by E. G. Scott
“She was never in my life!” Charlotte blurts out. She takes a moment to compose herself. “I mean, not directly, at least.”
“Okay,” says Silvestri. “We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. With your help, of course.”
Charlotte looks between us. She makes a visible effort to hold back the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. She takes a deliberate breath and lands back on Silvestri. Her tone is as measured and even as can be expected. “Look,” she begins. “I’m not a killer. I can assure you of that. I’ve been hesitant to dredge up the details of my past. Some of those events were deeply traumatizing, as I know you can understand.” She looks at Silvestri with a pleading expression. I remember his admission of embellishment in their conversation and clock his look. He blinks for just a moment too long and returns a steady gaze to Charlotte, along with a nod of acknowledgment. “And in order to pick up the pieces and move on,” she continues, “I’ve had to do a lot of work toward leaving the past in the past. I promise you that I will be as open as possible with you in this investigation, however uncomfortable that may be for me. But I am not a killer.” She hits each word on the last sentence pointedly. She inhales sharply and blots the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry, this is just taking a lot out of me.”
“You’re holding up great,” Silvestri assures her.
She musters a halfhearted smile. “Thank you.” She again looks between us. “Is there anything else you need to ask me right now?” There’s an exhausted desperation in her face.
I look to my partner. We exchange an almost imperceptible nod. I turn back to Charlotte and lay my palms on the table. “Thank you, Ms. Knopfler,” I say. “We’ll be in touch with you soon, but right now you’re free to go.”
FORTY-FOUR
CHARLOTTE
As I near my house, I feel a hellacious headache coming on. My morning in the police station felt like a time warp, simultaneously short and eternally unending. My phone tells me it is nearly noon already and my interrogation lasted more than an hour, not long by comparison, I’m sure, but I feel like I’ve completed a triathlon.
I’m utterly exhausted by how the various corroded layers of my life have conspired to bring me down. I’m struggling to keep any of my thoughts straight, and it feels like the more I try to focus on the basics, the “good cops” playing three-card monte with every mistake I’ve ever made has pushed me to the brink. I can barely grasp at the basics of recall, like where I live, and drive past my house and cruise for a few miles in my fog before I realize I’ve overshot it.
I think about the ten grand in my bank account, the last of the hospital money paid to me if I would go quietly, after renting my house and paying for acupuncture school, and wonder how long it would float me in a new life somewhere else. But I know better. Wherever I go, I will be. I can’t outrun any of this, because all of this is me. All the old shame and fear are still just as potent as always; they have just been lying dormant.
Now the second challenge after my morning police interrogation is facing my ultimate opponent. Conveniently, she’s waiting for me in my own home. The only upside in all of this chaos is that all of my attention has been taken off Peter’s falling off the face of the earth again.
“How was the police station?” my mother chirps upon my entrance. She is lounging on the couch with a book and a cocktail. Her tone suggests that I’ve just returned home from a party.
“It wasn’t a social call, Mom.” Every word is vinegar in my mouth.
“Well, excuse me for showing an interest in your life.” She says this with the intonation of a sitcom catchphrase. She knows this is exactly the kind of shit that drives me especially crazy. I’m not taking the bait. My tank is on empty and I don’t think I have any fight in me, even if I wanted to.
“Can I make you a spicy red snapper, dear?” She shakes her glass and the sound of ice tinkling in my direction fills the space between us.
“Mom, it’s noon.”
“And it is a breakfast cocktail!” She shrugs her shoulders at my lack of response, tips her glass back, and turns her attention to the TV, where MSNBC is on with subtitles. I’m thankful for small favors like the mute button.
I stare out the window to the backyard, where Rachel and I sat last week in the sun and talked. I look at my phone, empty of messages from Rachel or Peter.
“I was trying to reach you the last few days.” Her tone is off.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I was busy. I have a lot going on right now.”
“This was before Rachel died, honey.”
“I had a lot going on before Rachel . . .” I cover my face with my hand.
“I was worried about you.” She turns off the TV, which surprises me.
“Since when?” I scoff.
“Honey, I’m trying. You don’t make it easy.” She opens her arms.
“Are you really going to make this about you right now?”
She pulls back. I’ve inflicted damage, which is unusual. Maybe my uncontrolled emotional state is contagious. She can’t be comfortable feeling her emotions. It stands in the face of everything she’s about.
Maybe it will encourage her to leave sooner.
She has spread out the contents of her suitcase on every available surface of the living room, making my usually tidy surroundings a war zone of strewn clothing, books, and cosmetics. I place my purse on one of the few open spaces on the table and realize that my laptop is on and my Gmail account is open. My stomach somersaults.
“Mom? Were you on my computer?”
She glances up from her book with a faint look of irritation.
“I was catching up on emails.” She looks at me like I’ve said something incredibly foolish and blinks a few times before resuming reading, the ice cubes in her glass clinking loudly as she takes a sip. I riffle through my purse for aspirin.
“Did you send your emails from my account?” I click into my sent folder and see that she has in fact sent a number of dispatches to her friends from my email address. This annoys me a lot more than it probably should, but given the high boil I walked in with, I’m ready to overflow.
“Oh, did I?” She chuckles and gets off the couch with her glass and heads toward the kitchen, presumably for a refill from the cache of bottles I expect she’s brought with her. “You know I’m confounded by technology,” she quips over her shoulder.
“Mom. You can’t just get on my computer and into my email. We need to talk about some ground rules while you are here,” I yell in her direction.
She pops her head back into the room. “Why are you so snippy today? Jesus, Charlotte. I just sent a couple of missives to my friends about your situation. This isn’t exactly a walk in the park for me. I have a life that has been disrupted and need support from my friends. Is that okay with you?” I scoff and she disappears back into the kitchen. I hear the sound of an ice tray being brought down hard on the countertop.
She reenters the living room with a fresh drink and a smirk, and arranges herself on the couch, ready for her close-up. She plays with the elaborate gold-coin statement necklace she’s got on today. It is reminiscent of Liz Taylor’s Cleopatra look, and an extravagant one for day drinking indoors. “Let’s chat.” She is patting the seat next to her. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Whatever it is, I’m not interested.
“Mom. I can’t. I’m sorry.” I grab my purse and move toward my room. The only thing I can think about doing right now is crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head.
She shrugs again and sighs. “This is how you treat someone with cancer?”
I freeze in place. “Do you have cancer?” I hold my breath.
“Well, no. But if I did, you’d feel terrible.” She pulls a vape pen from her purse.
“I’m going to bed, Mom.”
“Honey, it’s onl
y noon.” She smiles, pleased with herself.
I walk to my room, shut the door behind me, and hear the MSNBC volume increasing by the second.
FORTY-FIVE
SILVESTRI
“Whoa, tiger!”
Wolcott and I stand on the front porch of the house next door to Rachel Sherman’s. A Boston terrier stands guard inside the front door, barking.
“Rufus, sit!” The muffled voice and sound of footsteps grow louder. “I’m coming.” A man looking to be in his midthirties approaches the door, keeping an eye on us as he leans down to pet the dog. “May I help you?”
We flash our shields. “I’m Detective Wolcott, and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri. May we ask you a few questions about your neighbor?”
His expression shifts from wariness to comprehension. “Of course,” he says. “Please come in.” He corrals the still-excited dog as he opens the door and bids us inside. Wolcott thanks him, and we idle in a small kitchen area, the dog nuzzling my leg.
“What was your name, sir?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Pete. Pete Woods. I saw the ambulance out there the other night. What happened?”
“Mr. Woods, your neighbor, Rachel Sherman, was found dead inside her home.”
“Oh man. Damn. How’d she die?”
“We’re still waiting on the autopsy results,” he answers. “Did you know Miss Sherman?”
“I mean, not well. Just to say hi. You know.”
“I see,” says Wolcott. “Had you noticed anything out of the ordinary going on next door as of late?”
“The other night, I heard some noise over there. I’d just gotten back home from visiting my brother in Chicago, and I was in here, getting Rufus fed. I heard a door slam, and then something like glass breaking. That sort of high-pitched sound.”
“And which night was this?” asks Wolcott, opening his notebook.
“This would have been Saturday.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So, Rufus finishes his dinner, and we head out for our walk. I take a quick look at the house, because of the noise and all, but nothing seems to be going on. I guess she had a visitor, but it seemed calm.”
“A visitor?” I ask.
“Yeah, there was another car in the driveway. A green Prius.”
Wolcott looks up from his notes. He eyes me, then returns his attention to Pete. “And what time was this, Mr. Woods?”
“Right around nine o’clock,” he says. My stomach plummets as the sound of their voices muffles in my head. “I remember checking my watch as we were leaving the house.”
“You still wear a wristwatch, eh?” My partner flashes his own. “I thought we were the only ones left,” he says, nodding between us.
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to do a tech detox. Every time I pull out my phone to look at the clock, I get distracted by ten other things.”
“I hear you,” says Wolcott. “Listen, thank you for your time.” He returns the notebook to his pocket and pulls out a business card. “If you think of anything else,” he says, handing the card to Pete.
“Will do. You guys have a good day, now.”
* * *
“What time were you over at her place?” he asks sheepishly as we pull out of Pete Woods’s driveway.
“Got over around ten.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t want to acknowledge what’s now painfully clear to both of us—that Charlotte Knopfler texted me that night in an attempt to alibi herself out. We’re still waiting on Fisk for official time of death, but the pieces are all falling into place. “You going to be okay handling this?”
“You kidding?” I say. “I can’t wait to put the cuffs on her myself.”
FORTY-SIX
Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/9/19
4:00 p.m.
Woundedhealer: Hi.
Miserylovescompany: Hey, girl!
Harmnoone82: OMG! We’ve been wondering about you. You disappeared.
Biggirlsdontcry54: We missed you.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Yeah. Way to leave us wanting more!
Woundedhealer: Something really bad happened.
Harmnoone82: Oh no. What is it?
Woundedhealer: My best friend died.
MaxineKD: Fuck.
Woundedhealer: Yeah.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Oh my God.
Harmnoone82: That’s awful. I’m so sorry.
MaxineKD: WHAT HAPPENED?
Woundedhealer: We fought a few nights ago about my relationship. I lost my temper.
Harmnoone82: Wait . . . you didn’t? I mean, did you do something?
Woundedhealer: No!!! Of course not.
Harmnoone82: Phew. I thought that you were saying you lost your temper and . . .
Woundedhealer: It could be my fault that she’s dead.
Harmnoone82: DON’T do that to yourself.
Woundedhealer: I should have handled it better.
Harmnoone82: You poor thing.
Miserylovescompany: I’ve been there. It is the worst. You can’t stop asking yourself what you could have done differently.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: I’m really sorry, Woundedhealer. You can’t blame yourself, though.
Biggirlsdontcry54: There is nothing anyone can really say that is going to take the pain you are feeling away.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: So true.
Woundedhealer: I’m trying so hard to be a good person, but bad stuff keeps happening.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: I know this is going to sound harsh, but when a lot of bad things are happening around you, it might mean you have to take a hard look at your behavior.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Um, rude! These are things outside of her control.
Woundedhealer: I am the common denominator.
MaxineKD: Maybe you can’t view everything in your life as “happening to you,” maybe it is “happening around you,” and the decisions you’re making are leading up to the bad things, or how you are responding to it all, aren’t the best?
Biggirlsdontcry54: Ladies. I don’t think this is what she needs right now. This is a support group, not an unsolicited life advice group.
MaxineKD: Is there a difference?
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Sorry, Woundedhealer.
MaxineKD: What can we do to support you? I can tell you bad jokes.
Harmnoone82: We could all meet up. Talk in person. I know how much it helped me.
MaxineKD: That’s a great idea.
Biggirlsdontcry54: OK. I will leave my house. For you, Woundedhealer. At least, I’ll try. No promises.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: I’ll bring supplies: Kleenex and chocolate. And wine obviously.
Harmnoone82: What do you say, Woundedhealer? Can we take care of you for a change?
Woundedhealer: Yes. That would be . . . amazing.
Harmnoone82: You need all the support you can get right now.
MaxineKD: We’ll take good care of you.
Harmnoone82: Wonderful! Where should we meet? Same spot as last time?
Woundedhealer: Hold on just a minute, my mother is
MaxineKD: Hello?
Woundedhealer: Is now offline.
Harmnoone82: HELLO?
FORTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
“Mom, I don’t want to talk right now!” I sound like my teenage self as I wipe the grateful tears for my chat room friends away with the back of my hand. If my mother has seen this, she doesn’t let on.
With two nearly full drinks in hand, she’s barged into my room and I’ve snapped my computer shut on the chat, surprised and frustrated by the intrusion.
The idea of being surrounded by friends right now, and being away from my mother, sounds like the safest place I could be. But I don’t dare try to respond
with her in the room. I don’t need her prying and judging the one place I have left in the world for comfort and support.
“Charlotte, I’ve been thinking.” Nothing good will come from this. She flips the light switch, which hurts my eyes, and puts the two full glasses of what look to be mojitos down on my bedside table.
“What are you doing, Mom? I really want to be alone.”
“Happy hour, darling. It’s a time-honored tradition. Indulge me.” She sits next to me on the bed, retrieves the drinks, and hands me one ceremoniously. I accept it, as much as I hate to. I’ll take the escapism from this terrible sadness wherever I can get it.
“Here’s to those who’ve seen us at our best and seen us at our worst and can’t tell the difference.” She taps her glass lightly against mine, even though I’ve made no move to indicate that I’m participating in any of this.
After a healthy swig, she takes a dramatic breath and scans the room as though she’s looking for the camera she should be speaking into. “How are you feeling about everything?” I fear there may be a YouTube video of “How to Talk to Your Fucked-Up Adult Children During a Time of Grief” at play here.
“Well, I feel like shit, Mom. Maybe the worst I’ve ever felt. My life is coming apart at every possible seam.”
“And what else?” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. This must be her attempt at active listening.
“And I’m more than a little disconcerted by how you are acting right now.” I take a swig of the cocktail, which is triple the strength of any reasonably mixed drink, which shouldn’t surprise me.
“Let’s open a window in here! It is really stuffy.” She moves to the black-out curtains and flings them open, practically spilling her drink in the process. The gray sky does very little as far as changing the feel inside the room, but the fresh air coming in when she cracks the window is needed.
