CHAPTER 15
Like certain devotees, who fancy they will deceive the Almighty, and secure pardon by prayer with their lips, and assuming the humble attitude of penitence, Thérèse displayed humility, striking her chest, finding words of repentance, without having anything at the bottom of her heart save fear and cowardice.
THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
The room was not as cold as she might have imagined it would be. The metal chair, however, was ice-cold; she shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
Across from her, the two police officers shifted too, hardly any more comfortable than she was. Dazed, she heard their voices as though through a fog. She felt like she hadn’t slept in years.
She had texted Frank like Eric had told her to. She’d known Frank Mancini a long time, had practically grown up alongside him. He was big and took up a lot of space. He was lion-like: loud and aggressive, with a full head of curly hair that had turned iron gray over the last few years. He wore a perpetually rumpled dark blue suit that made him look like he lived roughly. Impulsive-seeming in the courtroom and here in the police station as well. He had a good heart and a brotherly soft spot for Sarah. She knew she could count on him.
“She’s told you all she knows,” he was saying now in his strident, abrasive voice. “She had no connection to that woman.”
Ignoring him, the officer tried to press her further. “What was your exact relationship with the victim’s husband?” he asked.
Frank looked at her, shaking his head.
“Don’t answer that,” he said.
Turning to the police, he added calmly, “We’ll get bail on this. She’s not a flight risk, nowhere near it. She’s got kids.”
“Mrs. Rock, this could be extremely easy for you,” said the other officer. “All we need to know is—”
Frank stood up, his frame imposing in the small room. “That’s enough,” he said sternly. “Are you charging her? This is all circumstantial, and you know it.”
“Tell us about the tree,” the policeman said, ignoring him.
Sarah blinked. “What tree?”
“The one on your country property.”
“What about it?”
“You said you were going to plant a new one or take care of the old one. Why was that?”
“You don’t need to answer any of this,” Frank warned her.
“It’s all right, Frank.” She thought of the beautiful tree, broken in two. “The tree that was there was damaged from the storm, six months ago. It was just something I needed to take care of.”
“It’s also irrelevant,” Frank insisted, “like everything else you keep asking her. Listen, unless you’re charging her, she’s not going to be answering any more questions for you.” He reached for Sarah’s arm. “Come on, Sarah, I think we’re done here.”
“Just a minute,” the cop said, not moving from his seat.
The officer slammed photographs of Hannah’s body lying on leaves with a bloody wound on the side of her skull. Sarah could see a shadow of a tree in the picture.
“Mrs. Rock, you do understand that’s where we found her body?”
Sarah stiffened.
“That’s right.” The officer nodded, as though he were explaining something to an idiot. “Her body. Hannah’s body.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“This is what I’m trying to tell you, Mrs. Rock,” the officer said. “She was found under your tree, the one on your property. Didn’t you say you were there last week? Don’t you think you’d better tell us about that?”
Frank held out his hand to calm Sarah. “These are empty threats,” he said. “There isn’t any—”
He stabbed his finger at Sarah. “There’s a body in her backyard! We have witnesses saying she stalked this woman. So please don’t tell me we don’t have a fucking leg to stand on, counselor, because we do!”
Sarah was in shock. What was Hannah’s body doing in her backyard? None of it made sense, she thought.
The officers placed photographs in front of her of Hanna’s dead body lying on leaves.
“Are you charging her or not?” Frank said impatiently. “My client is under great duress. We need to consult her doctor as well. We only agreed to this interview to help you; everything you’ve said is circumstantial. If you were charging her, you’d have read her her rights by now.”
“This is only going to get harder for you, Mrs. Rock,” the other officer promised. “And as far as your therapist goes—Dr.—Helena Robin, right?” He flipped to a page in his notebook. “We’ve already spoken to her. She told us you may have thought that the victim’s husband had a relationship with you. She thinks maybe you were obsessed him.”
“I wasn’t,” Sarah said.
“Then what were you doing?”
“We had a relationship. A real one.”
“You and Ben?”
“Yes.”
“An affair?”
“That’s enough!” Frank shouted. “Here’s what you have: a dead woman buried in my client’s backyard. So what? Anyone could have put her there, and you know it. Not a single witness can corroborate what you’re suggesting, except circumstantially. And we’re going on the word of the husband, with whom even my client admits she had an affair. Shouldn’t you be questioning him?”
“Don’t worry about him,” one of the officers said. “We’re talking to him, too. But so far, his story’s looking a lot more credible than hers.”
Exasperated, Frank helped her to her feet. “We’ll be going now,” he said.
“Door’s unlocked,” the officer said diffidently.
Frank led her out. “It’s going to be okay, Sarah,” he said softly. “They’ve got nothing. Next time, you just keep on telling them, ‘Get me my lawyer’ until they stop talking.”
They walked out together and stood outside the station. Frank held her for a moment, comforting her.
“I know you’re confused,” he said. “But please, do not talk to anyone about this, especially this Ben Turner guy. Do you understand me?”
Sarah nodded. “Why haven’t they arrested me yet?” she asked.
“They will as soon as they can, trust me,” he said. “I don’t want to scare you, but for now, you need to stay home. Any reason they can come up with, they’ll do it.” He ran a hand through his gray mane. “I’ll take you home, and you should try to get some rest. We can talk again in the morning.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks. Can I speak to the kids, at least?”
“Not now.” He held onto her hand and looked her straight in the eye. “It would be better if you didn’t put them through this right now,” he said, quietly but clearly. “I think they should stay at school this weekend, if you can keep them there; it’ll be better for everyone. I’ll take care of everything. Put your phone on silent, and get some rest. Talk to that doctor of yours, if you can.”
“One other thing, Frank.” She leaned in close, reaching into her pocket. She drew out the bookmark she’d taken from the bookstore. “I was with Lawrence—Ben—in this store. The week before we went up to the country house. When I went back, they didn’t remember him, and I was sure he was lying—but I saw a security camera there. That should prove that we were there together. Please.”
Frank looked down at the address on the bookmark. He sighed.
“I promise I’ll look into it,” he said. He hooked his arm into hers. “Now let’s get out of here.”
As they walked past the precinct, a silhouette in an open window caught Sarah’s eye. Something about the man seemed familiar. She squinted to look.
It was Ben Turner, apparently waiting alone in an office inside the police precinct. He looked out the window at her, his face impassive.
Her eyes never left his. He glared back at her, his once-soft eyes now steely and unyielding.
“Come on,” Frank said, almost picking her up to move her away from the window.
She burst into tears as her attorney pulled
her away. How on earth would anyone believe her over the calm, collected-looking man in that office? For a nightmarish second, she doubted herself, too.
As she passed the open window, the steely look in those blue eyes broke—and Sarah saw the tiniest smirk cross her former lover’s face.
CHAPTER 16
Thérèse, residing in damp obscurity, in gloomy, crushing silence, saw life expand before her in all its nakedness, each night bringing the same cold couch, and each morn the same empty day.
THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
That night, Sarah dreamt of the eyes.
She had seen them at Coney Island, on a day when she had taken the children out for a special afternoon on the rides. They had driven out to the boardwalk, excited and jumpy. Eight-year-old Jason had been asking to go for months; all his friends had gone already, he’d said. He didn’t remember visiting as a baby; she barely remembered it herself. And of course, what he wanted, Darcy wanted. Coney Island was the glittering treasure that they were after that summer.
It had been a sunny day on the coast, hot and sticky despite the ocean breeze. As soon as they had arrived, she saw crowds of people gathering in herds along the boardwalk—they ate mindlessly, their jaws laboring as they lumbered forward. The sun shone on pink foreheads, tanned arms glistening with sweat, and salt-wet hair. It had been impossible to walk in a straight line. In the distance the sand shimmered, slick like a mirage.
She stopped to buy tickets for one of the rides. When she came out of the shade, Jason and Darcy were gone. She looked frantically along the snaking lines, calling their names loudly. The noise around her had grown louder: music and announcements, screeches and hisses from the rollercoaster rides, babies crying, teenagers shouting. The noises had blended together in a sickening swirl, and she felt the world spinning around her.
A face leaned in, far too close, and in that moment, she had seen the eyes.
The man they belonged to was dressed in a colorful costume, a clown or a performer. Had there been a parade? His face glistened with sweat; wet stains ran along the seams of his costume. She recoiled from him, but he had only smiled wider, his teeth yellow and crooked. She felt paralyzed, but, incredibly, he’d been friendly, helpful: he’d taken her arm and brought her around a corner to a booth with uniformed people. They’d paged Jason and Darcy and brought the three of them together again. The children had only been gone a short time, and they were unafraid.
She was terrified. Helpful as he had been, there was something in the man’s eyes that had struck her with fear. She had seen something horrible that she recognized: an irreconcilable craziness, a chaos that threw her own fear back at her, mocking her loss even as she was frozen with sorrow and despair. It was something she would see again at the worst moments in her life; the moments when her fear left her with nothing to do but stand, stock-still, and stare helplessly at her reflection in the mirror.
It was the madness she recognized in herself.
When she woke, it was past midnight. She looked around and saw that she was in her own bed, still wearing the same clothes from the day before.
Her head pounding, she went to the bathroom and opened her medicine cabinet. All of her medications stared back at her. Had there always been so many? She found the aspirin and popped two in her mouth, letting their bitter taste sit on her tongue a moment before washing them down with water.
She could hear Eric in the kitchen, clanging around. She imagined him pouring a beer, settling in for some evening sports with a bowl of chips and guacamole. The thought comforted her, if only slightly: something was as usual.
She opened her computer and searched online for delusional disorder. Pages of articles appeared. Eyes glued to the computer, she clicked on one of the results and read to herself.
Delusional disorder is a mental illness characterized by false beliefs about external reality that persist despite evidence to the contrary. Symptomatic of psychosis, it is usually treated with medication and extensive cognitive therapy.
As she read, images of herself popped into her mind. She saw herself approaching Lawrence in the park, the two of them embracing. She shook her head pushing the images away, searching through other articles.
Primary erotomania or de Clérambault’s syndrome is a delusion most commonly found among women, generally manifesting as the false belief that another individual, usually a man, is in love with them.
She heard Eric moving around, now in the living room, and paused. The noise ceased, and she continued reading, her eyes darting around the screen.
…most famous case involved a fifty-three-year-old French dressmaker who was convinced that King George V was deeply in love with her. She pursued him relentlessly, and when he ignored her, she would say he was in denial and accuse him of being involved in…
The noises started again. Had Eric said anything to her when she’d come home from the precinct? She couldn’t remember. She clicked back to the previous article.
Delusions are imaginary situations, most of which are based on events that could occur in real life. Typical examples include the persistent sense of being followed, being loved, or being…
She heard a noise behind her and spun to find Eric there.
“What did you tell them?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, shutting her computer. “There was nothing for me to tell.”
His eyes were serious. “You know that isn’t true,” he said.
“What?”
“It isn’t true, Sarah. You know it, and I know it.”
“What are you talking about?” She looked at him. “I’d never hurt anyone, you know that.”
He waited for her to go on.
“It was him,” she said. “I know it. He used me, Eric.”
“Used you how? How could he have done that?”
“Too easily.” She felt her eyes welling up and knew it was time. “I’m sorry you have to hear this, but yes, I had an affair,” she said. “It didn’t mean anything—I needed something to make me feel like I existed.” The words and tears poured uncontrollably. “I haven’t been happy, Eric. You know that. You go on these trips—and I know something happened between you and her, it’s obvious, so—”
Eric shook his head sadly. “Think, Sarah,” he said. “I know you can remember.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, confused. “I told you, I didn’t touch that woman! How could you think I am capable of anything like that?”
“You are capable of it, Sarah.”
“How can you say that to me?”
“Because it’s true!”
“What the hell are you talking about, Eric?”
Her husband threw his hands up, exasperated. “You tried to kill Juliette!” he shouted.
There was a long silence. Sarah sat down hard on the bed.
“You don’t remember?” he went on. “Of course you don’t. It was before I left for the Atlanta trip. You were convinced that I was cheating on you. But I never did that. It wasn’t me, Sarah. Your father—” His voice trailed off.
“My father?” Sarah echoed, her voice breaking. Images shot through her mind: an open door; Eric and Juliette sitting at a table; herself, screaming at them.
“He wasn’t there for you. For either of you. But I have been.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and saw her father. A strong, handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes; a stormy sky. She saw him leaving, walking out; in another room, her mother cried hysterically.
“You stalked her for months, Sarah,” Eric went on. “Don’t you remember any of that?”
“No, I would never—”
“You attacked her.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You were choking her. I had to stop you. Don’t you remember doing that? Don’t you remember the struggle we had afterwards, the help we tried to get you? Do you think Dr. Robin was the only therapist we went to?”
Sarah shook her head. “I remember, there were others. But I didn’t trust them.”
“She was the onl
y one willing to try something other than having you committed!” he cried. “She was the only one who didn’t give up on you. Besides me.”
“You want me out of here,” she said. “You want me gone, you want me—”
He came closer to her, his face pleading. “I want you to be the woman I married again. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Sarah.”
Sarah turned and saw her disheveled appearance in the mirror. Her face seemed nightmarishly different, the face of a stranger. None of this made any sense.
“Then why are you gone all the time?” she screamed. “If that’s true and you want to salvage this, why the hell are you never here?”
She broke down, sobbing. She thought she heard Eric come closer and anticipated his hand on her back; in her mind she saw him comforting her.
When she looked up, she was alone, with only her reflection looking on: a distorted version of herself.
Dr. Robin agreed to meet with her again. It had to be brief, she said, as she had another engagement to go to after—but Sarah didn’t care. She had never been so relieved to see the therapist. They talked for a while before the doctor retrieved a folder from the filing cabinet next to her desk. She handed it to Sarah, a serious look on her face.
“What’s this?” Sarah asked.
“It’s all there. I thought we’d made progress. Perhaps we had. Are you ready to talk about your parents now,” Dr. Robin coaxed.
Sarah opened the file reluctantly. It was filled with photocopied documents and photographs. On top was a folded newspaper clipping dated March, 1986.
“You’ve remembered bits and pieces over the months,” the therapist said.
Sarah looked closely at the photograph of the little blonde girl whose smile so strikingly resembled Darcy’s.
“This is me,” she said, almost in disbelief. “This girl is me.”
The therapist nodded. “Your father seems to have been a very handsome and charismatic man,” she said. “Your mother was very young. They were married after you were born.”
“He wasn’t happy,” Sarah said, remembering. “It was all because of me.”
The Woman in the Park Page 12