And it’s a problem, because Andrea and I are suddenly in high demand with the press. The word is that Colin will be released from prison any day now, and managers are calling from LA with promises of documentaries and true-crime TV miniseries. A book agent friend of Andrea’s is pushing us to write an account of the case that she could sell. Multiple publishers have reached out to me about writing a memoir, the story of my futile search for my sister. That was how one described it. Futile.
And then there are the interview requests that come in by the hour. Everyone from the New York Times to the Red Eye. So being sleep deprived right now, drunk at eight a.m. and hungover by noon, is really not ideal.
Part of the problem, believe it or not, is Marco. Or, more specifically, the thing that Marco said to me last week, just after we released the fourth episode of the podcast. I arrived at Club Rush to find a bored-looking audio technician working on the club’s sound system, moving at the pace of someone whose daily dose of caffeine has long since worn off.
“It’s fucked,” Marco said as I joined him behind the bar. “They say it’ll be at least an hour before we can open.”
“Great, so we get paid for sitting around,” I replied, pulling out my laptop and taking a seat at the bar.
“Without tips, what’s the point?” Marco asked.
I shrugged. “Gives me time to work on the side hustle.” It was lucky, actually. I was way behind on editing the bonus content we were posting on our website—my responsibility, as Andrea was editing the whole rest of the show. It was mostly extended cuts of interviews, minor-league editing, really. My job was to make sure they were audible, and even that was getting away from me since Ted’s arrest.
“Better not let the boss man see you doing that on the company dime,” Marco said as I started fiddling with the audio levels of my prison-visit recording with Colin.
“What’s he going to do, fire me for neglecting the customers?” I asked, motioning to the empty room before us.
“He thinks you’re going to quit anyway,” Marco replied. “He thinks you’re too good for this place now that you’ve got your whole citizen-journalist-fame thing.”
“He’s right,” I said, hitting the space bar to listen to the playback, trying to get the levels right during the portion of the recording where Colin first enters. He was further away from the mic than he was for the rest of the interview, as he gave Ava a hug. I was trying to pump up the dialogue while bringing the ambient levels down a bit.
“What’s that?” Marco asked, motioning to the laptop.
“A recording of the first time I met Colin McCarty in prison,” I replied, replaying the clip again.
“Why’s he speaking Portuguese?” Marco asked.
“He and his sister spoke it with their grandmother as kids,” I replied. “Apparently they sometimes still speak it now. Especially when Colin is talking about something offensive. Like my tits, for instance.” I paused for a moment. “You know Portuguese?”
“Sure, my mom’s Brazilian,” Marco replied. “Plus, I’m a natural polyglot. You know, in addition to being exceptionally handsome.”
“So I hear,” I said, replaying the clip again, tweaking the levels just a bit more. “And exceptionally vain.”
“Play me the part where he talks about your tits,” Marco said, casting a devilish look in my direction. “I wanna hear what he has to say.”
“He asks her to bring him women with bigger tits next time. Or something like that—I get the feeling that Ava only gave me a rough translation.” I played the clip again, so Marco could listen.
“That’s not what he’s saying, honey,” Marco replied, hands on his hips.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What did he say?”
“Play it one more time,” he said, leaning in close as I did. He nodded, as if confirming his own suspicions. “ ‘Is everything in place?’ ”
“What?” I asked.
“That’s what he’s saying. He’s telling her he’s tired of waiting and asking her, Is everything in place?”
“Marco, I swear to god, if you’re fucking with me right now . . . ,” I said, but Marco only put up both hands in mock surrender.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, girl,” he said. “Get a fucking translator if you want. They’re going to tell you the same thing.”
“Are you serious?” I said, replaying the clip for myself, trying to remember the moment. Colin said something I couldn’t understand, and then Ava smacked him on the arm, admonished him, introduced him to me. Or maybe she didn’t smack him on the arm. I tried to remember. Maybe she clapped him on the shoulder. A confirmation.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” I said, glaring at him preemptively.
“Who am I gonna tell?” he asked, pouring himself a shot and then offering one to me. I shook my head. A shot was the last thing I needed. I felt like I might be sick.
* * *
* * *
IT MIGHT HAVE been nothing. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. It might have been one of those passing, nonsensical moments between siblings. Or Colin might have been asking about the state of the podcast, or his next appeal. But I always come back to a single question: Why did Ava lie to me about it? Why would she tell me that her brother made a sexist crack about my breasts, one that she had to apologize for, if he hadn’t? That’s the question that sticks with me. The one that keeps me from sleeping. Because I remember that moment, her supposed admission. That was the moment I decided to trust her. Sometimes, I wonder if that moment was engineered to make me trust her.
I don’t tell Andrea about it. I don’t tell anyone. It feels like a dangerous suspicion to have, damaging in the telling of it alone, like suspecting someone of child molestation or spousal abuse. Plus, I don’t even actually know what I suspect. I don’t know how to put this into words, other than in its most simplistic, most general form. Ava is a liar. Ava and Colin are both liars.
Still, it’s one passing comment, held up against all the evidence against Ted. I remind myself of this as I take hit after hit at the gym, as my sparring partner gets the better of me, as the instructor admonishes me for being distracted. As I hit the heavy bag until my hands swell and ache. As I drink my vodka. I remind myself: They have his DNA. The timeline works. It was his car outside of Dylan Jacobs’s apartment the night he went missing. Ted killed him. Ted killed them both. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
You’ll never guess who left me a voicemail last night,” Andrea says as I drag myself into her apartment the morning we release the sixth episode. Despite spending my nights at my own place since Ted’s arrest, since the breathy, voiceless calls have stopped, I still spend most days hanging out at Andrea’s. Today, I’m not sure if I’m hungover or still drunk. All I know is that I took an Uber instead of biking, because I was certain that riding in traffic in my current state could get me killed. The world around me has developed the habit of shifting at odd moments, stuttering and pulsing, threatening to send me sprawling. Leaving me dizzy, the ground beneath me soft and uneven. I recognize this feeling, where the laws of physics are suddenly pliable, ready at any moment to fail. It’s the feeling of a dream.
“Who?” I ask.
“Walter Ketchum,” Andrea replies.
I drop my bag on her couch, and it topples off onto the floor. I wince as my laptop inside hits the carpeting. “Sarah’s father?”
“The one and only.” She places her phone on the coffee table and plays the message on speaker as I lower myself down to the floor and crawl to Olive, who is playing with a set of vividly bright wooden blocks. As the message plays, I help her begin to create what I can only describe as an incredibly impressive—if not terribly structurally sound—princess tower.
“This message is for Andrea Johnson,” the voice over the phone intones gruffly. “I’m calling regardi
ng your podcast about my daughter.” You can hear something on the other end of the line. Like a shuffling. Or the man clearing his throat.
“What is it?” I ask. But Andrea holds a finger to her lips, just before the voice picks up again.
“I just want to let you know that you should be ashamed of yourselves,” he says, his voice tilted in a way that might be the result of either emotion or alcohol. Or both. “Justice had been done in Sarah’s case. The man who killed her was behind bars. And because of you two . . . Because of you, I’ve just been informed that he’ll be released by the end of the week. So I’m calling to say, I hope you get what you two deserve. I really do.”
The message cuts off, and we’re left with dead air.
“Think he was drunk?” I ask, feeling the tight pull of my own hangover behind my eyes, making my stomach swim.
“He sounds it,” Andrea replies. “I mean, wouldn’t you be?”
“At least he stopped himself short of calling us cunts.” I theatrically cover Olive’s ears as I say it, which she doesn’t appreciate. She gives a little wail of protest, so I release her just as quickly.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, giving her a reassuring pat on the back. “You’ll learn all those words eventually.”
“The thing is, it might be a problem for us, if he goes public,” Andrea says. “It might look like we weren’t considering the well-being of the family.”
“Andrea, we did everything short of hiring a private investigator to try to find him. It’s not our fault that he’s only coming out of the woodwork now.”
“I know,” Andrea says. “I’m just saying, the optics aren’t great.”
“So what are you proposing?” I ask. Something in me is already dreading the answer.
“I think you should call him back,” Andrea replies. “Talk to him about Maggie, talk to him about your experience with Ted. Tell him about your family. I think if anyone is going to be able to talk him down, it’s you.”
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“It’s Thursday, Marti,” Andrea replies.
“So?”
“So, if Colin is going to be released by the end of the week, that’s today or tomorrow. We don’t have time to wait around.”
“Andrea, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk,” I say. It’s not news to her.
“He’s not going to have the displeasure of smelling you,” she replies. “If you’re sober enough to balance a bunch of blocks with Olive, you’re sober enough to make a phone call.”
I look at Olive. She looks back at me with an expression of admonishment for my behavior. When Andrea hands me the phone, I take it.
* * *
* * *
IT RINGS FIVE times before there’s a click on the other end of the line. For a moment, I think it’s gone to voicemail, but there’s no greeting and no tone. I hold the phone away from my face, but the screen still shows an active call.
“Mr. Ketchum?” I say, and wait a moment for him to reply. He doesn’t. “Mr. Ketchum, this is Marti Reese. I was hoping I could talk with you for a moment about your daughter’s case.”
“What exactly is there to say?” the voice on the other end replies. The weariness in his voice makes me think of my father before he died, in the middle of his successful effort to smoke and drink himself to death in the wake of Maggie’s absence. Like father, like daughter, I think involuntarily.
“Well, first I wanted to express how sorry we are about what happened to Sarah. I lost my sister too, so I have some idea of how horrible it is to experience the loss of a child from a family.”
Andrea is watching my side of the conversation, nodding as I talk. At least I’m not too drunk to be coherently sympathetic.
“That doesn’t make you right about this,” Walter replies, his tone careful, the way some parents adopt a different cadence when speaking to people their children’s age.
“I know,” I reply. “And, to that point, I also wanted to try and reassure you a bit, that Ted Vreeland is the man at fault here. I’ve met him on a couple of occasions. At one point, he threatened me with regard to my investigation. I really do believe that he is a person who is capable of killing, if it means he can maintain his wealth and social status.” Even as I say it, I realize that I’m not quite sure all of it is true. Or, if it’s true, I’m not sure it means that he’s the one who killed Sarah. I think, again, of Ava and Colin. The words that slipped between them at the prison. The ways in which I’ve been wrong about so much already, so blinded by the pieces that seem to fit.
“I think you and I are just going to have to agree to disagree on that, young lady,” Walter replies. It’s an oddly comforting sentiment. Like I am, once more, talking to my own father. Always a reasonable man, even through the worst of circumstances.
Olive begins fussing next to me on the rug, and I put my hand over the mouthpiece to muffle the sound.
Sorry, Andrea mouths at me, scooping the little girl up and carrying her toward the nursery.
“Is that all?” Walter asks. And a thought occurs to me, something tugging at my memory. We were trying to find Walter because we had specific questions for him. A name floats up, from somewhere in my alcohol-relaxed brain. A flash of revelation, brought on by the looseness of inebriation.
“Actually, I do have one question for you,” I say. “Is Abigail Woods your sister?”
“Who?” Walter asks.
“Abigail Woods,” I repeat. “I went to the house you lived in on Galley, and the current owner said that it used to be owned by a woman named Abigail Woods. I wasn’t sure if you were related, or if she was your landlord . . .” I trail off, waiting for him to offer clarification. Instead, there’s silence on the other end of the line.
“Marti, is it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he replies. “Where is Galley?”
“Galley Road,” I say. “In Sutcliffe Heights.”
“I think you might have some incorrect information,” Walter replies. “I lived in Palos Hills. I’ve never lived on a Galley Road.”
“But . . . ,” I say, about to protest. It was one of the certainties of the case, the connection to Maggie. That our house in Sutcliffe Heights overlooked Galley Road. That 4603 was within view of our back balcony. But, as I try to remember where I first learned of the connection, I realize that it was Ava who told me Walter had lived on Galley Road. I took her at her word.
I remember this feeling from a year ago, the morning I got the DNA results on the Jane Doe. When I hung up on Detective Olsen and stepped onto the Blue Line heading east, meeting Eric in the West Loop for dinner. Everything around me a hum of static, everything lost in the clatter of the train and the short, staccato hiss of my breaths.
The smell of the L car was the smell of bodies in a confined space, a smell I’d always associated with animals. The spicy brine of the giraffe pen at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Except that day, it felt like the smell was an extra element in the air, like smoke, crowding out the oxygen, making it thin. It seemed like no matter how many breaths I took, I could not get enough air.
I sat down, hard, on the floor of the L car, opposite the doors. Around me, people’s legs shifted, crowded in. Though I was sitting, it still felt as if I might tip over with the movement of the train.
“Are you okay?” A man knelt down next to me, so he was in my eyeline. I shook my head but said nothing. “Are you having chest pain?”
I shook my head. Not unless the strain of breathing counted, the physical exertion of trying to open the bellows of my lungs past their capacity, trying to get enough air.
“Trouble breathing?” the man asked. He was bald, with dark skin and dark-rimmed glasses. A wedding ring glinted on one of his fingers. “Do you have asthma?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Is it a panic atta
ck?”
I wondered how I was supposed to know if I was having a panic attack. Maybe it was something you knew only if you’d already had one. Maybe I was really having some sort of episode—a pulmonary embolism or anaphylaxis or the first symptoms of a heart condition no one ever knew I had—and if I agreed that I was having a panic attack, I wouldn’t get the treatment I really needed in time to save my life.
As I tried to decide what to answer, the train jerked to a stop and the doors opened at the next station. The man didn’t move, instead put out an arm to keep people from crossing between us to get out the doors. I could feel tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
“Cup your hands over your mouth,” he said, miming the motion himself as the doors chimed and slid closed.
I did as he said, breathing into my cupped palms.
“Try to slow down a little. Deep breaths,” he said. I could feel the chill of a fog bank rolling in, cold dampness licking across my skin. But, finally, I could take a breath. And then another.
We remained like that, me breathing into my hands, him watching me breathe, as the doors opened and closed, as people shifted around us.
And I remember the feeling of sitting on the floor of the L, of catching my breath as the man—Nate, his name was Nate—talked me down. The feeling of icy vapor wrapping me up. I have that feeling again, talking to Walter Ketchum. Like I’m being swallowed by a cold, dense cloud. Like something has blocked the sun.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Ketchum,” I say, and my voice sounds small, remote, even to my own ears.
“Listen,” Walter says. “I understand that you didn’t mean any harm. I probably said too much last night in my message. But you have to know . . . I used to tell Sarah, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And I will go to my grave knowing that Colin McCarty is the man who killed my little girl.”
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