by E. G. Scott
It was him all along. Everything. He was using me, playing with me, getting off on my suffering. I was stupid and gullible enough to fall for it. How I could not see the most obvious piece of this puzzle levels me. I begin to shake.
Silvestri enters the room, pulling me back into complete consciousness. He’s followed by Wolcott, who nods solemnly in my direction. He pulls the open chair noisily next to Silvestri. Silvestri leans against the wall, his gaze locked on his colleague before moving to me.
“Charlotte, we have a lot of ground to cover, and it is best if we do that with Wolcott here.” Wolcott watches me but doesn’t say anything right away.
I nod weakly. I’m reeling from the connections I’ve just made. I can’t even begin to think how I can articulate it all to these men.
“I hate to be a third wheel, but you don’t mind if I join, do you?” Wolcott finally chimes in.
I can barely move to acknowledge that he’s spoken. My mind is overflowing with one horrible realization after another. All the things I believed to be one way were something completely different. I’ve been in one protracted, deadly hallucination for the past year. Longer, even. When did this all really start?
Peter. But why? My heart breaks all over again. I clutch at my chest, the metal of the restraints clanging noisily.
“Do you need a bathroom or stretch break?” Wolcott asks, concerned.
I shake my head.
Silvestri speaks. “Okay, then. Let’s start at the beginning and talk about when you started the group and at what point you lured Brooke Harmon into it.”
Brooke Harmon. Harmnoone82. My lungs are struggling to get a full breath in. She’d joined a few months after Peter had left the group. She and I had bonded quickly. It felt as though my circle of genuine, loving, chosen family was only getting bigger with each passing day.
“Detective Silvestri.”
“Yes?”
“Remember you asked me if I was single?” I don’t look at him when I ask this, and Wolcott’s face takes on a vaguely strained affect.
“I don’t believe that I phrased it that way, but you implied that you were unattached the first day that we met, if I remember correctly.” He frowns. “Was that not the case?”
I hold on to my response for a split second as I attempt to fully accept the dawning truth about Peter. There is no reason to keep any of his secrets any longer. Every absurd, implausible, outlandish detail that I believed in good faith. I am stunned by my stupidity.
“Yes. I lied.”
I have their attention now as I scan both of their faces. Wolcott looks intrigued, Silvestri brooding.
“Okay, Charlotte. So you have a significant other that you lied about. I’m assuming this person factors into proving your innocence in the deaths of Brooke and Rachel?”
“Yes.”
Before I can continue, Silvestri shifts away from the wall and scratches his head. I think he’s going to speak, but he remains quiet and pensive.
“I believe that the person I’ve been having a relationship with for the last year is somehow responsible for their deaths.”
Silvestri shifts on his feet. They are stonelike, waiting for me to continue.
“And I believe he’s framed me for both murders.” My statement hangs heavily in the air between us. I search their faces for any indication of belief. I only see silent gears turning and shades of doubt.
“And why do you believe this person would want to frame you?”
“I honestly have no idea,” I say.
“And what is this person’s name, Charlotte?”
“Peter Stanton.” I feel lighter saying it out loud.
“And where can we find Mr. Stanton?”
The momentary lifting reverses and my chest tightens. “I don’t know.”
“Why is that?” Wolcott asks gently.
“He’s missing.”
Dennis narrows his eyes.
“Then we’ll need you to give us a physical description, and we’ll put out an APB on him right away. If this man has anything to do with these deaths, we need to find him immediately.”
“I can’t do that,” I say softly.
“Why is that?” Dennis presses.
“Because.” My voice quivers. “I’ve never met him.”
The room becomes airless and the detectives silent. Their indecipherable expressions stay fixed on me for a full, agonizing moment before they look at each other and appear to have an entire conversation with each other silently.
I sit in the chair and make myself as small as I can. Outside of the deep shame I feel, I am also experiencing a growing sense of relief now that I’ve said the unspeakable.
Wolcott breaks their mind meld first, turning to me slowly. “Charlotte, just so we are one hundred percent clear on this, you had a lengthy relationship with this man, but you never met each other in person?”
I nod. “That is correct.” I look down at my lap, humiliated.
Silvestri speaks up. “And how exactly did you cross paths with this mysterious man?”
“In the chat room,” I respond.
“The women’s support group?” he asks.
“He was posing as a female member,” I whisper.
Silvestri takes a sharp inhale. “Charlotte, are you telling us that this person you’ve been in a relationship with for a year is not only someone you’ve never met but who was lying from the jump?”
He rubs his temple with one hand and extends his other out in a gesture of disbelief.
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to lecture you on how dangerous this all is,” he says to the wall.
This is sickeningly funny, because “Peter” has already lectured me about the dangers of people posing as someone they’re not online. I wouldn’t suspect the online fraud expert of online fraud, naturally.
“I imagine you have texts and exchanged pictures you can share with us?” Silvestri probes.
My stomach drops. “They don’t exist.”
“Of course they don’t,” he quips.
Wolcott interjects. “That’s problematic, Charlotte. Why is that?”
“We used an app that automatically deletes texts after twelve hours. It is untraceable. Peter insisted that it was the safest way to communicate.”
“And have you been in touch with Peter in the last twelve hours?” Silvestri questions.
“No. I haven’t heard from him in almost a week. Before that, it was a month.”
Silvestri and Wolcott trade glances.
“And did you ever speak on the phone?” Wolcott jumps in.
“Yes, but he always called me.”
“Of course he did,” Silvestri mutters.
“Was Peter Stanton perhaps married?”
“No.” As I say it, I realize I have no idea if that is the truth. Nothing else he told me was true, evidently, so why would something inconsequential like being married or having, say, a family be something he’d be forthcoming about? I am dying a thousand deaths in this chair.
“And why did he say it was ‘safer’ to use a disappearing text app?” Silvestri resumes control.
“Because of his job.”
“And what line of work is Mr. Stanton in?” They both seem mildly amused now. They clearly think I’m making this up as I go along.
“I don’t know exactly.” I blow the hair that has fallen into my eyes out of my face. “He told me that he was in a department of the US government that was highly classified and couldn’t breach protocol by telling me any details.”
Silvestri and Wolcott exchange a look of complete disbelief without even attempting to hide it from me.
“He did tell me that he was a specialist in online crimes, and that the reason he was in the chat room in the first place, posing as a woman, was because he was investigating onl
ine chat room scams.”
I can’t tell if the expression of incredulity on their faces is directed at the absurdity of an obviously fabricated story or my stupidity for believing any of it.
“Look, I realize this all sounds crazy and fictitious. I’m processing it all in real time too. I didn’t realize that Peter was involved in any way until you told me about the chat room and Brooke. I don’t understand how he did it, but it has to be him.”
Wolcott speaks. “Okay, Charlotte, you’ve got our attention. We’ll follow you down this rabbit hole for a bit and see where we end up. We are going to need any information that you have. Phone numbers used, any emails or texts, anything that could help us locate him and obtain proof of his whereabouts—”
“And his existence,” says Silvestri acidly.
FIFTY-SIX
SILVESTRI
“I’m almost inclined to give her an A for creativity.” I chuckle. I make a point of speaking softly, as our voices echo through the empty hallway.
My partner snorts. “Let’s go ahead and save that A for arrogance. She really tried to pull that Secret Agent Man bullshit with us? What, does she think we walked in here out of a cornfield?”
“Uh, Wolcott. There are cornfields up and down Long Island—”
“Okay, wise guy. You know what I’m getting at.”
“I do. What do you expect, though? She’s desperate. It’s gotta feel like those walls are squeezing in on her by the second.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, I can’t wait to see how slick she tries to get when the parents of the deceased are staring her down in that room.”
“There you go, pal. Pulling the ace. Feel better?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m not even mad. More amused than anything.”
“Good,” I say. “Let’s go drop the hammer on her.”
Wolcott rubs his hands together. “Let’s.”
We turn and walk down the hallway. “There’s a man who leads a life of danger / To everyone he meets he stays a stranger.”
My partner turns to me, wincing. “Save it for the shower, Silvestri.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
I’m absolutely numb from the conversation with the detectives and the realization about Peter and am lying nearly comatose when Silvestri tells me that the Harmons have requested to meet with me. I hesitate only momentarily before agreeing. I know I may never get another opportunity to make amends in person, and in my heart I know it is the right thing to do. Anger probably isn’t a strong enough word for how they feel toward me, and I’m imagining they will be waiting for me in a windowless room with bats and bricks. Even so, being the object of their rage will maybe feel better than my current state.
There was a moment after Michelle died when the only thing I wanted in the world was to apologize to her family. By the time I came to my senses enough to express this desire, I was in and out of Bellevue, and the hospital considered anything having to do with Michelle a closed matter. My former employer’s malpractice lawyers forbade me from speaking directly to the Harmons and concocted a sanitized statement of condolence only to be released after the case was finalized. So the only form of apology the Harmons ever received from me was written by a crisis management consultant, signed in my name.
The day of the surgery, Henry was the one who ended up telling the Harmons—Brooke included—that Michelle had died. It should have been me, but I was barely coherent, so I stayed behind while he went to do the hardest part of a surgeon’s job. He didn’t give me a choice, though, just told me that I needed to pull myself together and get back to work.
I return to the moment again and again and wish I’d been able to compose myself enough and fought Henry for the opportunity that should have been unquestionably mine. It was my surgery and my responsibility. In the moment I was relieved that Henry did the difficult thing that I wasn’t able to. It took some years of distance to see how he manipulated the whole narrative of that day from the moment Michelle took her last breath.
There was something about the way Henry acted about the surgery after the fact. Bedside manner was never his strong suit, but he was so brilliant and confident in the procedures, his brusqueness was generally accepted.
“Sometimes things just don’t work out” were the words of wisdom my mentor and romantic partner shared with me after Michelle died. He said it with the same level of concern he might have about getting ketchup on a favorite shirt. His detachment stuck with me for months after and made me question if he was at all the person I thought he was. A detached bedside manner was one thing, but a complete lack of empathy for everyone was another.
My recollections are interrupted by an officer I don’t know unlocking the cell and ordering me to stand and follow him. My heart beats as heavily as his footsteps as we near the visitors’ room and I’m led to a table where the Harmons are waiting for me. My palms are damp and I rub them on the synthetic material of my prison scrubs—unnecessarily, since there are no handshakes extended.
As soon as I take my seat, Mr. Harmon slides his chair back, stands, and leans in close to my face. “I should kill you right now for what you’ve done,” he growls.
“Hey! No contact. Keep your distance, sir.” The beefy visitors’ room guard advances on us at the same time that Mrs. Harmon snaps her husband back a few feet by the arm. He turns sharply on his heels and faces the window with his back to me. His shoulders are up around his ears and I can see that he is breathing fast.
She rises to join her husband and leans into him and says something in his ear.
“Kathy. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” He bolts for the door and the guard holds up his hand.
“Sir, if you leave now, there is no reentry.”
“Out of my way!” he bellows in response, and the guard steps aside while he storms off.
The other family in the visiting room seems undisturbed by Mr. Harmon’s dramatic exit and barely look up from their engrossed conversation.
“Mrs. Harmon, I’m very sorry for everything that has happened. I know there isn’t anything I can say, but I have never been able to tell you how sorry I am about Michelle.”
I have to use every bit of might to make eye contact with her. She locks my gaze and I am looking directly into hatred.
“Don’t you even say her name,” she spits. “I am not here about Michelle.”
I’m cowed. I don’t say a word and look at my hands on the table.
“I would let my husband choke the life out of you if I didn’t think it would be too much of an easy way out. I would like to see you suffer for a very long time in prison,” she hisses.
Ashamed, I attempt to modulate my voice so I don’t sound like the scared little girl who is sitting across from her. I take a breath before speaking.
“Mrs. Harmon, I swear to you, I did not hurt Brooke. I’ve never even met her in person.” I want to tell her that now that I know that Brooke and I were friends, I feel the huge loss as well. But I know making any of Brooke’s death about my grief might be the worst thing I could do.
“As far as I’m concerned, anything you say is pure and absolute lies. You are clearly mentally ill and living in your own imaginary world without rules or any regard for other people. You are about to have quite a painful reality check, though.”
She reaches into her purse. My heart stops for a minute and I look to the guard, expecting to feel the business end of a knife plunged into my jugular before he makes it across the room. Instead she withdraws a folded piece of paper, lays it on the table, and slides it across to me.
I look at the guard again to see if my accepting this offering is against the rules, but he’s focusing on one of the visitors struggling with the vending machine and not even looking in our direction. I don’t make a move.
“To be honest, Charlotte, I didn’t want to see your face until it was sitting in the defendant’
s box of a courtroom awaiting your sentencing. You are an evil person.”
“Mrs. Harmon, I understand why you hate me.”
“I wish you could give your life to bring my daughter’s back. But Brooke was a far more loving and forgiving person than I am, and that is why I’m here.” She gestures at the piece of paper and covers her face with her hand and shakes slightly.
I unfold the page and see that it is an email addressed to me. I jump to the bottom of the text and see Brooke’s name.
“What is this?” I ask, afraid to read any of the words on the page.
“It’s a letter addressed to you that Brooke had saved in the drafts folder of her email. She wrote it recently. So your claim that you didn’t even know she was in town seems pretty flimsy to me, since you were clearly still in the forefront of her mind. I don’t know what kind of head games you were playing on her, but after I read it, I realized that there would be nothing I could say to you that would be worse than your seeing how much better a person Brooke was than you.”
I’m speechless as my vision blurs when I attempt to get a grip on the words on the page. I wipe the tears from my eyes and swallow. There is a knot in my throat the size of an apple. Crying in front of Mrs. Harmon feels wrong for a lot of reasons. She doesn’t look at me and I start to read.
Dear Charlotte,
I’m writing this letter after six and a half unbearable years without my older sister and best friend, Michelle. In that time I have fantasized about what I would say to you if I had the chance. You have been the focus of so much of my rage for so long, I started to get used to it as its own emotion that I carried around with me as regularly as sadness. It got heavier with each year that passed and I’m ready to let go of that weight and move on.
