In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  I steel myself for what I know will be another uncomfortable interaction. Rachel is the last person I want to see right now. I try to walk up the driveway as gracefully as possible but I feel unsteady on my feet.

  She puts the box to the side and stands when she sees me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her, wishing I was more sober.

  “I tried calling and texting, but you didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if you would be up for talking, but I had to try.” She pauses and gathers herself. “Char, I’m really sorry. It was out of line for me to look into Peter’s life.” She moves closer to me and to the side, as though she is waiting for me to invite her in. I don’t move.

  “Rachel, I’m not ready to talk to you.” I can see the coldness crushing her.

  “I hate this. I need to know that we are okay.”

  “We are not okay, Rach. We are definitely not okay,” I snap.

  “I understand you are upset that I overstepped about Peter—”

  “You more than overstepped! And not just about Peter!” She looks as confused as she is stunned. “How could you tell my friends not to throw me a surprise party? What right do you have? You told them that I didn’t want a birthday celebration but I didn’t want to ‘seem ungrateful’? What were you even talking about? I didn’t even know there was a plan to do something for my birthday! I thought everyone had just blown it off.”

  Something dark passes over her face, but she composes herself. An unsettling calmness sets in and I recognize it as her default when dealing with difficult clients.

  “Honey, I told them not to throw you a surprise party because I knew you were supposed to be going away with Peter that weekend.”

  My heart drops as I remember that part of the disastrous birthday. I’d excitedly packed and had driven halfway to the campsite where Peter said he’d meet me before I received his text that he wouldn’t be able to make it. I’d spent the weekend alone in my house before I fessed up to Rachel about the canceled plans. Peter had apologized profusely and sent me a gorgeous arrangement of apology/birthday flowers, but it took me a few weeks before I recovered from the disappointment completely. And it took the arrival of the copper necklace currently around my neck for me to completely forgive him. A twinge of residual anger eats away at me.

  “Instead of putting you in the uncomfortable position of having to lie about where you were going, I thought it would be easier to say you and I had already made plans to celebrate out of town.” Rachel is adamant.

  Part of me feels foolish, like I’m overreacting, when I hear her reasoning. It is a feasible coming-from-a-place-of-love explanation. But it isn’t just the squashed birthday plans. My anger flares again.

  “What about telling the group that I wasn’t interested in being set up with Annelise’s work friend on a blind date? Why are you getting involved with my love life?”

  Rachel shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I guess for the same reason. I know how much your relationship with Peter being a secret has been hard on you, and I didn’t think you’d want to have to either come up with an excuse for not wanting to be fixed up or go out with someone even though you were committed to someone else.”

  “But isn’t that my choice? Aren’t both of these examples of things I should have a say over?”

  She seems genuinely hurt by my anger. She’s not holding back her tears as successfully as I am. “Absolutely. You are right. I thought that I was helping you. I honestly believed that I was keeping an already stressful situation less than.”

  “You treat me like I’m this fragile little girl sometimes, Rach. And I hate it. I don’t need you to protect me or make decisions for me.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you other than I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything,” I say icily. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  She looks devastated. “I’m really sorry to hear that.” Her face and shoulders drop in unison. “I’m just trying to be your friend. Your best friend. The one who keeps your secrets. I’m sorry.”

  “You are not the center of my life, Rachel. I have other people and I need space to have those relationships too.”

  She grabs her bike and pulls it upright. She retrieves her helmet from the front basket and sighs. “Right. I’m gonna go.”

  I feel like I should stop her, but I don’t. Annelise has told me too many troubling things about her behavior, and I need to take some time to sort out what is really going on with her.

  Before she’s out of my driveway completely, I see that her box is still on the stoop.

  “Wait, Rachel.”

  She puts her foot down to keep her bike steady and turns back to me, her expression optimistic.

  “Your box?” I say coldly while holding up the wrapped package. Her face crumples.

  “It was already here when I arrived.”

  She turns away and rides into the night.

  * * *

  I stand in place, shaking hard for a long time. Eventually, I feel the pull of gravity along with the tremors of anger releasing into my muscles and joints and sit. I snap up my phone and scroll through the last three weeks of one-sided texts from me to Peter. All unanswered. I know I should put my phone down and take a walk. I’m bordering on hysteria, and nothing good ever comes from being this keyed up. But I’m this upset because Rachel’s right.

  I’m not being logical. Who is this person? This is no way to have a relationship. The impulse travels from my brain to my hands faster than I can find a long, calming inhale. I type my message in fast and furiously and press SEND before I can stop myself.

  Peter. I don’t think I can do this for much longer. I’m starting to doubt everything you’ve ever told me. I want to believe you when you say you love me. But how do I know that you are who you say you are? We need to talk face-to-face or I’m done.

  I put my hand on the box. Mechanically, I undo the twine and unwrap the stiff brown paper. The box inside is a shoebox and light on my lap. When I lift the lid and hold the object inside close to my face to see it better in the dark, I’m walloped by the force of recognition and immediate shame when it registers what I am looking at. The box slides off my lap, the packing contents spilling out onto the ground and the glass shattering on the walkway as I throw up into the bushes.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WOLCOTT

  I flick the sheet of paper onto Silvestri’s desk like a card dealer. “You were right.”

  “Great,” he says, pleased. “About what?” He leans forward, picks up Rachel Sherman’s rap sheet, and begins to study it. “Oh shit.” He blanches.

  “Uh-huh,” I respond. “Quite a past indeed.”

  “Damn. Possession, shoplifting, trespassing . . . ,” he rattles off, then continues to read silently.

  “And she saved the best for last.”

  When he reaches the end, his eyes pop, then dart to mine. “Jesus, man.”

  “Yeah. Seems she copped heroin for her and a boyfriend, then shot them both up. She survived; he didn’t. They hit her with involuntary manslaughter; she got herself a good lawyer and managed to get out of it with only probation.”

  “This is nearly a decade ago,” he points out.

  “Right. She goes quiet after that, more or less. Couple of speeding tickets over the last few years, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “Hmm,” he considers.

  “I don’t know, man. Aside from leaning into the gas pedal a little too enthusiastically, she’s a model citizen of late. Could be this is a fruitless tree we’re barking up.”

  “Could be,” he says. His stare gets stuck, and he appears to be doing some sort of arithmetic in his head. He blinks, then looks to me. “Could not.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  CHARLOTTE

  The knock on the back door jolts me upright. I still feel tipsy and disoriented. I steal a
look at my phone while I walk to the door. It is only twenty minutes after my text to him. He looks concerned but smiles warmly when I open the door.

  “Evening.” He nods hello and I smile in spite of the awfulness of the evening.

  “Thank you for coming.” I clumsily step aside to let him enter.

  “I tried the front door, but when you didn’t answer, I came around back. Are you feeling ill?”

  It takes me a minute to realize why he’s asking, and I blanch at the realization that he’s undoubtedly observed my vomit in the bushes next to the front door.

  “Yes. I got sick earlier, but I’m okay now.” I nearly excuse myself to brush my teeth for the third time, but I hold off.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Should we sit down?”

  He is dressed more casually than I’ve seen him. He looks good in crisp jeans and a deep blue wool sweater, topped off with a subtle dark-colored houndstooth sports coat.

  “Sorry. I fell asleep. It has been a taxing evening.” I can hear the light slur in my voice. Pull it together.

  “I assumed so if you needed to reach out to me after hours.” I can see him assessing me before looking around the kitchen. I begin to regret asking him over, but it’s way too late now.

  “Tea?” I force my voice up an octave and move toward the kettle sitting on the stovetop and spark the burner. Having my back to him feels easier than trying to evade eye contact.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I hope I didn’t pull you away from something important.” I retrieve one mug from the cabinet and then change my mind. I shut the burner off but linger over the stove instead of facing him.

  “This isn’t really a social call, Charlotte.” His voice is stern. “Your text said something had happened?”

  Before he can finish, my entire body falls into a quaking mess. I cover my face with both hands, then wrap my arms around myself and sob for a minute. The weight of everything breaks me apart. Silvestri is silent, but I feel him behind me, waiting.

  “Charlotte. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m sorry. I had a few drinks tonight. Alcohol makes me emotional.”

  “It happens to the best of us.”

  “I didn’t drive, though. I took an Uber home from the bar.” I feel foolish seeking his approval, but I do.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” he offers. I nod weakly and he follows me into the living room and onto the couch.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded curt just now. I was worried about you after getting your text.” He has the familiar, terrified face of a man who has unexpectedly made a woman cry.

  “Please don’t apologize. I probably ruined your night.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything.”

  “Now I’m acting like a basket case. I just didn’t know who else to reach out to.”

  “I’m glad you did. Why don’t you tell me what happened this evening?”

  “Rachel and I had a bad fight. She told . . . All of my friends are mad at me. There is so much happening right now.” I stop myself from rambling any further and try to catch my breath before I start crying again. “And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Brooke Harmon.” Silvestri stiffens when I say her name. No turning back now. He looks like he wants to say something but holds back. I feel the alcohol turn my thoughts maudlin. “Detective, do you believe that people can change?” I grasp for a little more time before I come clean.

  “How do you mean?” He’s watching my face.

  “If they’ve done terrible things. Do you think they can become better?” He appears to retreat into his brain while he considers this.

  “It depends on the person and what the terrible things are. But, yes, in my experience, some people can change. They have to actually do the hard work, not just say they want to.”

  I consider the breadth of his experiences and the types of people he’s encountered before I realize that he’s clearly referring to himself. A fleeting moment of comfort in connection encircles us and I nearly grab his hands and ask him what he’s had to change about himself. As if he senses my urge, he clasps his hands together on his lap. “Charlotte, what’s this about? Have you done something bad?”

  I shift uncomfortably on the shared cushion beneath us. When I collect myself and lower my hands, I see he’s pulled a handkerchief seemingly from out of nowhere and is offering it to me. It is pristinely crisp and white. I accept it gratefully and dab my eyes, relieved that I didn’t bother with makeup this morning.

  “Thank you. You’re very nice to me. You aren’t like most men.”

  He lets out a short laugh. “I guess I’m not like most anyone.”

  The need for levity is palpable. “I don’t even know your first name. I think you told me the first day we met, but, honestly, I have blocked out most of that day.” I half laugh, and it feels good to have a break from crying.

  He smiles. “Dennis.”

  “Dennis. That’s a nice name.” He straightens a little when I say this and I sense I’ve gone a shade too far. I see his eyes home in on my chest. I look down and see that my medallion necklace has peeked out of my shirt. I grab the chain and pour it back inside my shirt, where I can feel the metal against my skin.

  “What is the name for that snake-around-a-stick symbol on your necklace? It is one of those images that we see a thousand times but don’t really look closely at. Does anyone really know what it is actually called? Do doctors even know?” he muses.

  I touch the metal through the fabric of my shirt. “The Rod of Asclepius,” I tell him, sadness flaring in me. But I’m not thinking about the symbol or what it means; I’m only wallowing in how absent Peter is from everything that is happening in my life right now.

  “Charlotte. I’d really love to help,” he says gently, likely sensing my wistfulness. “Can you talk about what prompted you to reach out to me tonight? I’m assuming it’s about Brooke.”

  “There’s a shoebox on the kitchen table. Somebody left it for me tonight. You need to see what’s in it.”

  He seems grateful for the excuse to leave the room. “Back in a flash.” In the minute I have alone, I blow my nose, stand and stretch my arms up to get my blood flowing for energy, and overall compose myself.

  He returns holding the edges of the box with a paper towel in each hand. He places it gingerly on the coffee table and retrieves the framed photo, again with the barrier of paper. It takes me a minute to process why he does this. It’s not the broken glass. It’s because it’s evidence, of course. I’m silent as he regards the image before him, and I can practically hear the gears in his brain turning. He looks up at me. Any previous tenderness is gone. He’s all business.

  “This is Brooke Harmon. She’s younger and her hair is different. But it is definitely her. Same freckle pattern and mole above her right eyebrow.”

  “Yes. It is definitely her.”

  He examines all sides of the box, presumably for any sign of its sender. I already know it is label-less and think about the broken glass, brown paper, and twine still in the bushes, and wonder if he spotted them when he rang the bell.

  “Charlotte, where did this come from? Who did this come from?” His tone is steady but energized.

  “I have no idea. It was here when I got home tonight.”

  “Has anyone else been in contact with the box other than you?”

  “Rachel. She was waiting for me and had it with her.”

  His eyes narrow. “She was here this evening? Is that where your fight took place? Are you sure she didn’t bring it?”

  “She said it was already here when she arrived.” He pulls a notepad from inside his sports jacket, flips it open, and starts to make notes with the pen clipped to the pad. “Charlotte, I’m going to need you to tell me everything, starting with how you suddenly recognize this woman.”

  “It took see
ing the picture for me to connect who she was.”

  His brow twitches. “I’m going to need you to walk me through how you knew Brooke Harmon, and who would have sent you this photograph of her.”

  I take a deep breath. “I never actually met her.” He looks at me skeptically and cocks his head.

  “Charlotte.” I can sense his frustration. “You need to be as specific and honest as possible.”

  “I am.” My voice cracks. “I swear that I am being honest.”

  “What is your connection to Brooke Harmon?”

  I can’t look him in the eyes. “I killed her sister.”

  PART TWO

  Date: 10/5/19

  From: CharlotteKnopfler@gmail.com

  To: Braindoc67@gmail.com

  Dear Henry,

  Brooke Harmon is dead. The police are asking questions. We need to talk.

  Charlotte

  TWENTY-FIVE

  RACHEL

  I have nothing left to lose.

  The fight with Charlotte has flipped a switch in me and I need to release this rage. I replayed the argument with Charlotte a hundred times between her house and mine, each time reliving her anger toward me. I need to do something.

  By the time I reach my driveway, I’m so furious that I throw my bike across the lawn and slam the front door behind me, hard. One of the glass wind chimes falls and shatters on the floor of the enclosed porch, and the artworks on the walls inside shake and threaten to come off their nails. The cats scatter in opposite directions as I walk to the kitchen cursing loudly and open the Yelp app on my phone. I type away on my phone furiously and let all the words pour out of me, no filter, no polishing. I rip my heart out and put it online for everyone to see. I want them to know the truth about her. Once I’m satisfied with my words, I post it and immediately feel better.