In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  With shaking hands, I text Silvestri and attach the photos. I feel excited that I have proof of him and crushingly sad looking at the two shots. It was a year of my life I spent talking to, texting, planning with, fantasizing about, and missing this person. A year of my life, and the longest, most intense relationship I’ve ever had. Which is probably why I fell for it all in the first place. All of those years when everyone else was tripping through adolescence and falling headfirst into love and betrayal and all of the highs and lows of sex and dating and marriage and divorce, I was studying.

  I lie down and feel the heavenly softness of my own bed and close my eyes.

  SIXTY

  SILVESTRI

  “This guy has to have been right in front of us all along.”

  We’re back in the interrogation room at the station house, looking through exchanges from the chat room that Charlotte and Brooke Harmon belonged to. Clarence is sitting in front of an open laptop, helping us navigate. Wolcott and I are looking over his shoulder as Charlotte sits at the table next to him. She’s agreed to come down and run us through the chats, in the hope of helping find any bread crumbs that might lead back to our perp.

  “Here’s the thing with that,” says Clarence. “Whoever it was who ran game on you guys spoofed the server. As far as we can tell from this,” he says, nodding at the screen, “these messages originated from somewhere in Cambodia.”

  “How’d they do that?” asks Wolcott.

  “Basically, they falsified the IP address, so it looks like these are coming in from a different geographical location entirely. But that’s not even the craziest part,” says Clarence, sucking in his breath.

  “Oh no?” asks Wolcott.

  “Remember I told you that all of the usernames originated from the same address, except for this one?” he says, pointing to “Woundedhealer” on the screen—the handle we now know to belong to Charlotte.

  “Right.” I nod.

  “So,” he continues. “I went back further. Turns out that up until October first, all of the chats from ‘Harmnoone82’ also came from a different address. After that, though? Same IP address as the others.”

  “After her murder . . .” Charlotte trails off, dazed, the tone in her voice mirroring the ghoulish reality of the situation.

  “Jesus,” says Wolcott.

  “So it was just me in there with Peter,” says Charlotte, shuddering.

  “Whoever this ‘Peter’ really is,” I say. I look to Charlotte, and I’m struck with a pang of sympathy. I’d become as convinced as Wolcott that she had to have been involved in this mess, and I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to be so utterly alone and scared over the course of these last several days, proclaiming her innocence to deaf ears. She appears to be as pulled together as can be expected of someone in her position, but her nerves show some fray.

  “About that,” says Clarence. “These photos you had me run?” He points to the two on the screen—the same ones that Charlotte Knopfler texted us. “Turns out they’re model stock photos. Whoever this actually was just ripped them and sent them to you. Happens all the time with catfishers.”

  The audible gasp pulls my attention to Charlotte. She shudders as the color drains from her face. She appears to be deflating, right there in the chair.

  “Okay,” says Wolcott, in an effort to assuage her obvious discomfort. “Let’s go back to the jump here. Likely suspects. Time to take a fresh look at who we’re eyeing.”

  “There’s Henry Thornton,” I say. He does have the hotel alibi, though his girlfriend sounded nervous when we spoke. I make a mental note to follow up with her, and turn to Charlotte. “You worked with the guy. Do you think he’d be capable of something like this?”

  She mulls it over for a long moment. “I don’t know, but I’ve learned that his lack of empathy makes him capable of a lot of things that I might not have suspected at first.”

  “Something to consider. Okay, Annie Forester. I checked her Amazon Streaming history. She did in fact order a movie the night of the murder, like she told us.”

  “Not an airtight alibi, but we can circle back to that. How about Stacy Phillips? Still haven’t been able to track her down.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte interjects. “Did you just say ‘her’?”

  “Yeah,” says Wolcott. “The nurse.”

  “Um, Stacy Phillips is a man.”

  Clarence looks wide-eyed from Charlotte to my partner. “Yo, you guys assumed . . .” He shakes his head, suppressing a laugh. “That’s priceless.”

  “Well, looks like we’ve got omelet on our faces,” says Wolcott, cheeks reddening. “Probably why we had such a tough time finding anything on him.” He looks to Charlotte. “Any chance you’ve got a line on Mr. Phillips?”

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t been in touch with Stacy since the surgery. But I wouldn’t worry about him.”

  “How’s that?” my partner asks.

  “Stacy’s as gentle as they come. The worst thing you could accuse him of is making bad jokes . . .” She trails off before her eyes widen. “Wait a minute!”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Jack Doyle,” she says. “I mean, um, John Lyons.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  She takes a moment to get her thoughts together. “Okay, so a new patient shows up at my office for an appointment. He introduces himself as Jack Doyle. Pays in cash. I can’t really get a good read on him. Confusing energy. Pretty arrogant, honestly. He turns out to be a doctor.” She lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Should have known. He reminded me a lot of Henry, actually.” The mention of Thornton stirs my gut. I feel a fresh urge to get a bead on him. “Later,” she continues, “when I’m checked into the hospital, I find out from a former colleague of mine that this doctor’s real name is John Lyons. Then, the other night, I get a sympathy call from him on my landline, with his condolences about Rachel. Only I have no clue how he got that number, and I never told him that Rachel was the friend who had died.”

  I feel a tingle up my forearms. Wolcott, pitched forward in his seat, turns from her to me. “What do you say we go corral ourselves a doctor?”

  “Actually,” I say, “I’ve got a couple in mind.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  CHARLOTTE

  I’m back from the police station for fifteen minutes and settling in for an emergency meditation session. As soon as I get comfortable, there is a knock at my bedroom door. I think about not answering in the hope that she’ll think I’m sleeping and retreat. But before I have a chance to lie down and feign sleep, I see the doorknob turning.

  “Char? Honey?” She pushes the door open cautiously and I glance at her for a quick second, long enough to see that she’s going full Norma Desmond, with a silk turban and a velvet cape draped around her shoulders.

  “What is it?” I can barely look at her without wanting to laugh.

  “I’m glad you are home.” Her sincerity is unsettling.

  “Turns out you didn’t have to pick me up from my latest fiasco after all, Mother.” We haven’t spoken directly since I was released. She was passed out cold in front of the TV when I came home, and I’ve been hiding in my room for the last two days, mostly in a state of delirious sleep. I’m rocked by dreams about Rachel and the Harmon sisters.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks carefully. “I left some supplies outside your door yesterday. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She’s referring to her idea of comfort food: a bottle of gin, a half-eaten bag of Milano cookies, potato chips, and a couple of pills, which looked to be Valium, all arranged on a silver platter.

  “I’m alive.” I’m feeling worlds better than I did forty-eight hours ago, but I’m still not feeling strong enough to go a few rounds with her. She lingers in my doorway.

  “I’m really sorry that I couldn’t bail you out, Charlotte.”

  “I
t’s fine.” I look back down at my phone and send a text to Lucy, confirming our appointment in an hour. I agreed to see her earlier than I’d planned to go back to the office because she was clearly suffering by the sound of her voice when she called earlier today.

  The two officers who’ve been watching the house are waiting to escort me to my office and stand guard for Peter, on the insistence of the detectives. I’m happy to have the protection.

  “Do you want to . . . talk about things?” It appears this “talking about things” is threatening to become a regular practice with us.

  “I’ve got to get to work. I have a patient coming in.” I catch the flicker of surprise in her face and look away.

  “Really? Isn’t it a little quick to go back to work, dear?”

  I really wasn’t planning on getting back into things so quickly, but the combination of not wanting to be trapped in an uncomfortable conversation like this one and my patient being in distress motivated me to return to it.

  “It has only been a couple of days since you’ve been home. Is that healthy? After everything you’ve been through?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  She sits on my bed and changes her approach. “It is just wonderful news that you’ve been released. I knew you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Anger bubbles. “Did you, Mom? Is that why you left me in jail? Did you think it would be a good character-building exercise?”

  “Oh, Charlotte. It wasn’t about you.”

  “It never is, Mom.”

  I’m shocked to see her burst into tears.

  “Mom, what is it?” I ask.

  “I’m broke, honey. That is why I didn’t bail you out. It wasn’t a personal statement. You know I would have if I could have.”

  “What are you talking about? What about your retirement money?”

  “Gone.”

  “What about the money you ‘borrowed’ from my settlement money? And all the rent I paid you?”

  “Long gone.”

  “How have you been supporting your gimlet habit, then? And your clothes?” I gesture to her elaborate getup. “Capes aren’t cheap.”

  “I’ve been Airbnbing the house to a bunch of pornographers so that I can make my monthly debt-consolidation payments.” She lets me absorb this. I’m speechless. She forges on. “I’m destitute and am going to lose the house at the rate I’m going.”

  “Wait. What? What do you mean pornographers?” I’m dearly hoping I’ve misheard her.

  “I got an offer from a young independent filmmaker to rent the house, and it was twice what I thought I could get. I went by the house this week to check on things, and they were filming a rather racy scene in the living room. They didn’t know I was there, but I caught the tail end of . . . oh, never mind, it was the tail end of something. Or someone.”

  I can only imagine how depraved what she saw had to be if she was scandalized by it. “Oh Mom. I don’t even know how to process this information right now.”

  Suddenly her excitement and insistence to stay at my place is making sense. As is the inordinate amount of stuff in the trunk of her car. I sigh.

  I feel a rush of empathy for her. “Mom. Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

  She’s shocked. “Really?”

  I say it because I know it’s true. It has to be. I will help her, in spite of my better judgment. She was there for me at my worst.

  She looks surprised and grateful, two emotions that are also new for her.

  I take a look at my phone and see the time. “I need to get going, Mom. We’ll talk about this later, okay?” She nods and steps aside to let me through, and shockingly pulls me in for a tight hug. I stiffen and then go limp.

  Path of least resistance.

  SIXTY-TWO

  WOLCOTT

  “How may I help you, sir?”

  I’m standing at the reception desk at Stony Brook Memorial Hospital. Silvestri and I have split up, and he’s out attempting to track down Henry Thornton. The young woman I’m speaking with offers up gleaming-white rows of teeth.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Dr. John Lyons.”

  The smile remains intact as she goes rapid-fire on the keyboard. She consults the screen in front of her, then picks up the telephone handset. “Is Dr. Lyons still on the floor?” she asks, and waits patiently on the line. “Okay, thank you.” She hangs up and returns her attention to me. “It appears that Dr. Lyons wrapped up surgery and has left for the day. May I . . .”

  I flash her a quick eyeful of shield, which promptly switches her smile to the off position. A look of concern takes its place. “Would you be so kind as to provide me with a home address and phone number for Dr. Lyons?” I ask.

  She returns to her keyboard, and in a few ticks she’s turned the info up. She pivots the monitor toward me. I jot it down, return the notebook to my pocket, thank her, and wish her a lovely day.

  SIXTY-THREE

  CHARLOTTE

  I’m shaky and the simple act of driving feels harder than it did this morning when I drove to the police station. Officers Tedesco and Smith follow at a safe distance, but never too far that I can’t see them in the rearview. They feel like a human life raft right now.

  When we pull into the parking lot, it looks darker along the strip than usual, and I see that the China Panda’s lights are off and the lobster tank in the window is empty. A large sign on the door informs that it has been shut down by the health department indefinitely.

  There is the same spot available near the entrance from last week, which I opt not to take and instead park farther away. I power down the Prius and gather my stuff. The crisp fresh air hits me as I exit the car.

  As I put the key into the lock and push the door open, I vow that I’ll look into finding a good therapist on Monday. It feels crazy to make that promise after swearing off shrinks completely post-Bellevue, but I need to live as though I’m my own best friend now, and give myself the advice that Rachel would have: ask for help. I can’t get through this alone. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need to find peace and common ground with Mom. Without Rachel, Peter, and my entire online support group, she is my only “in case of emergency,” whether I like it or not. And most likely, my roommate for the foreseeable future. I shudder at the image, just a forty-year-old head case living with her insane, aging mother. How long will it be until we start dressing alike, sleeping in the same room? We are about two raccoons short of Grey Gardens.

  I am in the door and have the lights on and my coat off when Lucy enters. I realize I haven’t locked the door behind me. I need to keep not only myself safe, but also my patient.

  “Lucy.” I gesture her farther inside and shut and lock the door behind me. She notices.

  “Locking it?”

  “Just in case. I never know if someone is going to come in when I’m in the treatment room, and there are some valuables out here.”

  “Smart thinking. Thank you for seeing me again on short notice. I’m never this needy, I swear!” She chuckles. “Well, maybe I am.”

  “Of course. I’m happy to see you. Not happy you are in pain, but we’ll work on that.”

  “Wonderful.” She looks around the room, and at the door to Rachel’s treatment room. I feel a pang of longing.

  “Why don’t you take a seat. I just need a few minutes to get the room ready. Then we’ll have you feeling good.”

  “I don’t know what I would do without you, Charlotte.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SILVESTRI

  “Thornton’s alibi is blown.”

  “Oh yeah?” Wolcott says into the phone.

  “Tried to get him at the hospital first. They told me he took a personal day. Tried him on his cell. No dice. Circled back with the girlfriend, who finally admitted that he asked her to lie for him. Said they left the hotel at ten o’clock.”

&n
bsp; “Giving him plenty of time to get out to Stony Brook that night, if he was the doer.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Where are you?”

  “Just left the hospital. Lyons wrapped up surgery and skipped out of there. I’m heading over to his place to try and doorstep him. Where are you?”

  “On my way to Northport. Thornton being in the wind is making me antsy. We’ve got the detail on Charlotte, but I feel compelled to look in on Annie Forester. You know, just in case.”

  “Our anesthesiologist. Good man,” he responds. “I’ll hit you back when I turn up Dr. Lyons.”

  “Sounds good, brother. And be safe out there.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  CHARLOTTE

  “Okay, Lucy. I’m ready for you. Why don’t you come inside? So, you said on the phone that your back and neck are feeling bad?”

  “Well, this pain has flared up again like something fierce. And my hands have been getting numb.” She adjusts her glasses.

  “Do you sit in front of a computer a lot? Look at your phone multiple times a day? Watch a lot of TV?”

  “No to the computer—I barely know how to turn it on. A reasonable amount of time on my phone; I don’t have that active of a social life these days. It’s the TV time that is excessive.”

  I nod nonjudgmentally. “How much screen time are you clocking in general?”

  “A lot. Too much.” She scrunches her face.

  I nod as I make notes. “Don’t worry. We all do. I can show you some tricks to make all of these things less harmful to your body.”

  “You are a lifesaver. I already feel better.”

  “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask you: What kind of work do you do, Lucy?”