by E. G. Scott
“I mean, when he told me that he wanted to do real estate out here and leave the city permanently, I was like, ugh, I’d rather die. What the hell am I even going to do all day? But it has been so great not having to work and really focus on all of the self-care I wasn’t able to do in the craziness of Manhattan, you know? And of course it is great for the kids.”
Rebecca nodded wordlessly. I didn’t have to see the contempt living behind her niceness to sense that it was there. I already hated this woman too.
“And obviously I want Wes to be doing this well, but I never get to see him!” She leaned in. “I mean, I would like for him to help me spend some of this money he is making!”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Rebecca looked like she might be trying to do the same. “I’m glad to hear things are going so well,” she replied evenly.
“How is Paul doing?” Red delivered in a tone that suggested something bad had befallen whoever Paul was. “How has he been? I mean, his business failed so badly. How do you come back from that?”
Rebecca’s face darkened a shade. “Paul’s fine. He’s great. He is figuring out what’s next,” she responded acidly.
Erin smiled wanly and nodded in a robotic way that indicated to me that she really couldn’t care less. “This must be hard on your marriage. Are you guys still thinking about having kids?”
Rebecca’s face contorts. “We are happily and decidedly child free. Always have been.”
“Oh, I must have mixed you up with someone else. Good for you.” I couldn’t believe how rude this woman was.
“No problem.” Rebecca’s pursed lips told otherwise.
“I’m sure something will come up for Paul; he’s a smart guy.”
“I’m just glad he’s getting out of the house semi-regularly to walk Duff.” Rebecca warmed slightly.
“Oh, right! You guys have that enormous dog!”
“Sometimes I think Paul loves him more than me.” Her laugh undeniably was forced.
“Well, maybe he can start a dog-walking business or something. Or a business building doghouses?!” Erin was amused with herself. Rebecca was not.
Clearly sensing Rebecca’s irritation, Erin reached into her gym bag for her iPhone. “Sorry, it’s my nanny.”
“Of course. Do what you need to do.”
Without looking up: “We should have you guys over for dinner sometime soon. I’ve totally gotten into feng shui! Maybe I could do it for your house? Free up some energy, spruce up Paul’s career corner?!”
“Sounds great.” Rebecca moved up to the shower as another woman stepped out. She hung her towel before sliding into the stall, her immodesty revealing small breasts and a painfully thin frame. As she leaned in to adjust the water temp, I tried not to stare at the delicate dove tattoo on her hip. She hadn’t struck me as the type to have one.
* * *
THE CONVERSATION STUCK with me all day and into the evening. I can’t explain why I cared about a man I’d never even met. But my curiosity was piqued and I obsessed for the next few days. After a week or so passed, the encounter and my interest in Paul were replaced by other thoughts, and I’d almost forgotten about him completely. That is, until the universe sent me a sign as clear as Paul himself standing in front of me.
* * *
AFTER I REACHED the top of the dark stairway on my thirty-fifth year into the unknown, it was many hours past my actual birthday. I was able to get my bearings enough to see that I was standing on a spacious concrete slab. It took me a few moments of walking around on the surface and peering over the edges to realize I’d been tossed in a basement below a house foundation, sans house. The property was surrounded by a dense landscape of trees. As my eyes adjusted, I took in the expansive surface and imagined the size of the house that would sit atop the footprint one day. I lay out on the cold concrete and watched the plumes of cloud traveling over the surface of the full moon above. I didn’t feel rushed to do anything other than let the evening’s events take root in me. I wasn’t surprised exactly—my life had taken terrible, unbelievable turns before—but I couldn’t quite get a foothold on what to make of my current situation.
The scant battery power remaining on my phone allowed me to use the GPS and determine that I was twenty-one miles from home. I vacillated between the urge to call 911 and the desire to call Paul. I couldn’t yet accept his part in all of this. He hadn’t been the one to drop the blow to my head. He’d been sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was transpiring in his own bedroom. I imagined him waking and seeing my body splayed out. Unable to contain his shock and devastation at what his bitch of a wife had done to me. Had he cried? Pounded the floor?
Looking up at the constellations above, I silently asked for a sign. Logic told me that Paul was absolutely the one who’d brought me here. But I couldn’t be angry at him. I was having sporadic recollections of coming into hazy consciousness completely encased, disoriented and catatonic, but able to hear the sounds of an engine running and Paul’s frustrated grunts with each loud sound that followed, a dull thud of something very heavy being dropped over and over.
I rationalized that he’d had no choice but to get rid of my body because she’d made him. Maybe he couldn’t put me in the ground because it was frozen, but he could have weighed me down and thrown me into the ocean. He wasn’t ready to let go of me any more than I was of him. He’d changed his mind and put me somewhere safe. I couldn’t forgive him completely for throwing me into a dark basement. But as far as he knew, I was beyond saving. All kinds of possibilities were coming to me through the excruciating throbbing in my head.
I had an opportunity that most people wish for. I could be a ghost in the world of the living. I could move among all of it without being seen. I could watch them. I could see how the person I knew in his heart really loved me survived after I was gone. Would he fall apart? Would his marriage implode under the guilt of my death? I could measure how much he really cared for me by how he suffered. I could watch her and figure out the best way to ruin her life as she’d ruined mine. And I could have some fun watching them both suffer along the way.
And I could come back when he needed me the most.
There was so much to do. But most pressingly, Paul would be coming back for my body and I needed to make sure there was one in my place when he returned.
forty-four
SILVESTRI
THE RECEPTIONIST OFFERS us an incredulous look. “Um, Rebecca Campbell hasn’t been with us for quite some time.”
“Is that right?” Wolcott tries not to betray surprise. “Can I ask the reason for her departure?”
We’re standing in the lobby of Launaria Pharmaceuticals, and we’re oh-for-two on persons of interest being on premises. Having been told that Mark Anders is out for the day, we figured we’d check in with Rebecca to see if she might be helpful. But it appears she hasn’t exactly been level with us either.
Our charm seems to have already worn thin with the receptionist. She’s toggling between distracted and mildly annoyed. “You’ll have to consult HR,” she says as she points us in the direction of the floors above.
I give it a go. “I’m afraid that time is of the essence here. It would really be helpful if you could—”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” she answers.
My partner tags back in. “You wouldn’t happen to have a date for her—”
The finger pops up for an encore. “HR.” She says it as if talking to a set of toddlers.
“Well,” I say, “you’ve been an enormous help. Have a wonderful day.” She waves us off wordlessly as she answers the phone.
* * *
“HOW CAN I help you, honey?”
Wolcott and I are sitting across the desk from Cecilia, in Human Resources. She seems to be more of a people person than her colleague downstairs.
My partner holds his hands in his lap as
he offers her an easy smile. “Cecilia, we just need a bit of information on one of your former employees, Rebecca Campbell.”
Her eyes go wide, and she curls her lips inward to stop herself from talking. She looks toward the door, then back to us. “What would you like to know?”
“We understand that Mrs. Campbell recently left her position with you after a long tenure, is that correct?” he asks.
“That is correct, yes.” Cecilia leans toward us. “It was a shake-up, for certain. I don’t want to call it a scandal, exactly, but . . .”
It would appear she’s a bit of a Chatty Cathy, and it seems time to pull the string. “Sounds intriguing, Cecilia.” I rest my elbow on the desk and my chin in my hand. “Do tell.”
“Well,” she says. “Rebecca was recently let go due to some questionable handling of prescription samples in our stockroom.” Her voice drops a decibel. “Also, we received an anonymous tip that there had been some inappropriate goings-on between she and Mr. Anders.” She raises her eyebrows to send this last part home.
Wolcott nods conspiratorially. “Quite the soap opera around here.”
“Can you believe it?” she says with a gasp. Then, catching herself, she clears her throat and tugs on the neckline of her blouse. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
* * *
WE’RE BACK IN THE CRUISER, and my partner’s got the phone to his ear. He mouths the word “voicemail” to me silently before laying on the casual tone. “Mrs. Campbell, this is Detective Wolcott. I’m sure you’ve been following the tragic events in the news as of late. We’re reinterviewing a number of people from your spin studio to see if there’s anything we may have missed the first time around, and we’d like to have you come in when your schedule allows. If you could please give me a call on my cell, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and turns to me. “To the McMansion?”
I nod, and we drive off.
* * *
THE GATED COMMUNITY we’re driving through strikes me as paradoxical. Each house is different, yet they all retain a cookie-cutter quality. And although every resident is clearly trying to one-up their neighbors, all of the homes manage to underwhelm in their own gaudily unique way. Ah, the absurdities of wealth.
We’re heading over to the Anders estate, to check in on our favorite delinquent pharma boss. Wolcott is drumming his thumb against his knee as he stares out the window. He turns to me. “Well, this is an interesting development.”
“Certainly is,” I say.
We round the corner onto the Anderses’ block and park along the street, at a comfortable distance from the house but with clear sightlines to the front door. I’m relieved to immediately register the lack of news vans lining the street. The reporters haven’t descended upon the home, which is promising. Best to catch everyone without their guard fully up.
Wolcott checks his phone, then nods at me. We each move to open our doors when my partner suddenly freezes, his eyes glued in the direction of Mark Anders’s house. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
I turn to see Rebecca Campbell walking out onto the front step. She appears disheveled and out of sorts. Her face looks pale and drawn, and her shoulders are rolled in on themselves. Anders stands inside the doorway wearing a ratty bathrobe and looking just as stale as his companion. As she turns to him, he leans through the doorframe and hastily plants a kiss on her. She partially deflects the kiss, turns, and heads for the street. He calls after her, but she simply waves a hand as she continues toward her SUV. There’s a sense of desperation in the way she lunges away from the house with each step.
“Looks like we may have been eyeing the wrong lovebirds all this time.” I’m genuinely surprised at this new turn of events. Then again, this is a case that’s become genuinely surprising lately.
“I’ll be damned,” says Wolcott. “Did not see that one coming.” He resumes tapping his thumb, then stops and looks over at me. “Let’s call an audible, now that we’ve got eyes on Rebecca Campbell. I’m dying to see what a lady of leisure does with her idle time.”
I wait for Campbell to start her engine before I key the cruiser, but she sits in the SUV for a long while, appearing to stare at the floor. She shakes her head a few times, then tosses it back and stares at the ceiling.
“Poor thing,” my partner says. “Must be grappling with a heavy burden there.”
“Looks that way.”
“It helps to talk, Rebecca. And we’re here to help.”
“We can help lift that off your shoulders,” I say, eyes glued to the figure in the driver’s seat. “It’s what we do.”
“Just missed the priesthood, Silvestri.”
“By inches.”
Rebecca leans toward the passenger seat, then straightens up. She raises a hand to her ear. As she does, Wolcott’s screen lights up. He looks at it, then at me.
“Well, speak of the devil.”
forty-five
REBECCA
“MRS. CAMPBELL. SO nice to finally have you over to our place.” Wolcott pulls out the metal chair for me and gestures with a sweep of his hand. My eyes go to the metal pipe bolted to the center of the table. The lighting in the room is awful. I’ve applied a generous amount of makeup to conceal my lack of sleep but didn’t factor in the fluorescents.
“I apologize for the lack of ambiance in here. We’ve been meaning to spruce up the joint,” Silvestri deadpans.
“Please, call me Rebecca. Mrs. Campbell makes me feel so old.” I laugh lightly.
Silvestri hovers a few feet away from the table. He doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to sit down. My eyes rest on the handcuffs hanging off his belt.
“Don’t worry, we aren’t going to add any bracelets to your outfit today,” Wolcott quips as he takes his seat. I laugh again, this time too loudly.
I feel the sweat running down my back and am grateful I wore a dark shirt. I need to remember that I’m here because I chose to be.
“It was a rather serendipitous turn of events that finally brought us together today, wasn’t it? You calling us at almost exactly the same time we were calling you?” Silvestri is so at ease in his stance, he looks like he should be holding a cocktail.
“I guess it was meant to be.” I decide to play along with them.
Wolcott smiles warmly. “We had some follow-up questions for you after our last conversation.” He takes a beat. “As you probably well know by now, Sasha Anders is dead.”
“Yes. It is so awful.” I wring my hands. “Do you know what happened to her yet?”
“Well, that is what we are trying to get to the bottom of. We know that she was murdered, but I’m afraid I can’t say more than that at the moment.”
“Sure, I understand. I just can’t believe she’s dead.” I put my hands on the table. “You’re sure it’s her?” If they find my question odd, they don’t let on.
“We’re certain.”
“Do you have any suspects?” They both seem amused at my brashness.
“We have a few persons of interest,” Wolcott replies. “We’re still in the eliminating phase. It’s not as quick of a process as seen on TV.”
“It’s always the husband, isn’t it?” My joke falls flat, and I immediately regret it.
“Yes, sadly it often is. The husband, or the boyfriend.” Wolcott searches my face.
“Rebecca, why don’t you tell us to what we owe the pleasure of your visit today?” Silvestri isn’t much for foreplay.
I take a deep, serious breath for effect. “I wanted to tell you that I was with Mark the night that Sasha disappeared.” Silvestri and Wolcott both raise their eyebrows.
“You were with Mr. Anders?”
“That’s right.”
“And how did you happen to hear about the date she disappeared? I don’t remember that detail being in the news coverage,” says Wolcott.
“From Mark.”
“So you’ve been in touch with him recently? Tell us about that.” Wolcott’s pen is poised on the small pad he’s retrieved from his shirt pocket.
“Yes. Well, we work together.” Wolcott looks at Silvestri. My temples start throbbing. I fidget.
“Rebecca, you seem a little agitated. Is everything okay? There’s nothing to worry about.” Wolcott is being a real Boy Scout, but Silvestri seems unmoved by my discomfort. He’s looking at me squarely in the eyes now. I do my best to stand my ground and hold eye contact.
“I’m fine. I guess I am nervous. This is all so crazy and terrible. I spoke to Mark yesterday because he hasn’t been at the office, and he told me the date Sasha disappeared. I called as soon as I realized that he and I were together that night.”
Silvestri finally takes a seat. He taps his fingers on the table, making me wonder if they are communicating through code. “Rebecca, when you say you were with Mark that night, can you be more specific?”
“We were working. I went to his house after hours because I needed to go over a presentation with him. I reached out to see if he was still at the office after I took a class, and he told me he’d already gone home but that I should come over.”
“Let’s start with the time frame,” Wolcott encourages me.
“It was after the six P.M. spin class.”
Silvestri probes. “Was Sasha in class?”
“Yes.” I’m fairly certain they already knew the answer to that. Wolcott makes a note. Silvestri nods at me to continue.
“So, it was around seven thirtyish that I texted Mark and then went to his house shortly after that.” I pull out my phone and have the text ready to show them.
“So, there was no response text from Mark telling you to come over, just you asking him if he was home?” Silvestri asks.
