by E. G. Scott
“I was already in the neighborhood and took the liberty of stopping by shortly after I sent the text.” I’d been anticipating that one of them might ask this.
“Got it. Please, go on.” He nods.
“We worked until about midnight, and, well, we’d had a couple of drinks too many so I ended up sleeping on Mark’s couch for a few hours and drove home around five A.M.”
Wolcott reads the text and jots something down on the page before handing it to Silvestri, who doesn’t look at it but places my phone in front of him instead of handing it back. “And as far as you knew, where was Sasha all that time?”
I’m trying not to let the fact that my unlocked phone is now sitting in front of Silvestri distract me. “Sasha always went to happy hour at Le Vin with her friends after class. So I assumed that’s where she was that night.”
Wolcott makes another note. “Did you hear her say happy hour that evening was her plan? Or did Mark?”
“No. I didn’t ask.”
“Were either of you concerned that she might come home and be unhappy playing three’s company with an attractive coworker of her husband’s sleeping on her couch?”
“We were working in the guesthouse. I don’t think she ever goes out there. And I’d just assumed that she came home sometime late after I’d passed out.”
“And was Mr. Anders with you the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t leave the guesthouse?” I shake my head. “How about when you were sleeping?”
“Definitely not.”
“How can you be sure?”
I smile bashfully and hesitate. “We were both sleeping on the couch. I’m a light sleeper. I would have known if he got up.”
Wolcott and Silvestri look at each other and back at me. Whether they are judging me, I can’t tell.
“And did you happen to notice if Sasha’s car was in the driveway?” Silvestri’s question feels like a trick.
“I didn’t think to look for it.”
“And where did your husband think you were that evening?”
“He was working late himself. I didn’t tell him that I was staying over because he ended up crashing at his business partner’s house. They had a pretty heavy dinner with clients and he didn’t want to get behind the wheel. He does that occasionally.”
“You have a very trusting relationship, don’t you?” Silvestri’s tone is without sarcasm.
“Yes. We do.” I feel claustrophobic in the windowless room. The space between the wall behind me and my chair seems to have narrowed. The table between us is too large for the space and I want to move it away from me to feel less boxed in, but the legs are bolted to the floor. “Would it be possible to open the door?”
“It does get a bit stuffy in here, doesn’t it?” Wolcott passes behind me and cracks the door. “Apologies. We wanted privacy. If we were out in the bullpen, it would be like trying to have a civilized conversation during feeding time at the zoo.”
Silvestri chuckles. “I personally don’t mind spaces without walls. Funny how people are complaining about most companies switching to open plan these days. The tech people made it cool, but we’ve been doing it all along.”
Wolcott nods in agreement. “It’s a good way to really get to know people intimately. Wouldn’t you say, Rebecca?” I can smell the bait, but I’m not sure what they are fishing for.
“Isn’t your current office open plan?” Silvestri leans forward slightly.
“Yes, it is. All open cubicles. Except for the bosses; they have offices.”
“So, Mark Anders has an office. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” They’ve pivoted the conversation again.
“And just so I have the hierarchy correctly, he’s your boss?” I take in Wolcott. He is handsome in a wholesome, boyish kind of way. I subtly glance at his left hand and spot a weathered wedding ring. He looks like a one-woman kind of man, but I suppose I’m hardly a good judge of that.
“Yes. Mark is my boss.” The fact that he is asking a question that he already knows the answer to irritates me. I feel like I’m being led in circles.
“Mrs. Campbell. Sorry to nitpick, but don’t you mean Mark was your boss?” Silvestri doesn’t even look up as he asks this. He is flicking the tea bag string hanging from his mug to and fro like a cat.
I don’t respond. I assume they are deciding which one of them is going to spike the ball. Wolcott jumps at it.
“Look, Rebecca. This is only going to work if you are honest with us.” Wolcott is pleased with himself. “We all keep secrets. And we usually keep them from our spouses when we are trying to protect them from something. But keeping secrets from detectives during a murder investigation is not protecting anyone, least of all you.”
The way he’s speaking to me reminds me more of the shrinks from my childhood than the detectives. I don’t like it. “I’m not keeping secrets.” This comes out with more edge than I intend. Men generally don’t appreciate aggression in women, especially men with guns.
“Let’s try this again,” Silvestri says gently. “Would it be accurate to say that you haven’t been completely honest with your husband as it pertains to your current employment status?”
“Yes. No. I mean, yes, it would be accurate.”
“And just now, you weren’t being honest with us?”
“Correct. I wasn’t being honest with you.”
Wolcott is watching me closely while his partner continues. “Mrs. Campbell, what you do or don’t tell your husband is not really our concern. We just need a clear picture to work with. We recently spent some time in your former office, and frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t walk out of the place sooner. But just for clarity’s sake, when exactly did you leave?”
“April first.” They don’t pause or look at each other, but I imagine dots are quickly connecting.
“Interesting. So, you tendered your immediate resignation on the same day that we paid a visit to you and your husband about Sasha and Sheila. April first was an eventful day for you.” I look for a lead in his expression but Silvestri is inscrutable.
“One had nothing to do with the other. I’d been unhappy at work and was planning to quit long before you showed up at our house.”
It is becoming impossible to sit still. I don’t know if it is the drugs waning or the increasing temperature in the room, but I feel the pressure building to an unbearable level.
“So, you’ve maintained regular contact with Mark?” Silvestri has taken the wheel. I can’t say I prefer him. He’s also handsome, but darker and brooding and harsher in his delivery. The kind of man I would be attracted to as a partner, but not so much as an interrogator.
“Not regular contact, just occasional. I’ve been checking in with him since Sasha’s disappearance,” I reply.
“And what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Mark Anders?” Silvestri follows up.
“We’re colleagues.” I correct myself before they can. “Were colleagues. And friends. I’ve been trying to be supportive to him during this time.”
“So why is it that you’ve kept your early retirement from Paul?”
“I didn’t . . . I don’t want to worry him.”
“It would worry him that you left a job that you’ve been unhappy at? That seems like the kind of thing you’d want to discuss or even celebrate with your husband.” Silvestri looks like he has more to say but holds back.
“We respect each other’s decisions and we don’t ask permission when it comes to personal decisions.” Keeping the defensiveness out of my voice is proving to be increasingly difficult.
“And you aren’t concerned that Paul is going to notice the precipitous loss in your income?” Wolcott jumps in.
“Paul and I don’t get hung up on money. We have separate checking accounts. We aren’t keeping
track or tabs on who is bringing in what. Besides, we are fine financially. I’m just taking some time to figure out what I want to do next.” Deep inside, I am cringing.
Both detectives look satisfied with this answer, or bored. Silvestri looks at his partner and leans forward. I sense the tide shift again before the next question is out of his mouth.
“Would you categorize your friendship with Mark as very close?” The way Silvestri’s watching my body language more than my face is making me extremely uneasy.
“Not very close.”
Wolcott sips his coffee and smiles gently. “But close enough to have a sleepover. I get being close to your co-workers, but I hear Silvestri snores, and I don’t plan to ever find out firsthand.” Silvestri chuckles and my blood starts to boil.
“I told you, I had too much to drink and I fell asleep. Mark must have fallen asleep too.”
Silvestri looks thoughtful. “Do you and your husband often drink to the point of being unable to make it home?”
“No. Not at all. It was a stressful patch.”
He seems satisfied with my answer and shifts gears again. “Why do you think that Mr. Anders didn’t tell us that he was with you the night of Sasha’s disappearance? He originally told us that he was home alone working,” Silvestri says.
I sigh to buy myself a few extra seconds. This is the question I’ve been anticipating.
“Because he was protecting me.”
Something dawns on Silvestri, but he remains silent. Wolcott does not.
“He must be extremely protective of you if he was willing to perjure himself.”
I try to conceal the growing alarm backing up in my body. My face is on fire. I remind myself again that I chose to come here, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep a grasp on why.
“Well, he was my boss and he didn’t want to be cast in a certain way. It was my fault. I had fallen behind on my projects and I needed help. I asked him not to say anything about our late-night work sessions. I didn’t want anyone at the office to think I was getting special treatment.” They aren’t buying any of it.
Silvestri considers this before forging ahead. “So, you asked Mark not to tell us that you were together that night?”
“No. Before I knew anything about Sasha. The handful of times that Mark and I worked late together. I asked him not to tell anyone. With the world as it is now with harassment in the workplace, I didn’t want any trouble for Mark or for me. Obviously this all changed when Sasha was found and Mark had to account for that night. But he was falling on the sword for me.” I’m talking myself into a corner. They aren’t giving me anything but a length of rope now. I inhale dramatically and look up as I try to think of an effective pivot myself. Both men sit expectantly.
“As you can imagine, I was very upset to find out that my husband had been having an emotional affair with some random woman in the neighborhood—”
Silvestri cuts in. “Random? Didn’t you and Sheila work out at Lotus Pedal together?”
“Yes—”
“You were side by side on bikes, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but we didn’t—”
He keeps steamrolling over my attempt at getting back on script. “And, in fact, Sasha Anders’s bike was on the other side of you. Isn’t that right? Pretty close quarters for randomness.”
I’m not sure which of his rapid-fire questions to answer. “Sheila worked out at the same studio, but we didn’t actually know each other. I didn’t even make the connection until after she was out of the picture.” The detectives seem unfazed by my poor choice of words.
“I was really upset when I found out about Sheila. I had no idea she was the woman I’d been spinning next to; we’d never even spoken in class. I knew nothing about her.”
“So then, tell us how your husband’s relationship with Sheila and your unhappiness about it connects to you being Mark’s alibi on the night in question.” I’m appreciative of Silvestri’s help getting back to dry land. I take a sip of water and try to quiet my nervous system.
“After I found out about Sheila, I avoided being home. I put in a lot of extra time at the office. I was working on a multimillion-dollar drug launch with Mark. We spent a lot of late nights preparing for the presentation and recruiting the sales and marketing teams. He was there for me during a difficult time.”
“Just the two of you? Or was there anyone else in your office?”
“Just the two of us.”
“Was Paul aware that you were spending so much time after hours with your boss?”
“He knew I was working a lot. He didn’t ask who with or what I was working on. He was ashamed about Sheila, so he wasn’t prying too much into how I was spending my time. He was working just as much as me at the time, if not more.”
“Rebecca, are you and Mark Anders having a sexual relationship?” Silvestri’s good cop seems to have left the room.
“Not anymore.”
I’m trying to remember how I ended up in this room, having this conversation. How my lying to the police about sleeping with my former boss is possibly going to make things better. And then there’s the absurdity of worrying that any of this will get back to Paul. I can’t imagine he’d give two shits about Mark anyway, but I’d rather not unpack this particular lie with him. “Rebecca?”
I have to stay focused on the current shit storm in this room and not get distracted by the one outside of it.
“Look, things went a little too far. Paul doesn’t know anything, and it is over. Mark didn’t want to tell you that I was at his house because he knew Paul might get the wrong idea and become upset.”
Wolcott interjects gently. “Rebecca, does your husband have a temper?”
“Not any more than anyone else. He gets mad and then he gets over it. But Paul would never hurt me. He’d never hurt anyone.” I squeeze the webbing between my thumb and pointer finger to try to find the calming pressure point.
“And what is the right idea, Mrs. Campbell?” Silvestri asks pointedly.
“Pardon?”
“You said your husband might get the wrong idea. What is the right idea?”
I’m on the verge of screaming. My heart is beating so fast that I can barely speak.
I stammer. “We slept together a couple of times. It was just sex. Paul had his thing, and I had mine.” My raised voice startles me but releases some of the built-up tension and I’m able to take a breath. The detectives remain as calm as ever.
“And where was Sasha Anders in this scenario?” Every time I get my footing, Silvestri purposely throws me off.
“What do you mean?”
They are batting me back and forth like a toy.
Wolcott scratches his head. “Do you think she had any idea that your relationship with her husband had become sexual?”
“I doubt it. She wasn’t very interested in anything other than herself. And they had problems.”
“Was she also going outside of their marriage?”
“I have no idea. Like I’ve told you before, she and I weren’t friends.”
“Did you ever suspect that she and Paul might be rekindling old fires?” Silvestri says this casually. My patience with him has all but faded.
“No. Paul tolerated Sasha. They were ancient history.” I cross and uncross my arms quickly. Wolcott makes a note.
“So, Mark never said anything to you about Sasha being unfaithful?”
“No, we weren’t close like that. We didn’t talk about his marriage. What happened between us wasn’t anything serious.”
“It seems pretty serious if you were with Mr. Anders the night his wife went missing and he failed to peg you as part of his alibi when we first questioned him. Don’t you think?” I can’t tell if Silvestri is enjoying this, but he seems like he might be. I’ve completely lost control of the conversation. I feel like a suspec
t.
Wolcott jumps in. “Mrs. Campbell, Mark Anders was your boss. It sounds to me like this dynamic was a major abuse of power, especially if you felt like you had to quit in the end. Did you feel pressured by him? Did you ever speak with anyone in your company’s HR department about any of this?”
“No, it wasn’t anything like that.” I feel like I’ve just run a marathon and am moments away from collapsing. I take the water bottle from the table and gulp it down until it is empty.
Silvestri appears to read my mind. “Why don’t we take a break? Maybe you’d like to use the ladies’ room?”
* * *
WHEN I RETURN, they are both seated quietly. The room feels less like a furnace. I’m slightly calmer after splashing some cold water on my face and dissolving an Ativan under my tongue. I take my seat and flinch when I realize that my phone is still sitting in front of Silvestri.
“Mrs. Campbell, just a couple more questions and then we’ll get you out of here.”
“Sure.” I realize I’ve completely lost track of time without my phone. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. It feels like hours.
“Rebecca. Something’s not sitting right with me.” Fuck.
“What’s that?”
“You said that you didn’t make the connection between Sheila as the woman you were spinning next to until way after the fact?”
I don’t understand why they are bringing Sheila up again. “That’s right.”
“And did you ever see your husband and Sheila together?”
“No, I did not.” My jaw tenses.
“Then how is it that you recognized her in the picture that morning in the kitchen when we visited?” Silvestri looks confident that he’s got me. But I’m ready for it.
I let the tears I’ve been holding back fall freely. “Paul’s phone. I saw pictures of her. Mostly of her naked body, but a few of her face.” I don’t have to force the disgust in my face recalling the pictures. “That is how I found out about their affair. By the time I found the pictures and put two and two together, she never came back to the studio.”
“But Paul said in the kitchen that their relationship never went too far—”
