Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Ashlyn blinked. Lifted her chin. “And Valerie’s.”

  Georgia glanced at Tom. Didn’t wait for a response. “And Valerie’s.”

  A slash of soft light filtered through a crack in the curtains. Like a ray of hope, Georgia thought. A sign.

  “Okay,” Ashlyn said, drawing out the word.

  “Tomorrow. Or—” Georgia’s heart lifted with her good idea “—or right now! After you change clothes, of course. I’ll take you to the airport!”

  “Tomorrow.” Ashlyn ended that part of the negotiation. “And there’s one more thing.”

  “Gotta hand it to ya, Ashlyn,” I say, saving my pages to the chapter file. If I’d been Grammy Georgia, would I have believed everything was fine? In the movies, it would have been a Tasha Nicole lookalike on Skype. Or the session faked somehow. But in this case, that was Tasha. Or so I’d read in the papers. Had Ashlyn already planned what she was about to do?

  What no one but Ashlyn knew: that Skype call was the last time her grandparents would see the little girl alive.

  If I had known that Saturday was the last time I’d see Sophie alive, what would I have done? I certainly wouldn’t have yelled at her when she spilled her milky Cheerios. Wouldn’t have griped about being late. Wouldn’t have criticized Dex for dressing her in mismatched ruffly socks. I would have made sure to say—well, I love you is so obvious. And I’m certain they knew that. Would I have done anything different? Oh, yeah. I sure would. But I can’t allow myself to think about that. I don’t allow it.

  I yank myself back to the book. Hating Ashlyn is so much more rewarding than hating myself. Having her call him “Daddy” might be over the fictional top, but people like Ashlyn are always Daddy’s girls. Father-daughter relationships are the Freudian seeds of manipulative behavior. How girls learn to deal with men. Especially aging once-handsome gents like the gray-templed, golf-playing, country-clubbing Tom Bryant.

  If I’m wrong, I’ll change it later.

  The lives of the Bryants are becoming so real. As if their stories are all playing out in my head and I’m simply transcribing. I can smell the lilac air freshener Georgia sprays; see the lines on the carpet she’s vacuumed. Count the array of stuffed toys cuddling in Tasha Nicole’s silent room. See the sneer on Ashlyn’s face, the peachy-pink of her lip gloss. Her tight jeans.

  The one thing I still can’t channel is why. Even cautiously accessing my darkest thoughts, my most bitterly depressed moments or—I try to come up with a description—my blackest night of the soul, I can’t understand why Ashlyn would do it. How could she?

  I wipe one tear, determined. This is my job. As long as this book takes, I’ll think of Tasha and Sophie. Think of them, but not think of them. I’ll think of justice. Dex would want me to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Last night, for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I slept through the night. No nightmares of shattering glass and sirens. No thrashing off the covers and crying out loud, no waking myself up in chills and terror. Just sleep.

  What’s more perplexing, even disquieting: this morning my first thoughts are of the trial, not of Dex and Sophie. I write my numbers on the mirror, more deliberately than usual, 445, drawing my grief back into place.

  A whisper of conscience trails me to the kitchen, prods me as I make my coffee, haunts me as I carry the steaming mug to my desk. Sophie. What would she look like now, more than a year older? I’d slogged through her birthday, pretending the day didn’t exist, wrapped myself in blankets and shut the blinds and ignored the phone. Sophie will be three years old forever.

  Dex’s birthday was a wine-sotted nightmare.

  On the anniversary of the accident, 365 on the mirror, Dex’s parents called from Scottsdale. Katherine called, too, and a few brave friends. I hadn’t picked up for any of them.

  I sit in my chair and click on the computer, suffocated by what will never be. Dex will never be thirty-six. Sophie will never be four. Tasha Nicole Bryant will never be three. I’ll keep changing, though. And keep wondering why.

  “Attention, stations.”

  I flinch at Voice’s interruption.

  “For you early birds this Wednesday morning,” Voice continues, “the clerk informs us trial will begin as scheduled at 9 A.M. Recess for the day at 5 P.M. Here at Ashlyn Central, we’re in standby until approximately 8:55.”

  That means I have just over half an hour. In my old life, this time of morning, I’d chat with Sophie, have her put the breakfast napkins on the table. Together “his girls,” as Dex called us, would get him off to work. First blueberry muffins and coffee, then a kiss from each of us.

  “How’re you going to drive?” I’d call out.

  “Drive!” Sophie’d say. Another ritual.

  “Carefully!” he’d reply. And off he’d go.

  My magazine colleagues were incredulous. You’re giving it all up? Far as I was concerned, I wasn’t giving up anything. I was making a choice. Family.

  So much for that plan.

  I scroll through the Internet updates on the trial. My new life.

  BOMB SCARE BOZOS headlines one local tabloid. Less yellow journalism described law enforcement reassuring the public there was no danger, and that the “small-potato troublemakers will be brought to justice.” In Ashlyn news, the defendant is safe, the jury untainted, and the trial scheduled to continue.

  Thirty minutes, now, until the day’s testimony. I open my Little Girl Lost file and reset my brain to my narrative of another family’s past.

  According my research, Ashlyn’s monstrous cover-up shifted into high gear when Georgia dropped her at the Dayton airport. I type as fast as I can to get to that part.

  ONE MORE THING

  “Remember I told you there was one more thing?” Ashlyn checked her hair in the passenger-side mirror, then flapped the sun visor back up.

  Her mother steered the Honda to the curb at Departures Drop-Off. Five minutes more, if all went as planned, and Ashlyn would be out of here.

  “Of course, honey,” her mother said.

  In that phony-gushy voice Ashlyn hated. But she wouldn’t have to hear it for long.

  “I’m worrying that Tasha and I…” Ashlyn pooched out her lips, frowning as if she was in deep thought.

  “You’re worried?” Georgia stopped, shifted into park, then turned to her, reached out a hand, touched her bare arm.

  “Yeah.” Ashlyn tried not to flinch. “I’m worried Tasha and I don’t get enough time together. That’s why I packed for two. And that’s why I’m having—difficulty.”

  She checked for her mother’s reaction. Was Mom buying this? Georgia loved Tasha. Fine. But Ashlyn could not handle her mothering. Her smothering. Her constant snooping. Meddling disguised as concern.

  “That seems wise, honey,” her mother said. Like she knew what was wise, for crap sake. “It’s always better to have quality time with your children, especially when they’re young. Like Tashie is. And you’re still young, too.”

  Ashlyn almost gagged. But she could get through this. She had to. “So, Mommy, I need your advice. You really think it’s good if Tasha Nicole and I have quality time?”

  “Oh honey, yes, sure it is.” Her mom had turned to face her, the skin on her neck quivering. Her teeth were so yellow. “Nothing would be better for Tashie than to be close to you. Bond with you.”

  Ashlyn put her hand on the door handle, clicked it open. She heard the hum of the air conditioner and the rumbling idle of the car and the distant roar of a jet engine.

  “Wait a sec while I get my suitcase,” she said. “Pop the trunk, Mom, okay?”

  When Ashlyn rolled her suitcase back to the open passenger door, she leaned in over the front seat, keeping one hand on the car’s roof.

  “Okay, thank you, Mother.” Her mom was a silhouette, backlit by the sun’s glare. Which meant she didn’t have to see her face. “For your advice. And your permission.”

  “Per—?”

  “I’m not coming back,”
Ashlyn said. “And Tashie isn’t either. Like you suggested, I’m taking her. We’re going on vacation. We’ve already bought our tickets.”

  “Like I suggested?” Her mother reached out her hand, but Ashlyn backed a step away.

  “It was your idea, right? To ‘bond’? And don’t try to find us,” Ashlyn went on. “If you do, we’ll stay away longer. I told you I was packing for two, didn’t I? But you didn’t notice. Because you never listen to me.”

  “But I never—”

  “Bye, Mom. We’ll come back when the time is right.” And she slammed the door.

  “What a complete and total manipulative bitch.” I say it out loud, realizing I’ve been typing faster and faster, my manuscript filled with typos and misspellings as the scene pours out. Ashlyn twisting her mother’s words. Lying about taking a flight to Chicago. Laying the groundwork for her bogus story.

  I tilt my head back and forth, contemplating the final sentence. Maybe it needs one more line? About looking back, or something. Except Ashlyn would not look back. Unless, maybe, in triumph?

  “Attention stations.” The voice interrupts my decision-making. “We’ll have video in sixty seconds. The judge polled the jury on whether they’ve read anything about what happened yesterday. They’ve all said no. There are no motions pending before the court. Stations, forty-five seconds.”

  I click on my tablet, ready to record the video.

  “Assistant District Attorney Royal Spofford—again, that’s o-r-d,” Voice goes on, what would I do without him, “has indicated his first witness will be Estrella Amador, the woman whose dog Frisco found the garbage bag in the—stand by please, stations. Thirty seconds.”

  I hit Record.

  “And we’re on in five, four, three—” Voice counts down.

  Poor Estrella Amador. Talk about having a bad day at the beach. I feel the hint of an unworthy smile. Ashlyn Bryant is about to have a pretty bad day herself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Estrella Amador, silver gray chignon and sensible shoes, steps to the witness box. Raises her right hand to take the oath. The blue-uniformed clerk opens her mouth, but in that instant, Quinn McMorran stands up.

  “Your Honor,” she says. “May we have a sidebar, please?”

  “Oh, come on,” I complain to the screen. “I want to hear this!”

  The courtroom camera pulls out to a wide shot. Ashlyn, alone at the defense table, is holding her head in her hands. Tough luck, sweetheart. Reap what you sow.

  Judge Green has ruled they can’t broadcast sidebar audio, so the feed goes into almost-silence.

  I fiddle with a pen, resist the urge to get more coffee. Do I have time to hit the bathroom?

  “Attention, all.” Voice is back. “We’re in recess, gang. We’ve got to stop meeting like this. Stand by for updates.”

  Recess? Why? It can’t be another bomb threat. Or can it? If it is, there’s something seriously scary happening. Or something incredibly annoying. To stay productive, I start reading a bunch of the stuff Katherine brought, grand jury testimony and police reports. I know it’ll be juicy, but I’m so distracted I’m not comprehending the words. I feel my foot jiggling. Why was there another recess?

  The phone rings. I’m so startled I stand up from my desk chair.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Miyoko Naka?” the woman says. “Lawyer McMorran’s secretary?”

  Like everything is a question. Quinn’s secretary? “Yes?”

  “She’s asking me to tell you she won’t be able to talk with you today, Miz Hennessey? And she asks could you please postpone?”

  “Until when?” Quinn putting me off? A recess? Not good.

  “She will call you?” the secretary says. “Thank you.”

  I stand there, listening to the dial tone. Stare at nothing. Worrying. I’m a storyteller. I can think of a million reasons court screeched to a halt. Each of them disastrous. At that moment, 9:27 Wednesday morning, all of them parade through my mind. What if…? Panicked, I stab in Katherine’s phone number. Be there. Be there. Keep me sane.

  “This is Kath—”

  “Listen,” I interrupt. “I’m freaking. What happens to the book if Ashlyn admits she’s guilty? What if she went crazy at the idea of hearing Amador, and decided she can’t stand any more horrible body-found testimony, and offers to plead to, say, manslaughter and the DA agrees and the trial is over? Does that mean the book is over, too?”

  My chest aches, thinking about it. It’s been only four days since I signed up for this job, but I’ve conscripted myself, enlisted myself, pledged myself. For Sophie. The muscles in my back tense so tight I have to sit down. Four days, and I’m hooked. Physically and emotionally addicted to Ashlyn Bryant’s comeuppance. Hell, punishment.

  Katherine makes it clear that Arbor Publishing wouldn’t want a book about a woman who hadn’t fought for her innocence.

  “A plea deal? That’d suck,” she says. “It makes Ashlyn, I don’t know, too sympathetic.”

  “Sympathetic? That woman?”

  “Or pitiful.” Kath puffs a breath. “Yeah, I’m disgusting. I’m the media. But listen, kiddo, we can’t sell a book about a contrite and remorseful victim of postpartum depression. Or whatever excuse she pulls.” She pauses. “Unless, I don’t know, you want to make it into a book about redemption? Redemption sells.”

  Could I write a book about redemption? Ashlyn’s attempt at redemption? Gah.

  “Gimme a break.” I say. “Redemption is a lot more than simply admitting you did it.”

  “Not in our legal system,” Katherine answers. “Let’s wait and see. Talk soon, kiddo.”

  A squawk from the speaker. The courtroom video goes to black. Then color bars.

  “Attention, all.” It’s Voice. “Trial’s in recess until Monday, at 9 A.M. If you’re wondering why, join the club. Gotta stop meeting like this. See you next week, gang.”

  Next week? Kidding me? Monday? Four days from now? I stare at my manuscript, my words blurring. What’s the point of working? If this all falls apart, there’ll be no book. All of this will be for nothing. Three glasses of better-than-resorting-to-Ambien wine later, I give up. I skip dinner, who cares, and stare at the blank TV.

  The next thing I know is the light.

  I blink, trying to figure out where I am. And when it is. Couch. Morning. Thursday. But my dream still wraps around me.

  I’d dreamed … Sophie. I try to retrieve it. Retrieve her. Sophie … yanking green garbage bags out of the bottom drawer in our kitchen. Unspooling a whole roll of them, one after the other, and twirling herself into them, laughing and laughing, until finally, her spinning made her dizzy and tipped her onto the floor. Except, wait. In the dream, it was not floor. It was sand. Or broken glass? “Look Mommy, I’m Little Mermaid,” she’d said. And then it was wet, so wet, everything was wet. That’s when I woke up, I guess, morning sun in my face, and I knew it was my own tears.

  A thunk on my front porch saves me from the rest of the dream. Wiping my eyes, still bleary and uncertain, and a little bit grateful to have seen my daughter, I pad out to retrieve the Thursday morning newspaper. The headline jolts me into reality.

  ASHLYN BRYANT ILL, TRIAL DELAYED. Underneath, in a smaller font: COURT TO RESUME MONDAY. I scan the first paragraph, standing in my entryway, before I close the front door.

  “She’s sick?” I say it out loud as I read, only the universe hearing my skepticism. I close the front door with a hip check. “Oh, right.”

  Joe Rissinelli got the scoop, of course. He always does. Joe Riss works freelance now, doing undercover investigations, so talented he can write his own ticket. These days he’s on the team covering the trial for the Boston Globe. Joe and I know each other in passing because we’d crossed paths at City. After I left, I still followed his bylines. He’s a relentless journalist who drives me crazy with his sources. But at least now I can stop worrying about a plea deal.

  I’d stampeded myself into believing something I made up.
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  Truth is, Joe’s exclusive explains, right before Estrella Amador came to the stand, Ashlyn started writing notes to Quinn McMorran. They weren’t about pleading guilty. They were complaining about her stomach ache.

  “What a liar,” I say out loud. That’s my verdict. But Joe’s a reporter. He has to report what his subject says.

  I skim more of it, heading to the kitchen, needing coffee. Joe Riss’s article reports Ashlyn has “mild food poisoning.” Apparently it’d been “all the defendant could do not to get sick in the courtroom”—I assume that was Joe’s polite way of saying throw up, another thing she and I apparently have in common.

  I flip to the jump page. Stop in the kitchen entryway. Joe. How does he know this? He could be pals with the judge. With Quinn McMorran. Or with Ashlyn, for all I know. I pop in a coffee pod, assessing.

  Maybe Joe Riss has been cultivating Ashlyn from the start. Sending her letters in jail. Maybe visiting her. Seems like she’s always, from my research anyway, attracted to handsome and powerful men. Not sure how powerful Joe is, but he’s handsome enough. He’s married, and more than twenty years older than Ashlyn, but hey, if she could use him, that wouldn’t have deterred her. So I’ve read.

  Maybe I’ll call him? Ask him? Wonder if Katherine knows Joe. We’d all worked at City, though at different times.

  But bottom line. All good. Rescued by Joe Rissinelli. I postpone coffee, take my shower, and write my numbers extra-large on the foggy mirror. 446.

  As always, I take a quiet moment to honor what they signify. Not forgiveness, certainly. I’ll never have that. There’s only loss. And remembrance. And love. As they fade, I believe the ghost of each number remains. Will always exist, like the ghosts of Dex and Sophie will always exist with me.

  Back in the kitchen, clean and back to semi-normal. Out the window, the morning is blue-skied and sunny, the neighborhood traffic clattering by. That’s the real world. No one knows what’s going on in my world. In my house. Or in my head.

  The fragrant caffeine splashes into my mug. And the phone rings.