by Anne Heltzel
By the time they come for me, I haven’t slept for days. I’ve eaten only a few crusts of bread and a tiny bowl of rice, half of which I scarfed down before I realized it was maggot-infested. That almost wasn’t enough to stop me. Almost. My hair is lank and greasy and my scalp itches. That’s how they find me: scratching my scalp, huddled in the fetal position toward the back of the cell. By now I don’t even bother to fend off the other women. No one’s tried anything violent or extreme, but they like my whiteness. They like to touch my hair and skin, to provoke me: pull at my clothes and pry open my eyelids with their fingertips.
Some of them are crazy. Some of them regularly soil their clothes. Some pluck cockroaches off the floor and eat them whole. Some are dying of infected wounds. One moans so much and so constantly. Her leg is black with what looks like gangrene. She is clearly out of her mind with shock and pain and delirium. Still, no one comes for her.
It’s why I’m so surprised when they come for me.
It’s a woman, a Westerner. She approaches the cell, flanked by two guards. She calls my name. At first I think I’m imagining her. Conjuring her with my mind just like I’ve conjured any small bits of strength I still possess. Everything feels like a nightmare; my concept of reality has shifted since I left the airport. It seems impossible that I ever saw the inside of the Taj Hotel, ever sipped wine with Lena in a Parisian café or sat idly sketching in my tablet in the window seat of my suburban Illinois home. It seems strange and funny that college ever existed, ever mattered to me at all. The thought of it makes me laugh so hard, so loud, that I forget I heard someone say my name.
The guards bark it out again—“Aubrey Boroughs”—along with a flurry of angry-sounding words in Thai. I half drag myself to a sitting position. Some of the other women are hissing, and one kicks me. I scoot away, but my body feels like lead. I’m weak and nauseated. I think about standing—I try—but I collapse back onto the cold stone floor.
Then the girl who helped me before is yanking me to my feet and hauling me to the front, where the American woman’s eyes are narrowed with concern. “I’ve never broken my rule until now,” the girl says. “This is your only chance. Don’t be an idiot.” She gives me a hard shove toward the gates; the guards yank them open, pull me out, and slam the gates shut against the pulsing throng of bodies. So many of the women are listless. They’re dispirited, ruined. But a few are fighters, and they’re the ones who reach their arms through the bars even as the tallest of the guards beats them with a long metal club. They cry out, but they’ve felt it before; their bruises and scars say as much.
I allow myself to be shuffled down the dim corridor toward a small, barren room; and it’s only now that I understand the magnitude of this prison and its horrors. My cell is just one of hundreds, the people within it a couple handfuls out of thousands. It was easy to miss when I came here in the middle of the night, half dazed with exhaustion and panic.
“Hello, Aubrey,” says the woman, once I’ve been seated across from her on the opposite side of a low-lying wooden folding table that seems to have been set up for our meeting. A large window lines the wall to my left; it overlooks what appears to be the guards’ station. A few of them are kicked back in their chairs, watching TV, their feet propped up on the desks in front of them. Others appear to be sifting through paperwork. Some civilians sit in chairs in a separate, sectioned-off area, the tops of their heads barely visible from where I sit. “I’m Dr. Paulson,” the woman continues in a clear American accent. “I conduct psychological evaluations for Western women in the prison.”
“Dr. Paulson,” I start. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything about Lena or Charlie. Please. You have to believe me.” She holds up a hand to silence me, and her expression remains unchanged. But she beckons over a guard and speaks to him in perfect Thai. He turns; and a few seconds later he comes back with a bottle of water, which he offers to me. I accept it eagerly.
“I’m here because there have been some developments in your case,” Dr. Paulson explains once I’ve had a chance to drink some water. “You know by now that you’re a primary suspect in the events that led to the death of Charlie Price.”
“I didn’t—”
She holds up a hand to stop me, her voice firm. “Please don’t interrupt until I’m finished,” she instructs. “And remember, all of this is being recorded. It might be in your best interest to remain silent.” I swallow hard, and the tears I’ve been holding back for the last several days—it’s hard to tell how long I’ve been here—begin to spill over. Dr. Paulson’s face remains impassive. “You’re also being charged with the murder of Lena Whitney,” she tells me. My stomach lurches, drops. “You were formerly only a suspect, but the prosecution has since had a witness come forward. She’s given them a motive, and they’ve found the murder weapon. It’s a pocketknife with your prints on it. There were strands of your hair on the victim’s clothing. DNA tests confirmed it.”
“My hair? We were together all this past week. And that pocketknife—no. Lena gave that to me to use once, on a boat, when we were in danger. Then I gave it back. I didn’t—”
“I’m going to tell you one more time,” Dr. Paulson says. “Be quiet.” I take a long, shuddering breath. My head is spinning; I hadn’t even known Lena still had the pocketknife. Someone must have found it on her person and used it to hurt her. Part of me, the part that still hopes she is alive, is floored. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this frightened and alone until now. It’s some internal gut feeling I can’t ignore. Instinct is telling me she’s alive.
“A young woman approached the Bangkok police this morning, claiming to have evidence pertaining to the murder. She identified herself as the girlfriend of Charlie Price. I’m here to talk to you about that.” Dr. Paulson pauses as if to gauge my reaction.
“No,” I whisper. My body is charged with adrenaline. “No. That’s not possible. I’m—I was Charlie’s girlfriend. And Lena, Lena was his girlfriend too.” Another girlfriend? Is it possible that there was a third? But why wouldn’t there be? Still, for her to implicate me . . .
“That is exactly what this girl said you would say,” Dr. Paulson commented. “Tell me the truth, Aubrey. How do you know Charlie Price?”
“I was his girlfriend,” I repeat. My head feels light, airy. I think back, trying to remember anything that might make her believe me, but my mind’s gone blank.
“This woman claimed that Charlie had a distinguishing physical feature that a person who was . . . intimate with him might know about. Can you tell me what it was?”
I think hard. I scour my brain in an effort to remember a mole, a constellation of freckles, a birthmark, anything that might apply, but I come up empty. “I never had sex with Charlie,” I tell her, my voice trembling. She raises her eyebrows.
“You never saw Charlie in a state of undress,” she says, like she doesn’t quite believe me. I shake my head. “And how long were you together?”
“A year,” I say. “But we only saw each other occasionally. It was long distance.” Dr. Paulson sighs and pushes away her notepad, balancing her pen on its tip with one forefinger.
“Aubrey,” she says, and this time her voice is a shade gentler. “I’m on your side. It could actually help your case, if what this girl is saying is true.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s accusing you of aggravated stalking,” Dr. Paulson continues. “She’s saying you met Charlie once and created a false relationship in your head. That you wrote him letters, called him. That he asked you to stop but you didn’t. That one time, you found out his hotel information and met him there uninvited. That you were very jealous of his other girlfriends.”
“I was one of his girlfriends,” I say. Dr. Paulson raises her eyebrows.
“Can anyone verify that?” she asks. “His parents? A friend?”
“I . . . never met his parents,” I say feebly. “But he met mine! Mine can verify.”
“Your parents
aren’t credible character witnesses,” she tells me. “They’re not going to persuade any judge. But you’re missing the point, Aubrey. There’s already a case stacked against you. This girl’s statement—it’s very compelling. We’ve spoken with Charlie Price’s sister, and he’s corroborated Charlie’s complaints about the inappropriate nature of your behavior toward him. We’ve also uncovered evidence that you were in the United Kingdom at the time of Mr. Price’s disappearance.”
“What? I wasn’t. I was home in Chicago,” I insist. Dr. Paulson’s eyes narrow.
“Your emails would indicate otherwise.” She produces a printed-out copy of a flight confirmation: British Airways. “There are also several messages from Charlie to you that imply you were harassing him. In them, he asks repeatedly that you leave him alone.”
“I wasn’t . . .” I trail off, barely able to breathe. Then I know. “Charlie could hack,” I say desperately. “He broke into my emails. That flight confirmation is fake!” Dr. Paulson narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s irritated. Angry, even. I push on, my words tumbling faster and faster from my mouth.
“He had a friend, Adam,” I remember suddenly. My body fills with relief. Adam will tell them the truth. He’ll exonerate me. He’ll show them this is all a huge lie. “We saw Adam when we celebrated my last birthday. And . . . I think I talked to him the weekend Charlie disappeared.” I realize the second it’s out of my mouth that this sounds incriminating, but I can’t stop myself. I’m sweating, nervous.
“Adam Ruffino,” Dr. Paulson says. It’s a statement, not a question; and the look on her face worries me, but I plunge ahead, hearing my voice grow more and more tense.
“Yes, call him. I have his number, I—”
“He’s already been interviewed. He’s not a credible witness on your behalf either. He can’t be considered unbiased. I think you know why.” Dr. Paulson’s gaze is hard. “He’ll be questioned further in the coming days.” My heart pounds. Is Adam a suspect? Or is he a witness? It was Adam who led us to Kerala. Did Charlie use Adam, knowing I’d contact him in Mumbai? Or was Adam more directly involved? My thoughts are confused, racing.
“Regardless,” Dr. Paulson goes on, “he says he technically never saw you and Charlie together. Not once. He was eager to defend you, but without being able to swear under oath that he saw the two of you together simultaneously, his defense is useless.” I think back to that weekend in D.C. Adam and me on the sofa, after Charlie passed out. Me chatting with Adam at the bar while Charlie was in the bathroom. Heading to the bathroom myself, saying goodbye to Charlie, giving him a kiss on the cheek while Adam was still up front ordering drinks. Me falling asleep in Charlie’s bedroom, only emerging after Charlie came in and passed out himself.
“But I was in Charlie’s uncle’s apartment that weekend,” I protest.
“You could have snuck in. This girl, his girlfriend—she says you did that. That you went so far he almost filed a restraining order. She has letters from Charlie, emails complaining about your behavior.”
My heart feels almost as though it’s stopped beating. My hands are cold. It can’t be true; Charlie would never do this. Why would he?
Unless.
Unless the other girl was suspicious. Unless she’d found out about me and he wanted to deceive her, to keep her from knowing the truth. To keep both of us around. Or unless she wasn’t his girlfriend at all—she could have been working with Charlie, setting up this whole thing. “What else did she say?” My words are barely audible; but Dr. Paulson shuffles in her bag and retrieves a sheaf of papers.
“This is a copy of her statement,” she says quietly. “Read for yourself.”
It’s long, maybe ten typewritten pages. The phrases that jump out at me are cruel and so wrong that they make my hand—and the paper within it—shake until I can hardly read anymore.
. . . met Charlie one summer in New York. He was kind, invited her in, helped her when she had nowhere to go . . .
. . . Delusional. Imagined she was his girlfriend . . .
. . . until she began stalking him. She concocted an elaborate history of their “relationship.” A fake anniversary . . .
. . . It was becoming more frequent, more aggressive. She showed up at his door. Sent him presents. Wrote love notes.
. . . Charlie cheated on me, yes. With a girl named Lena. I found out a year ago. He broke it off with Lena; we made things work. I forgave him. Aubrey, though, she was very jealous of both of us.
. . . Charlie was about to press charges when he disappeared. I wouldn’t be coming here if I weren’t afraid for my own life.
My face, my body, they weigh a thousand pounds. I am too confused to ask questions, too panicked to think. I can’t move.
“There’s more,” she tells me, and I wonder: How could there possibly be more? “According to this girl, Charlie told her that you were involved in a hit-and-run.” She pauses, as if to assess my reaction. “She turned in a whole collection of clippings related to it, clippings containing alleged confessions and apologies from you. I checked the clippings against your sketchbook, which was confiscated at the time of your arrest; a handwriting expert says they check out.” I am trembling violently now, and tears wet my face, although I can’t remember ever having started to cry.
“You have another option,” Dr. Paulson continues. “If you’re convicted of these crimes, Aubrey, you won’t be extradited to an American prison. The system here is very corrupt. It’s likely that you’ll stay here in Bang Kwang for the remainder of your life.” She pauses, taking a breath. “Unless,” she goes on, “you believe what you’re saying. If you believe this elaborate lie you’ve concocted, there is hope.”
“It’s not a lie,” I tell her. But my voice is feeble, shaky. “It’s not.” But I don’t have anything to prove it. I think back to all the times Charlie and I were together. I think back to that weekend in D.C. To the first time we met. We’re dating now, Charlie had said. Hadn’t he? My brain is so fuzzy, so thick with fatigue. Now I can’t remember.
All the times Charlie never answered my calls. Never returned my correspondences. Do I have anything to prove he engaged in a relationship with me? An email, a text? My emails are automatically deleted within thirty days of receipt. I routinely clear my text log to free memory in my phone. Even if I did have something, would it matter? I think hard. My body goes rigid. I don’t have anything. There is nothing. Not even a present, because he only ever gave me a cake on my birthday. I’d been hurt that there was no card.
But did he give me a cake on my birthday?
There was a cake. I can remember it, plain as day. “Happy 18th, Aubrey! With love, Charlie” had been written across it. But I can no longer remember him giving it to me. Helping me blow out the candles. Kissing me on the cheek and digging in, feeding me a bite. That’s what should have happened. But I can’t remember.
“I’m confused,” I mumble. “I need to rest.”
“There’s no time. We only have a few minutes,” Dr. Paulson says. “Do you understand what I’m saying? You have an out. You could be transferred back to America, Aubrey. To a mental hospital, if the judge rules you criminally insane. It’s not much, but it’s your only hope.”
I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t swallow, I want to die. If only Lena were here. My best option is a mental hospital in America. A life confined to a mental hospital, or a life in a Bangkok prison.
It is too much to bear. I lay my head on the table, blinking at the glass window, where policemen, guards, and visitors mill about.
It is a fate worse than death.
But it’s what I deserve. I see it now: Charlie only gave me what I’ve deserved this whole time.
I stare through the window. I blink. I sit up.
“What is it?” Dr. Paulson asks. She sounds surprised. My back is straight; every hair on my neck is standing at attention. One girl in the waiting room looks familiar.
“Is that her?”
Dr. Paulson doesn’t answ
er.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” I point. “That? There. Her.” I try to stand and barely manage, but my shackles are too heavy for me to take a step forward. I struggle, leaning heavily against my chair.
“Sit back down,” Dr. Paulson orders. One of the guards moves toward me. But the answer is written all over Dr. Paulson’s face. Even before the girl stands up. Even before I see her long mane of thick, black, wavy hair. Even before she turns to the side, her beautiful features illuminating her jaded dark eyes.
Even before I grab the witness statement and tear through the pages to the very end.
Before I make out the signature: Charanya Buajan.
Before I scream, loud and long, and lunge for the window.
They take me away even as I yell, “She did it! She killed Lena,” screaming it over and over, loud and long. But before they do, she turns all the way. She meets my eyes. And she smiles.
31
Lena
I am still alive. Come and find me.
Aubrey will come for me. I feel it. When she does, we’ll make Charlie pay.
Acknowledgements
My sincerest thanks above all to my agent, Stephen Barbara, who has been wonderful in every way: from envisioning a future for Charlie, Lena, and Aubrey in the novel’s inception; to giving me outstanding editorial advice; to being my strongest advocate as well as a terrific friend. Many thanks also to my editor, Margaret Raymo. It’s been an honor to work with someone as dedicated and passionate as you. I am grateful to you for taking a chance on Charlie and for shepherding my story to publication. A big thanks to everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt who worked hard to support this novel and make it beautiful.