“If you don’t tell anyone about any of this, then I will.”
“No you won’t.”
“Yes I will. Detective Ciccotelli is waiting downstairs, and I’ll—”
“Think about it, M.E. If you go downstairs and run off at the mouth about this thing, just how will it make you look?”
“I don’t care how it makes me look. The truth is—”
“The truth is, you are on the hook for it. No matter what story comes out, you will always be the girl—the monster—who led the charge in Everett Coughlin’s death. To a good number of people in Nashville, you’re nothing more than a murderer. If you come out with this story now, it will come out that the man who wants to kill you actually started with us. Do you think that will garner any sympathy from the public?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Yes it is, Mary Ellen. You know that’s true. You, more than anyone, want to be vindicated. And that’s okay. But this is not the way to do it. Maybe when this is all over, once they’ve caught that psychopath of yours, then you can sit down with someone on 60 Minutes and tell your whole story, and some people will shed tears for you. It might even erase some of the past. But if you think that doing this now will help your cause, honey, I know the public better than you do. It’ll be better for both of us if you just keep this a secret for now. Just between us girls. You know—The Suicide Blondes.”
It’s then I realize I’ve been played. Audrey knew this whole time what she was doing, and she drew me in to wrap me up in my own insecurities.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me upset, however, because I walk out before the tears come.
When I appear in my mother’s room, she’s sitting up, and for once she’s smiling. It’s good to see one of the members of the Hanneford family to do something besides grimace at everything life has to throw at them.
It’s so unlike my mother, but she manages to surprise me. Her smile is wide and unselfconscious. She looks hale and hearty, like she’s ten years younger.
Like a weight has been taken off her.
“You’re looking spry,” I say, nudging her with an elbow. “What did they give you?”
My eyes go to her hands, and she’s thoughtlessly picking at a thumbnail with one finger. There’s something she wants to say.
“Another chance at life,” she replies.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes seem to grapple with the question, but eventually she tells me.
“I—may have jumped to conclusions about my prognosis,” she says. “And I totally blame myself, but I think the doctors had it in for me, because they made it seem—”
“Like you were dying?” I interrupt.
She takes a deep breath, expels it slowly. “Maybe it’s just my luck, that I spent most of my golden years damning myself, and then when it comes to pass—when I think Death is knocking at the door—I end up suffering some kind of miraculous recovery.”
My eyes drift from her face to her hands, where she works over the skin surrounding a nail bed until it bleeds. She only does that when—
She’s lying.
Her eyes become wet with tears, and it’s then I know. I don’t know how she doesn’t know I know, but that’s where we are.
Reaching out with one hand, clasping hers, I sink into the seat next to her bed.
My whole body trembles, but she’s so earnest in getting me to believe, I have to give her this. She’s trying, for God’s sake. She’s finally seen the light, as the old folk are fond of saying. All these years, she’s been looking for something, and it seems, in the dimming twilight, she’s appeared to have found it.
And I can’t take this away from her.
It just wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.
“I—I should stay with you,” I say, feeling the lead in my limbs slowly take hold. The words can’t or won’t come out right, and I struggle around them to try and sound normal.
Smiling, all the worry gone, she shakes her head. “Baby, you need to go. I’ll be out of this place in a few days, and then you and I can plan the rest of our lives together. Heck, maybe I’ll come for a stay with you in Seattle, once this is all said and done.”
My throat closes up at the thought. I have to choke the words out, working them around the grief knotted up just behind my tongue. “That’d be nice,” I reply. “I’d love to see you in my neck of the woods.”
Her face drops, but only for an instant. She reaches the hand not holding my own up, and she wipes the tears from my chin, where they seem to have come to rest all together.
“Don’t be sad now,” she says. “The hard part is over. It’s all sunshine from here.”
It takes more than my remaining willpower to nod, so I just allow my head to droop. “I know. I’m just so...happy to get you all to myself.”
“Things get bad sometimes, but they end up righting themselves. Don’t ever forget that, darling.”
“I won’t, Mama,” I reply, calling her the name I hadn’t used in more than thirty years. I gave up mama with y’all when I realized they both made me sound common.
And even though she doesn’t understand—doesn’t know that I know—I can’t help but level with her in the only way I know how.
There’s no time like the present, I think.
“Listen, Mom,” I begin, mapping out each word as it occurs to me. “I’m not sure where the next few days will take me—or what’s going to happen when I get there—but just know I love you. It’s been a long, tough ride for the both of us, but I am a fundamentally different person. I know you struggled with who I was, but I hope you’re proud of the person I’ve become.”
She doesn’t quite chide me, but offense is definitely taken.
“Oh, baby, you have no idea how proud I am of you. Always. As long as I live, you will be the light that brightened the darkness in my horizon. I love you, sweet girl.”
A sound of some kind is prepped to escape, but I shove it back down, along with the feelings that I cannot let escape.
I owe my mother that.
So I smile.
And I lean forward.
And I kiss her on the cheek.
But I do not cry.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
And then I leave, because I know no such thing to be true.
I make it to the family bathroom by the elevators before it all comes up. I sob until there’s nothing left to let go of, and then I move on.
22
I don’t have a foolproof plan to get through to Timothy Allred, but I have ideas. While the cops and other local officials attempt to find him through traditional detection, I am going to use the one thing I have at my disposal—the internet.
It’s simple. I begin the way I would draw in any demented weirdo. I make my profile public and change my name and picture to the one everyone knows me by.
Mary.
Ellen.
Hanneford.
If it is him, then this first step will draw him out of the woodwork. It’s not enough to step out of the digital shadows, but it’s a start.
The effect is not immediate, but I can feel myself becoming something else. Someone else. I am transforming into a different person, or else I am finally leaving my own personal cocoon to become the most curious butterfly of all-time.
Moving on.
I use all of my social media accounts to make myself vulnerable.
Nashville is a very public (and publicly visible) city. There are plenty of places to go and be seen, so it’s easy for me to taunt my stalker.
My first stop is Lower Broadway, where thousands upon thousands of people gather each and every day to experience the wonderment of Music City. Honky tonks, pedal taverns, bachelorette parties, and day drinking are part and parcel to the experience. At night, the city overflows with people looking for a good time, stretching from 1st Avenue, along the Cumberland River, all the way up to Printers Alley, which used to be the city’s Red Light District. Sad wannabe st
arlets and grungy finger-pickers ply their trades in the bars along the side streets, but during the day, it’s a whole different atmosphere. There’s almost a family friendly quality to the debauchery when the sun is out, and the sound of misery and heartbreak coming from the voices inside the bars does nothing to ward off the tourists with their mid-summer vacation plans.
Today, I am one of the city’s main attractions.
I feel like one of those people on Hollywood Boulevard who dress up as Spider-Man or Marilyn Monroe and take pictures with credulous out-of-towners for tips.
Only, I’m selling something completely different.
I am trading death for attention.
People stare and take pictures, and when they do, rather than shy away from the attention, I approach them and ask if they’ll use a specific hashtag, the one that I’ve included in all my own posts.
#SuicideBlondeOnTour
Almost instantly, Instagram lights up with people who have just experienced a brush with the macabre. Their Insta stories and Nashville posts are enlivened with the visage of a killer, and they are none the wiser.
This is helping me catch a killer.
Once the news media gets word, I am bombarded by journalists and TV anchors of all stripes. They hurl questions at me.
And I speak with each and every one of them.
Not only am I accommodating of their tasteless and trivial requests, I smile the whole time, as if I’m actually enjoying being put on display. It’s like something out of Black Mirror, and I can’t help but think of how those shows usually turn out.
But still, I persevere.
Each time I’m interviewed, I make sure to mention for the cameras that I am, indeed, the Mary Ellen Hanneford, that I intend on speaking up, not just about my own experiences with online bullying, but also about the stalker who attempted to take my life a few years back.
I even dare speak his name.
“Timothy Allred became obsessed with my case, and though he may have had a point about my role in Everett Coughlin’s death, he proceeded to stalk and harass me to the point I had to change addresses.”
And then I provide my own little tag to my soon-to-be-televised comments. “I know I'm the last person who deserves sympathy for this sort of thing, but I’m tired of his antics. He is a scared, sad little boy, and I might be afraid if the whole thing weren’t so silly and pointless.”
It’s the headshot in this whole scenario, and my hope is that it works. Timothy Allred is nothing if not easily manipulated.
People are astounded. It’s like a mermaid has washed ashore in the midst of this concrete-and-neon city. But it felt necessary, in some way. People have always used me for their own entertainment, so why can’t I use them for a little justice?
Once I feel that I’ve made my point, I sneak away to the rental car and venture back to my place in The Nations.
A few hours into this little experiment, I get a message from Gillian.
> What the fuck are you doing?
I ignore it, at first.
But when she posts the exact same message ten minutes later, I can’t help but respond.
> I’m doing the thing everybody wants me to do. I’m sacrificing myself for the greater good.
> You don’t have to bring everybody else down with you. No one else deserves to be painted with your brush.
Ouch.
Another ding of my phone.
> I know there’s a good person in you, Mary Ellen. And this isn’t it. Step back and consider what you’re doing before it’s too late.
I read it but don’t respond.
If it happens, if it goes the way I expect it to, then she’ll be thankful I threw myself on the pyre for her.
For all of them.
For now, though, she just sees me as an asshole.
Which I am.
Then, before I can think of a clever response, my phone dings again.
I check the message. It’s a message from a rando.
Bingo.
I’ve got him.
> SEEMS A LITTLE DESPERATE.
I’d forgotten—he’s one of those. An ALL CAPS writer from way back.
But still, I keep the facade rolling.
> Who is this?
The response is immediate.
> YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS.
And, just like that, I am speaking digitally with the man who wanted to wear me like a bearskin rug.
And I’m in his sights again.
> Oh.
Letting it linger gives him the impression that I’m just now figuring this out. Even if that’s not true—even if he’s convinced that I’m bluffing—it never hurts to play the cards in your hand.
I decide to be a little cavalier, because that is what will pull him from the shadows.
> Did prison do anything to re-thread the loose screw in your head?
But he doesn’t miss a beat.
> DID GETTING YOUR FRIENDS KILLED DO ANYTHING TO WARM THAT COLD, BLACK LITTLE HEART OF YOURS?
A pause. Then—
> OR WILL I HAVE TO RIP IT OUT AND SEE FOR MYSELF?
> Maybe. You certainly haven’t tried yet.
> YOU DIDN’T SEE ME BECAUSE I DIDN’T LET YOU. DID IT EVER OCCUR TO YOU THAT MAYBE I HAVE YOUR PASSWORDS?
Admittedly, that one gets through the armor, but I can’t slow down, can’t think, because if I get this just right, I won’t have to worry about him ever again.
And neither will Gillian.
> Not much to see there.
> OH, BUT THERE IS. AND IT IS GOING TO END UP SPLATTERED ACROSS ALL OF THE INTERNET.
> Like my blood?
> YOU SAID IT, NOT ME.
My heart is thrumming, and I want to scream, but somehow I maintain my composure, try to think of something else to taunt him.
He’s winning.
It floats around and around the inside of my skull.
He’s winning. He’s winning. He’s winning.
> HURT YOUR FEELINGS?
> No, I’m just thinking of how much like him you are.
> WHO?
I turn on all caps, just for him.
> YOU KNOW WHO.
I don’t hear back for a few minutes, and there’s a split second in which I think I can hear someone typing. I spin in my chair and glance, only to see...nothing at all. Perhaps it’s psychosomatic, or maybe I have really lost it.
> Did I hurt YOUR feelings?
> NO. I’M JUST RECORDING VIDEO. I’M NO MULTITASKER.
> Video? Of what?
And then, just because I can’t let him get the upper hand, I wave.
If he’s here, I’m already dead, I think. Might as well play along.
> NOT YOU.
> Then who?
> AN OLD FRIEND.
> SHE AND I HAVE SOME UNFINISHED BUSINESS.
> CHECK YOUR PROFILE.
I don’t want to—something tells me it’s a huge mistake—but I can’t help myself. I open my laptop and head over to my FaceBook page.
In my messages, there is a video.
And the video is live.
The window fills with a rectangle of moving images. The footage is grainy—how old is the phone Allred is using?—but I can see his subject just as clearly as is needed.
It’s not me. He’s not standing behind me like some horror movie villain.
But he is standing near someone.
Apparently, someone has gotten out of the hospital a little early.
Audrey is walking unaccompanied to her car. She looks a little green, even in this phone shot, but she is clearly able to leave the hospital on her own authority.
> I’LL TELL HER YOU SAID HELLO.
And then the window indicates he’s left our chat.
“Hello?”
I have to struggle to keep from bursting into tears the moment she answers. “Aud, oh my God. Listen!”
She sounds a little weak but otherwise okay. “Mary Ellen, your voice is shaking. What’s going on?”
> “He’s there. Get in your car and drive to a police station. Now.”
In moments like this, in which information is at a premium, and the only way to convey it is quickly, very often the person on the other end has to play catch-up in a hurry, which slows down the whole process.
“I’m...not in the car,” she says.
So the video wasn’t live.
Good play, I think.
You really had me.
By the time I catch up, Audrey’s already on some other thing.
“I’m already at home,” she says. “Well, not home. I’m staying at The Hermitage until they...”
“Lock the door and stay there. And listen to me—”
“You’re scaring me, girl.”
“Good. Call the cops. Tell them to come to you. Do not—and I repeat, do not—open the door for anyone. Make the cops, even, slide their badges under the door.”
“It’s him, isn’t it? He’s made contact.”
“He’s begun to.”
She pauses and then says, “Things will move quickly now. Be careful, M.E. I’m going to call the cops.”
And then she is gone.
I contact Detective Ciccotelli, tell him the details of what’s happened. He listens mutely to the whole monologue, and I hear a sharp intake of breath as he’s prepared to speak, but I interrupt it.
“Can you track phones?” I ask. “Like, if I can keep in contact with him?”
He seems to measure this question. “Yes, I think so,” he replies, “but that would take some time. It probably wouldn’t help you in the short term, especially if you’re taunting him across all of the internet and television.”
“He’s tracking Audrey,” I reply. “He’s started chatting with me on social media. I think he knows the end is near. I’m afraid of what he might do.”
“We’ve got some units heading over to The Hermitage. They’re en route. Are you in a safe place?”
I glance through all of the windows and hope against hope I don’t see anything in the distance. Shadows swish all around me, but I cannot name my fear aloud.
“Yeah, I’m safe.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
“Well, it’s going to have to do for now.”
Suicide Blondes Page 22
