Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Even if it’s silly, it’s not worth it to argue.

  We go get the photo, which I’ve put in the study. “Bring this to show him,” I say. “But be careful.” I may need to confront Katherine with it. Maybe.

  “Okay.” Her eyes dart to each corner of the room. “We shouldn’t talk in here, though.”

  “Why?”

  “It just crossed my mind—what if there’s a bug in all this electronic video equipment they brought? Katherine arranged for it, right? Maybe it wasn’t just for the trial.” She flips some switches on the monitor and a power strip, then pries open the back of the silver mouse. Two black double-A batteries clatter onto my desk. “You let that cop inside. Like I said before, who knows what he planted. Joe’s been here, too, right? Was he ever in this room alone? How about Katherine? Why haven’t they come to pick this stuff up? Haven’t you wondered about that?”

  It almost makes enough crazy sense to be possible. Closing the front door behind me, I welcome the late morning sun. I love our—my—house, but I feel held hostage by the place. By tragedy, and then grief, and then the book and the trial, and then Ashlyn, and now by raging uncertainty.

  I drop off the cleaning, two sweaters from last winter and some jeans I don’t even wear. Forty minutes later, as planned, I meet Ashlyn at the Pallisey Park bandstand, a whimsical pale-green octagon of elaborate columns entwined with lushly blooming sweet autumn clematis. The now-landmark bandstand on the park’s greensward was a gift in memory of village patriarch Pallisey Linsdale. His family is long gone, but his descendants bequeathed this pavilion for those remaining in their namesake town.

  “I found balloon guy.” Ashlyn pats the white-slatted bench beside her, signaling me to sit. “He’s not the one who’s usually here, so I gave him the photo to show to the one who is. He says come back tomorrow.”

  I hate that photo, but I sure wouldn’t have given it away. I sit arm’s length from her, and open my mouth to challenge her decision.

  “Come on, Merce,” Ashlyn says. “I used your copier. The original is safe. Trust me, okay?”

  I stretch my legs onto the pavilion’s wooden floor, wide panels scuffed and mottled by years of folding chairs and music stands and musicians’ feet. The clematis fragrance is intoxicating. I can almost see, like a movie of another lifetime, Dex and Sophie and me on the grass, splayed on our green plaid blanket, with contraband white wine and a tippy tray of cheese and crackers, Sophie and her Bunno waddling toward any congenial-looking newcomer, especially if they had a fluffy puppy or a toddler of their own. The music of a Fourth of July concert, Sousa and the Beatles, lilting determinedly from the makeshift local band. I’m sure it was the same this year. Just not for me. Or them.

  When I hear music, I’m almost confused. But it’s my phone. I pull it from my jeans pocket. Unknown number.

  “Where are you, kiddo?” Katherine’s voice. The sun darkens, but only in my world.

  “Hi, Katherine.” I use her name so Ashlyn knows who it is. “Where am I? Why?”

  Ashlyn widens her eyes. Mouths, “Don’t tell her.”

  It’s not strange that she’s calling right now. It’s not surprising. It’s not. The Ashlyn book is due in three days, and part of Kath’s job is making sure I write it. But what if she was watching us?

  “Checking up on me, huh?” I fake-laugh as I continue, like this is amusing and normal and I don’t hate her. “Where are you? Where have you been?”

  Oh. Maybe she’s calling about Joe. I try to swallow back my laugh. “Listen, Katherine? Have you heard about Joe Rissinelli?”

  “Why would I hear about Joe?” she asks.

  “Why would you hear about Joe?” Again I repeat, for Ashlyn’s sake.

  Ashlyn purses her lips, nodding. As if to telegraph, told you so.

  “The police came to my house, almost a week ago, and told me he’s missing,” I say. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes, missing. Didn’t they contact you?” I shrug at Ashlyn, making a who knows face. I shift on the bench to keep the sun out of my eyes.

  “No,” she says. “But why would they? I’m sure he’s okay. That’s strange, though. The police. But listen, quickly, yes, I’m just checking up on you. I’d stop by your house but—”

  “You want to come over?”

  Ashlyn is shaking her head now, full out frowning.

  “No, no, thanks for the invitation, but not necessary,” Katherine goes on. “So you making progress, you two? You connecting? Has Ashlyn told you what really happened?”

  These are all perfectly logical predictable questions. But somehow, even in the sweet suburban sunshine, with clematis shadows on my arms and the last of the summer’s bees nudging the white lavender-edged blossoms, the words Katherine uses take on a hint of menace. What really happened.

  “I just went to the dry cleaners,” I say. “We’re doing fine.”

  “Has she told you the whole story?” Katherine persists. “That’s going to make or break the book, Merce. You’re the perfect person for this. You can get her to talk, if anyone can. Right?”

  She’s using the exact words Ashlyn said in the study. How does Katherine know that?

  “Um, has Ashlyn told me the whole story?” I hope Katherine doesn’t think I’ve lost it, repeating everything.

  Ashlyn draws a finger across her throat.

  “Not yet,” I chirp, trying to communicate writerly optimism. Holy crap, I am so good at making stuff up. “But you are so right, if anyone can get her to talk, I can. And I know we’re hitting deadline. I’ll keep you posted, okay?”

  Ashlyn looks pleased, gives me two thumbs up as I click off the call.

  “That confirms it.” Ashlyn stands, drags her fingers through her hair, then looks out over the park. “Katherine’s totally in on it.”

  A few moms and their kids arrive, fringe-visored strollers and a Dalmatian puppy, rambling toward the playground. Where Dex and Sophie used to hang out. With, apparently, Katherine. I try not to picture that. Stare at the floor instead. Then decide.

  “Ashlyn?” I say. “This is it. Make or break. In on what?”

  Ashlyn clears her throat, thinking. She nods. “Okay. First. What’re the odds Katherine doesn’t know about Joe?” She rounds her thumb and forefinger into a circle. “Zero. Right?”

  I have to agree. I stand, brushing down my jeans. “Well—”

  “And Katherine made me stay with you. Remember how she manipulated that? Like I keep saying, that was to set up the test. To see if you could get me to tell.”

  She puts her hand on the wrought-iron stair rail. Then stops. “Oh!”

  “What?” I shade my eyes with one hand. “Are you okay?”

  She takes the pavilion’s three steps down to the grass. Turns to me, looks up at me, her face bathed in a shimmer of sunshine. A puff of breeze ruffles her hair.

  “Mercer? I don’t want to mention this. But I’m sorry. I have to. What if Katherine sent those people to Quinn’s? To scare me out of there, and scare Quinn away, and make it logical that I stay with you? She completely knows where Quinn lives, right?”

  “Yeah, sure but—”

  “And she knew I was there.”

  I try to think. “Did she?”

  “See? She’s amazing.” She shakes her head. “People are never what they seem, are they?”

  Katherine sent whatever bad guys to Quinn’s house? And then used that disturbing episode to make it seem compelling for Ashlyn to stay with me? Only with you, Mercer, she’d said. “You mean—to get rid of Quinn? Because she was too close to revealing the truth?”

  “Oh my god, Mercer. Yes. You’re brilliant. Come on. Now we have to take charge.” Ashlyn starts to walk away. Then turns, beckoning me. “Come on. I’ll tell you everything. But not here. And you have to promise, word of total sacred honor, never to tell. Ever.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Our shoes tramp in unison across the grass, and then crunch onto the grave
l of the parking lot. “We can’t talk at your house, either,” Ashlyn says.

  She looks around, scouting, eyes shaded with one hand. “No one could have tampered with your car, I guess. We’ll talk there. But this will be the only time we’ll discuss it. Okay?”

  I’m not sure about any of this. “Okay.”

  “If they followed you here, or me, we’re screwed.” She shakes her head as we walk, then waves her arms, gesturing at the lush maples, and the rows of coppery mums, and the parallel lines of fresh-mowed lawn around us. “But, hey. We’re not in prison. We’re allowed to go to the park, that’s reasonable, right? Let’s drive. Like yes, nice time at the park, now we’re going to, I don’t know, the mall. There must be a mall. I’ll watch and see if anyone follows us.”

  “Okay.” I say again. I think about “reasonable doubt.” My whole life is doubt. Question is, what’s reasonable?

  I click the gadget to unlock the Subaru. Not many other cars in the lot, and they all appear to be empty. I can’t believe I’m looking. Driving is not my favorite anyway, though usually I’m fine. “They don’t know what you’ve told me, Ashlyn,” I say, half pretending and half serious. And I’m somehow saying “they” as if it’s an actual entity.

  “They wouldn’t hurt us at this point,” I go on, opening the door, “because they don’t know what I know.” There’s nothing to gain by arguing, or dismissing her. I push the ignition. Feel ridiculously relieved the engine rumbles instead of exploding. “Right? They don’t know if you’ve passed or failed.”

  “Unless they’re listening.” Ashlyn jabs on the radio, some Top 40 station. “All I can say is Mercer, you have to help me. You have to. The people who killed Tasha Nicole were out to punish me. Listen. I’d told them they shouldn’t use Hot Stuff to sell drugs. I told them, someone’s gonna find out. That’s why I was always at Ron’s—trying to convince him. That’s why I kept asking for my phone. To call him. To warn him.”

  “Warn him of what?” I pull onto Witherby Street and wind up behind a chugging truck, keeping to the speed limit as we head to the highway. The car works normally. It’s not raining. Fine. The mall.

  Ashlyn flops her head against the back of her seat. “I’d … told someone else about it. The drugs. Then he died. In a car accident.” She fusses with her seat belt, and at the stoplight I glance at her. She’s staring out the windshield. “Was it them? I don’t know. Maybe it was an accident. I don’t know. But I was terrified. And they said they didn’t like rats. That’s what they thought I was, a rat.”

  The light turns green. The music thumps, a bone-jarring bass. We’re in four-lane traffic now. I navigate to the middle. Ashlyn is still talking.

  “And one day when I thought she was at a play date, they stole Tasha. And threatened to murder her. To pay me back for telling. I honestly didn’t think they would—how could you kill a poor defenseless child? But it’s–you know. Drugs. Money. Power. They’re … I can tell you who they are, sure, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Anyway, I guess they decided it would be worse for me, worse than killing me, if they could frame me for my own daughter’s murder. At least Quinn convinced the jury I didn’t do it. But if we reveal the truth about them…”

  She rubs her hand over her face. “Then we’re both in danger. That’s why I keep telling you—we need a story that’s true enough to convince everyone it was an accident. Like what happened to you. That’ll stop the police from looking for the real murderers. When that happens, I’m safe. You’re safe. Because ‘people’ will think you believed me.”

  We’re at the exit for the mall, air conditioner full blast, my left turn signal blinking, its mechanical click an underscore to the progression of my thoughts.

  “So you didn’t tell the police about it,” I say.

  “Please,” she says. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Did you explain this to Joe Rissinelli?” We have the green arrow to go onto Route 1, but I wait, wanting to see her reaction.

  “Oh my god.” Her face has gone white, a ghost against a black leather seatback. “I kind of did.”

  The possibilities shift and shuffle. Say for a moment her story is true. If Joe’s a good guy, and Ashlyn revealed more than she should, he may be in danger, too. If he’s a bad guy, he knows Ashlyn has a big mouth. Either way, it could explain why he’s gone.

  “Either he’s in trouble, or he’s involved.” Ashlyn sums up my own conclusions. “And it’s all my fault. You have to help me. You have to get me—us—out of this.”

  There’s something in her voice. True fear? Or, I must also consider, she’s a nut job. How risky are the consequences if I make the wrong choice? Someone pulls up behind us. They honk. I flinch, and accelerate onto the highway.

  “Silver car,” she says.

  “Millions of cars are silver,” I say, but I’m looking in the rearview. It’s not there anymore.

  “You know what?” Ashlyn says. “Let’s get back to your house. They think we’re working on the book. We should do that. We don’t want them to wonder where we are.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Now, just after midnight, the fifth box remains untouched. I’m aching to get in there and rip it open, but Katherine’s call was a reminder that she’s monitoring me, and she’s expecting this book.

  In two days.

  I sit, elbows on my desk, propping my chin on my fists. There’s no question I have to give up what I want to do—find the truth about Dex—and fulfill that obligation. Even if Katherine was sleeping with my husband. My first goal has to be to protect myself. And, I suppose, Ashlyn. We have to do exactly what we promised.

  Here in the gloom of my study, I yearn to ask someone for advice: What should I do? What do I believe? What’s right? The cursor on my computer screen blinks at me, awaiting my decision. Until 491 (it’s after midnight) days ago, I’d consult Dex. Or talk to an editor. In college, my best friend, Kristin, always knew what to do. In the very old days, I’d go to my mom.

  But now I have no one. No touchstone for reality. Dex is gone. My friends and colleagues are gone. Katherine is definitely gone.

  As for the missing Joe Riss, Ashlyn’s now convinced her bad guys are responsible. “Holy crap, they got him, too,” she said as we drove home. She was crying, dabbing her eyes with a napkin from the glove box. “And it’s all my fault.”

  You have to help me! I can almost hear her voice. What if the jury got it right? That would mean I’m putting Ashlyn in danger because of my own—I don’t want to say obsession. But maybe my own one-woman conspiracy? I wanted to be the jury. But if I’m the executioner instead, that makes me the guilty person, not Ashlyn.

  Ashlyn is long asleep. She became so agitated after her realization about Joe that she made me take her to Walgreen’s for pills, and closed the door to her room at 8:30. We both knew I had Ambien of my own, but offering her one was a touchy subject. We’d ordered Pad Thai, neither of us ate much, and silently watched the news on TV. Almost silently.

  “I’m not going to say another word,” she told me. “It’s all on you.”

  Since then I’ve been sitting at my desk, procrastinating. Deciding. The manuscript draft is due in forty-eight hours. What am I supposed to write? Did Ashlyn kill her daughter? How can I untangle all the stories?

  The computer screen goes to black again, tired of waiting for me. Truth is, I’ll never know the truth.

  Covering a trial seems so simple now. You listen to testimony, you choose the best parts of what witnesses said, you add thoughtful analysis and reaction. It’s up to the jury to make sense of it and agree on a decision. The jurors in Suffolk Superior Courtroom 306 had to decide whether, beyond a reasonable doubt, Ashlyn Bryant murdered her daughter. They said no. The jury set her free.

  Who am I to argue? Whatever happens now, that verdict cannot be undone.

  I can hear her voice, now, pleading with me.

  You have to help me!

  Ashlyn insists I need to save her life by giving her a new tr
uth. I suppose it’d be easy enough—I’m a storyteller—to concoct a believable story.

  I have an idea.

  YOUR CHILD, TOO

  “Please, please, please,” Ashlyn begged Luke and Valerie. The three crowded together against the drink-laden bar at Hot Stuff; Valerie a tousle-haired millennial and newcomer to Dayton, whose permissive parents allowed her free rein and unlimited credit card access, and Luke, a big-shot money manager of some kind out of Chicago, Ashlyn wasn’t sure. First time he came to town on business, he’d hit on her. Each time he came to Dayton after that, he called her. Now it was her turn to get a favor.

  “Please say Tasha and I are coming to Chicago to visit you, okay?” Ashlyn smiled as she asked, knowing just the angle to tilt her head to make her eyes luminous. “Just if anyone asks. They won’t, no one will. But just in case? Cover for me?”

  She was so thankful they both agreed. And without asking any questions. Later, she’d thank Luke in the only way men really understand. As for Valerie, (fill in here—ask Ashlyn)

  The whole mess had started a month ago. And maybe just maybe, it would all go away. Maybe no one would ever find that little body. So far, everyone—except her stepfather Tom, of course—actually believed the story that Tasha was simply somewhere else. But her mother, increasingly insistent, was beginning to ask questions. And that was a problem. Ashlyn had to protect her. Even if it meant alienating her.

  All of Tasha’s possessions, though. They tormented her. Tashie’s pink bedroom, as if it were waiting for her to return. Her four Tiggers, all lined up. Her Donald Duck inner tube. If Ashlyn was keeping up the charade that Tasha was alive, she couldn’t dispose of them. Dispose, she thought. And, hiding in a solitary metal bathroom stall, she burst into tears again before she regrouped, reset, and hit the bar again. She had to keep up appearances.