Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Got that right,” Overbey says. “Anything else, Ms. Hennessey?”

  I don’t see why they couldn’t have simply told me this, and it’s clear they’re making fun of me. But whatever. I can take it. I get to see Rogowicz in real life, and hey, I’m still supposed to be writing a book so I might as well take the opportunity to ask him some questions.

  “Yes, in fact, there is,” I say. “How did Holt die?”

  “Car accident.” Rogowicz says.

  “You have the police file?”

  “Yup.”

  Pulling teeth. “Could you—”

  “Hang on,” he says. And disappears from the screen.

  “Any other theories?” Overbey is flat-out mocking me now. I know people hate reporters. This guy’s probably been burned by a few. Probably only putting up with me because Ashlyn’s at my house.

  “It was a good idea, Mercer.” Koletta flashes him another lay off look. “I think my partner was assuming you wouldn’t have believed us if we’d told you we’d look into it. Reporters never believe the police.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Koletta’s conciliatory, and I’ll pretend to be unaware of Overbey’s attitude. Plus, he owes me for Joe Rissinelli. “Could I ask you, Detective—Koletta says you gave Ashlyn back her phone? After the verdict?”

  He nods.

  “Do you know the number?”

  “I’m back,” Rogowicz’s voice comes from the computer screen. “Here’s the file,” he says, holding up a thick manila folder. He pulls out a black-and-white form. I can’t read it as he holds it up to the camera, but I see there are boxes checked and the space where the responding officer fills in the details is crowded with handwritten notes. “It’s on paper, we only went totally computer two years ago. I can scan and send,” he says.

  “Great,” I say. “But can you just tell me what happened?”

  “Rainy night, car crashed into a tree.”

  It takes a fraction of a second for me to recover and reset, but I do. This is not connected. Not about me. “Why?” I ask.

  “Yeah well, some cokehead ran Holt off the road. Stole a car from a parking lot, went nuts. There was a witness, some driver going the other way called it in. We found the car later, license was off of it, but the VIN, you know, we traced it. Car’s owner had a solid alibi. We caught the cokehead. Wasn’t his first rodeo. Plead to everything, drug dealing, drug use, possession with intent, reckless driving resulting in death, buncha other car thefts.”

  My big idea hits a dead end. But at least they’d checked out the—wait, though. “How did you know who Barker Holt was? That he was connected to Ashlyn? And when did you make that connection?”

  “Can’t reveal sources, ma’am,” Rogowicz says.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with that,” Overbey adds.

  “Might want to ask Joe.” Koletta winks at me.

  Joe told the cops what Ashlyn told him? That’s interesting. That means they didn’t check Holt out until after Ashlyn’s arrest. During the trial.

  “Before you go, Detective,” I say to the Skype screen. “Just a detail for my story. What was the car owner’s name? The owner of the car that got stolen, I mean.”

  “Ahhh.” Rogowicz runs his finger down the page. “He’s a Denholm L. Shaw, from Dayton.”

  “Where’s he now?” I ask.

  “Do you have a point with this?” Overbey says. “Or are you just playing cop?”

  “I didn’t hear all that,” Rogowicz says. “Are you talking to me?”

  Of course. They looked at Barker Holt’s death after Joe told them that name. Of course they would. That was the first time Barker Holt’s name had been mentioned in connection with Ashlyn. Being dead, and his death adjudicated, they crossed him off their suspect list—I imagine with some relief, since that reinforced their certainty that Ashlyn alone was guilty.

  But I’m a writer, and I understand how we never quite know where a story begins. And in a book like mine, I have to follow the threads of Tasha’s murder both ways—forward through the cover-up, but also backward all the way to the beginning.

  Now, sitting here staring at a cop seven hundred miles away in Dayton and feeling the derision from two cops in Boston, I imagine what might have happened, and why, and what happens when a person is so single-mindedly determined to answer one question that they ignore another. The police were focused on investigating Tasha’s death. When they also should have been—maybe—investigating Barker Holt’s death.

  And of course, they thought they had the Barker Holt death solved.

  “Sorry to keep you, detectives,” I say.

  “Nothing but time.” Overbey looks at his watch to let me know he’s being sarcastic.

  “Huh?” Rogowicz says.

  “Don’t mind them,” Koletta says.

  “Were there fingerprints in the Shaw car? I mean, other than Denholm Shaw’s.” Whoever that is. I can find out if need be.

  “We knew from other thefts this genius always wore gloves,” Rogowicz is saying. “So not sure they ever—hang on.” Over the Skype I hear the sound of pages turning. Rogowicz, head down and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, must be leafing through the file. I see the top edges of each page flip by.

  “Yeah,” he says, without looking up. “They printed the car. Nothing from the perp—but again, gloves.” I see the file close. He looks into the camera again. “But yeah, fingerprints. Shaw’s. And a few others. But no matches.”

  Koletta has crushed her paper coffee cup, and tosses it past Overbey and into a wastebasket. I remember what I wrote about the reporters in the press room, waiting for the Ashlyn verdict, one of them—was it Joe Riss?—doing exactly the same thing with a cup. I wonder if Ashlyn is asleep on my living room couch again. Ashlyn, who always gets rid of whatever’s in her way. Ashlyn, who makes her own reality.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” I say.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  There’s nothing more timelessly serene than a New England September twilight. The Linsdale streetlights glimmer, almost unnecessarily, and a pin spot highlights the stark carillon tower of the white-shingled Congregational Church. The bronze Minuteman statue stationed on the town green grasps his musket, forever at the ready. A sliver of moon glows in the steely pale sky. Not quite day, and not quite night. Or some of each.

  It’s a balance, seeing the world two ways at once.

  Ristretto has put stubby votive candles on the outside tables and it’s cozily crowded. Parents sharing chicken fingers with fidgeting kids, a white-haired couple deep in conversation, and a twosome that I peg from their starts and stops of conversation as on a first date. Or maybe the final one.

  Ashlyn and I are well into wine and apps. She was back on the couch when I got home, but who knows what she was doing while I was with the cops. Probably chatting on her supposedly nonexistent phone with—who knows. I’d told her I was famished, and needed to unwind after my cemetery visit. She seemed to buy it.

  The candlelight reflects in her sunglasses, which she refuses to take off. Otherwise we almost match, like Detectives Hilliard and Overbey. We’re in T-shirts and jeans, both with little crossbody purses. I wonder if hers contains that phone.

  “Did you see your neighbors moved away?” she asks, examining the bruschetta. “Those people across the street? Where the cops were parked that day. The moving van woke me up, like at about two. They had tons of stuff. Took, like, hours.”

  So she was either sleeping or watching out the window all that time. Good. Whatever occupies her. At least she wasn’t going through my drawers.

  “Yeah, you know their son is a nut,” I say. I take a sip of water, ignoring my wine. I’m tired of wine. “He almost gave me a heart attack when I pulled out of the driveway. Just before you came out, actually. He’s a maniac.”

  Ashlyn drinks her pinot as I describe what happened. Takes a bite of bruschetta. A chunk of tomato falls to her plate. “Yow. Nine lives, Merce. You could have been killed. Again.”


  Again. The sounds of the restaurant fade, and in one chilling out-of-body moment I picture what she means by “again,” my vision of it as dazzling and realistic as a big-screen movie. I’m driving the car, almost like this morning, turning the corner toward the oak tree. Rain pelts the windshield. Wipers slash. Dex is buckled in beside me. Sophie, blue-striped dress smeared with birthday cake frosting, is car-seated in the back, pretending to sing along with the radio like she always did. In the rearview I glimpse Sophie flapping her arms, pointing through the sunroof window at the storm. Sophie, fearless, loved storms, loved thunder and what she called “light-ting.” Hurrying to get home, I accelerate around the corner and into that turn. The thunder crashes. “Look!” Sophie calls out. “Light-ting! Mama, look!” We always looked.

  Maybe I looked.

  Maybe I swerved. Maybe hit a puddle, then, or a gully, or some random wrong in the pavement. Maybe I was trying to avoid the stupid Rayburn kid. I’ve emotionally censored what happened, made that into the darkness, I know that. But maybe the kid sped on, without a scratch or a backward glance. No one would ever know.

  And we were left—I was, at least—to pick up the pieces.

  An accident.

  “You okay?” Ashlyn says. “I ate the last bruschetta thing.”

  “We should go.” I close the door on my vision. Wipe under one eye with a forefinger. Wipe the picture from my mind. I do not want to discuss death, anyone’s but Tasha’s, with this woman. “Let’s bang out another chapter or two. I’d hate to miss our deadlines.”

  “Oh, you heard from Katherine again?” She drains her wine.

  “Nope.” Such a mean girl. As if I needed reminding about Katherine. “Or Joe either.” I’m so pleased with my lie.

  “I checked my Twitter,” she says, forehead furrowing, “and Joe hasn’t posted for a while. That’s so scary. So sad. I really fear for his—” She stops. “I mean…”

  I say nothing, waiting to see how she’ll weasel out of this. She’s specifically told me she has no phone. I know she does. I have my laptop with me, as always, so she couldn’t have used that. She’s careless. And now she’s blown it.

  “I did have my phone, how dumb am I?” She pulls down her sunglasses so I can see her face, all wide-eyed, such a silly girl. “It was in the pocket of my roller bag. I guess Quinn must have stashed it there, when she packed my stuff. I never knew, can you believe it?”

  No, I think. Not a word of it. “That’s great,” I say. Like no big deal.

  “Anyway, it scares me that he hasn’t posted.” She glosses over her lie, as if it never happened. “Clearly he’s in big trouble. I wish … we could help him somehow.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “You are? I’m not.”

  “The police are on it, Ash.” I’m playing along now, playing with her like she did me. In the end, I’d told the police about Ashlyn’s “bad guys out to get me” story, about drug dealers kidnapping Tasha and killing her and threatening Ashlyn to keep quiet. The cops couldn’t stop laughing. I had to agree. And I’m sheepish for more-than-half-believing it. Now it’s almost entertaining, since she persists in floating ominous stories about Joe. Stories I know are not true. I check my watch.

  “Let’s go,” I say, standing.

  “But I told him, you know? About everything? And now Joe’s … whatever.” She looks out over the town center, as if she might see him there. “I’m sure they got him, Mercer. It’s horrible. And it’s all my fault.”

  “It’s very worrisome.” I make it sound dramatic, just to entertain myself.

  As we walk, it gets darker by the second, as early autumn nights do. The edges of the buildings soften in the dusk, the glow of the streetlights take over. Ashlyn takes off her sunglasses.

  “Heard from your parents?” I ask as we cross Lincoln Street. “How’re they doing on that cruise?”

  “I told you, they’re out of my life. And I’m never going back to Ohio,” she says. “Dayton is like, a zero. I’m thinking—California. Someplace they don’t know me. I’ll start over, be someone new.”

  “But maybe the book will make you famous,” I say. “Good-famous. Maybe you’ll be on all the talk shows, the poor victim of the misguided justice system. The grieving young mother who was almost unfairly sent away for life. They could make a TV movie, you know? A big star might play you.”

  She looks at me, intent, the most interested she’s ever been. We arrive at my front walk. She pauses at the first flagstone. Adjusts the strap of her shoulder bag.

  “Can you write it that way?” she asks.

  “Let’s give it a try.” I walk past her, unlock and open the door. “Kitchen or study?”

  “Study.”

  “Good call,” I say.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  I slide behind the desk, click on my computer. Make a few adjustments, open my manuscript. It’s exactly where I left it. I click a few more keys, make a few more adjustments. Type a few words.

  Ashlyn’s on the wing chair, one leg slung over the upholstered arm, shoulder bag on the floor. She’s leafing through a magazine. Appropriately enough, it’s the new Insider with her on the cover. ASHLYN FREE says the headline. She’s ignoring me. Perfect.

  “So I have a couple of quick questions,” I say, still typing. I pause, waiting, and then it’s time. “Ah, okay. How well do you know Denholm Shaw?”

  “Who?” She narrows her eyes at me, with an expression of hate that goes by so quickly I might have missed it if I hadn’t spent the last sixteen days with her. She throws the magazine onto the rug.

  “Freaking Luke,” she says. “How did he find you?”

  Luke? She’d said there was no Luke.

  “He didn’t find me,” I say to cover my astonishment. “How’d you get Luke from that?” Luke?

  “No one wants to be called Denholm.” She grimaces. “Ugh. Luke’s his middle name, so I call him that. But why would you ask about him? Did you hear me talking to him? When he called the other night? Damn. I thought you were dead asleep.”

  She stands up, steps closer to the desk.

  The other night? Maybe that’s the phone ringing that I thought was in my dream? Or when I thought she was talking to the delivery guy in the kitchen. She was on the phone. I’m glad to have two feet of solid wood desk between us now.

  “So there is a Luke.” I say. “You said he was made up. You said his last name was Walsh.”

  She’s picked up Dex’s rock again, shifts it from palm to palm. I remember the first time she did that, when she semi-threatened me with the chloroform search. I was suspicious then. Now I’m certain.

  “Of course there’s a Luke,” she says. “I only made up the last name. I had to keep him out of it all, right? Easier if he doesn’t exist. When my book is done, we can be together again.”

  “Because he didn’t kill Tasha,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sure not,” she says. “We all flew to Boston, one happy family, and, you know.” She pauses. “Oh, it was so very, very, deeply sad. I never saw her again. I have no idea what happened.”

  The rock thunks into her other hand. “I’m completely innocent. The jury said so, right? And no one can change that.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t like her with that rock. “Is Valerie real?”

  “Geez Louise,” she says. “No, okay?”

  Her face changes, like something has surprised her. She looks down at her shoulder bag. Which is vibrating.

  “Your phone.” I say. “Better answer.” I come around from behind the desk, put out my hand. “I’ll take that rock.”

  As soon as I grab it, I go back behind the desk. Stash the rock in the drawer. Cross my fingers.

  “Luke?” She’s pulled out her phone, says the name out loud. “Why are you calling me? You were only supposed to call me if it’s an emergency. What’s the fricking emergency?”

  She glances up to see if I’m paying attention. I pretend to be fascinated by my computer. Which I actuall
y am. She turns her back on me, hunching over her cell phone.

  “The cops told you—what? Shit. You’ve got to leave town,” she says. “Now. Just let me know where you are.”

  At that the closet door opens.

  “Fool ya once,” Overbey says as he emerges. “Shame on you.”

  “Fool ya twice?” Rogowicz’s voice comes from the Skype I’d set up on my computer. I swivel the screen so he can see her—and she him. “Still shame on you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  There’s no way they’ll let me write the inside story of Ashlyn Bryant’s arrest for the murder of Barker Holt. I know that. It’s doubly annoying Joe Riss gets to write it for the Globe. And triply annoying that in this continually role-reversing world, he’s going to be interviewing me for it later this morning. Everyone covered her arrest, of course. But “details” as they say, are “sketchy.”

  That’s because I’m the only one who has them. Only Mercer. Ha ha.

  Katherine’s put my book on hold “until we see what happens.” “You are awesome,” she’d said on the phone. Like there was nothing else between us but the book. I’ll finish with this interview, then get on with my own truth. Who knows if that’ll include the book. Or Katherine.

  I’d watched the blue-and-gray police cruiser, with Ashlyn handcuffed and sulking in the back seat, speed away. Then I ripped the sheets and the comforters from the guest room bed, grabbed up all the towels she used, and my grapefruit body wash, and my sunscreen, and threw it all in the trash. The new toaster, too. With Ashlyn gone, the whole house changed.

  Then, in what felt like an exorcism, ten at night, I pulled down all the multicolored stickies from the guest room walls, taking solace from hearing the repetition as each one peeled away from the pale yellow paint, like removing a layer of doubt. I crumpled the little squares and destroyed them, including all the unhappiness and suspicion they stood for. I stacked the books and stomped on the boxes and crammed everything, including the unopened box five, into green trash bags—horrible but the only color I have—and threw that all away too. All of it.