stares at him, unsettled by the question. The honest answer is no. No, she hasn’t trusted him in years. Not since she entered high school. Not since she was old enough to drive. But why are they even asking this? What does this have to do with anything? He sits there silently, refusing to answer.
“You and your wife got divorced this year. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And how did your daughter take that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was she upset by it?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Mr. Harding.”
“Of course she was upset by it. What do you think?”
“And how would you describe her emotional state at that time?”
“Her emotional state?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like this line of questioning,” he says finally. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
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