The answer—as I told them all at the time, and I’m happy to say that they eventually bowed to my greater knowledge, as a former prosecutor, of crime scenes—is that, in reality, the only people who look wholly and purely innocent once all the evidence is in are the most cunning of the guilty. You who are reading this statement might not know this, but please trust me: in the vicinity of a murder, the truly innocent always, without exception, have details attaching to them that cannot easily be explained away. I don’t know why this should be the case; I only know that it is. I wanted Kristie and Jeff to have their “Yeah, but hold on, what about . . . ?” questions that would always make people wonder. Every once-suspected innocent person I’d ever encountered in both of my professional lives—prosecutor and legal commentator—had such questions hanging in the air around them, even after someone else had gone to jail for the crime.
And, let’s face it, Kristie might have cut her arm that day by coincidence, and she might have left her car unlocked twice, and Annette Chapa might have decided moving the sock from the car to the bag was a more effective way to frame her friend and neighbor . . . All these things are possible. The fact is, the biggest danger to us all, as well as to little Melody, was that it should look as if there was no muddle, no irreconcilable details, no discrepancies, because someone had a foolproof plan.
Mallory Tondini’s testimony was entirely, 100 percent genuine. Annette Chapa really did say all those terrible things in Mallory’s hearing, and that’s another fact that ought to speak for itself in explaining and justifying (in my opinion) what I and my fellow justice-seekers did.
We had to do some terrible, soul-destroying things along the way. We needed Melody’s blood in substantial quantities. We needed her hair to show that she’d ingested arsenic. I won’t dwell on the details. Suffice to say that we had sound medical advice at every stage (I can’t and won’t reveal the source, naturally), and we did everything we could to make these various ordeals as painless and tolerable for Melody as we could.
And now to the plastic surgery side of things. Several commentators have asked why we waited so long. Why not do it right away and let Melody try and lead a normal life, instead of keeping her hidden away in one trailer after another? The answer is a combination of reasons. We didn’t want to do it too soon after the arsenic and the bloodletting, but the main thing was that we needed Melody to be old enough to understand the implications of the surgery, and for her consent to it to be meaningful and valid. Was fourteen still too young? Maybe. As a side note, I should also say that, even when you’re the great Bonnie Juno, it’s not easy to find a skilled cosmetic surgeon who’ll agree to take your money and keep quiet about something like this. Getting blowfly corpses and larvae from cops who owe you favors is a walk in the park by comparison. We eventually found a suitable cosmetic surgeon (again, no names), but of course we won’t now be making use of that person’s services.
Why were we reckless enough to allow Melody to be out and about at a busy resort? First, the poor kid needed a vacation. But we probably wouldn’t have risked it if it weren’t for an extraordinary coincidence. Riyonna Briggs had moved to Arizona to be closer to her best friend, and she’d happened to land a job at a resort that had Mrs. Lilith McNair as a regular guest. When Riyonna told me that Mrs. McNair picked a different child every year and insisted that child was Melody Chapa, I saw a chance. Where better to hide Melody? If anyone said, “Wait, isn’t that Melody Chapa?” surely the resort staff would all groan and say, “Oh, Lord, not another one! Mrs. McNair’s craziness must be contagious!” Everyone knows by now how we dealt with what we saw as the only possible risk—the brown mark near Melody’s hairline—so I won’t comment further on that, except to say that I deeply regret any hurt this part of our story has caused to cancer sufferers and their families. I am, of course, aware that cancer is a devastating illness, not merely an accessory to be used when it suits a particular agenda; I did, however, feel I had no choice in the circumstances, and hence, “Hayley” came into existence.
Melody loved her holiday at the Swallowtail Resort. She swam a little, and took an art class, and generally had a ball. She’s a lovely girl and she’s strong. She’ll be okay now, whatever happens. One wonderful result of the truth coming to light is that now Melody will be able to be properly reunited with Kristie and Jeff Reville once they’ve served their sentences. The three of them can then live openly as a family if they wish to. Finally, Kristie and Jeff will be able to provide Melody with the loving parenting she never got from her own parents.
If our plan had succeeded, this would never have been possible. For many years, we had to limit the number of times per year that Kristie and Jeff could see Melody to one or two. Those years were agony, particularly for Kristie, who wrote hundreds of letters to Melody to make up for the lack of face-to-face contact. Then, more recently, we settled into a routine of once a month, but in order for these reunions to pass undetected, we had to spend large amounts of money and jump through many practical hoops. For Kristie and Jeff, knowing that they will now be able, one day, to conduct their relationship with their beloved Melody quite openly is a dream come true.
Given this, how can I have any regrets? I have none. Actually, that’s not true. I can’t help wishing that Mrs. Cara Burrows from Hertford, England, had stayed at home with her family instead of coming to Arizona when she did—for her sake, not mine. I regret that she became entangled in this. I also regret that I had to try to convince her husband that her aversion to him was so strong, she’d vanished by choice and solely in order to avoid him. It didn’t make me feel good about myself to say those things to a distraught man who had flown all the way from England. I console myself with the knowledge that Mrs. Burrows is happily reunited with her family now, and that’s all that matters. I bear her no grudge and wish her and her loved ones all the best.
I’ve wondered, often, if it might have been Fate that caused Riyonna Briggs to make the stupid mistake with the hotel room number. She claims it was her guilt on account of what we’d done, and the way it was messing with her mind, but I thought to myself as soon as she told me, “Maybe we’re not supposed to get away with this. And maybe that’s okay.” I told her, “Dial 911. You’ve had a report of a supposedly dead girl, a murdered girl, seen alive at your resort, so that’s what you do—you call the police.” Riyonna protested, but I said, “It’s what an innocent person would do.” At the same time as I was telling Leon Reville to get Melody the hell out of there before detectives started nosing around the place, I was thinking to myself, “This might be it. If the Lord wants us to be stopped, calling in the cops ought to take care of it.”
When it became clear to me that the FBI knew the full truth, I didn’t deny it and I didn’t complain. Ultimately, I care little for myself. I have tried to be the humble servant of Justice and of our dear Lord, and I hope I’ve succeeded. My love for both remains as proud and strong as ever.
Love, ultimately, is all that matters: spreading and sharing love, while banishing hate. Kristie and Jeff Reville love Melody with all their hearts. So much of the love in our plan came from them. The Machiavellian plotting, the plan to ride roughshod over the law of the land? That was where I came in—me and, at the risk of sounding vulgar, my money, because let me tell you, you can’t pull off something like this without extensive resources at your disposal.
If you want to blame anyone for what we all did, blame me. Kristie, Jeff and Leon Reville and Riyonna Briggs have nothing but good inside them.
18
October 23, 2017
The Clearwater Resort in Sedona is surrounded by beautiful red rocks on all sides. Boynton Canyon, it’s called, and it’s stunning. In many ways, apart from the vivid redness of the landscape, it’s similar here to Swallowtail. There’s a main building, a network of little roads, many casitas, gleaming turquoise swimming pools, club car chauffeur service.
And now me. And Melody Chapa.
I’m sitting on the sofa of the c
asita where she’s staying with her new chaperone—a gray-haired, bespectacled woman named Jennifer. Melody’s sitting in an armchair opposite me. “This must be strange for you,” I say, hoping it will start a conversation. It’s my second attempt. I expected when I got here that Jennifer might help with the awkward introductions phase, but she’s said virtually nothing. She’s arranging things in the kitchen area, less than two meters from where Melody and I are sitting, but it’s as if she’s in a separate universe. I suppose the FBI must train these people to appear invisible. “It’s certainly strange for me.”
Melody nods. “Detective Priddey told me you have children,” she says.
“I do, yes. Jess and Olly. Jess is about your age. They’re here. I mean, not here here, but . . . at the resort. They’re with their dad, probably ordering smoothies somewhere.”
She’s watching me. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to say more.
“I’m expecting a third child, who is here.” I pat my stomach.
“What will you call it?”
“I don’t know.”
“My favorite girl’s name is Georgia.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
“Agent Kirschmeier says my parents don’t want to see me. They say I’ve lied about them—that I lied in my book—so they don’t want to talk to me. They refuse. Do you think that’s true?”
Oh, God. I was hoping the small talk might last a bit longer.
Don’t be a coward, Cara. She asked you a question. This is all so much worse for her than it is for you.
“I think you can probably trust what Agent Kirschmeier tells you,” I say, wondering if I’ll ever again be able to place my full trust in anything or anyone.
Melody nods. “I guess I don’t blame them. My parents, I mean. I wrote some . . .” She hesitates. “I wrote some things about them.”
“You mean you told Kristie, and Kristie wrote them?”
I’ve been thinking a lot about Kristie and her ghostwriting of Melody’s book. The parts I read were full of doubts about Kristie herself, and Jeff, presumably. The Kind Smiles. “Melody” had written in several places and in various different ways that she didn’t know if she could trust them or not. In places they came across as gauche and insensitive. Did Kristie include those sections because Melody had expressed those sentiments to her and it would have felt wrong to omit them, however unflattering they were, or was it more complex than that? Was it the guilt in Kristie’s unconscious mind making itself known, using Melody as a mouthpiece? Or—worst, most cynical possibility of all—did Kristie, or Bonnie Juno, calculate that the best way to make it look as if Melody wrote the book herself was to have her express doubts about the person who actually wrote it?
A look of confusion passes across Melody’s face. “Yes, Kristie wrote it all down. It’s still my book, though. It’s my story.”
“Of course.” How will anyone ever be able to talk to this girl in a normal way? All I can think is that she was hidden away for seven years, forced to collude in the most horrific lie.
“If one of your children wrote bad things about you in a book, would you ever forgive them? Would you ever talk to them again?”
“I’d forgive my children whatever they did, and I’d always want to talk to them and have them in my life.” But I’m not Annette or Naldo Chapa. “And if your parents don’t feel that way, they’re to blame for that, Melody. Not you.”
She nods. “Because they’re bad parents. Not like you. You’re a good parent. I could tell the first time I saw you. I thought you were nice.”
Bad parents, good parents, bad things, nice . . . Unsurprisingly, her vocabulary is basic. I wonder what her story, written entirely and only by her and not edited by Kristie Reville, would look like.
“Kristie says her and Jeff have always been my parents if that word means the people who look out for you,” says Melody. “Do you think that’s true?”
“Well, I suppose—”
A loud hissing noise starts up, swallowing the rest of my sentence and making me jump. It’s Jennifer in the kitchen; she’s turned on a tap.
Melody leans forward, wide eyed. “I don’t remember,” she whispers.
“What do you mean? What don’t you remember?”
“The things Kristie wrote in the book that happened to me. I don’t remember them.”
My breath stops in my throat. I feel dizzy. The eyes I’m looking at are ones I’ve not seen before: two dark tunnels of terror. The girl who was here five seconds ago is gone. This Melody is a different person.
“You don’t remember any of them?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, then glances over at Jennifer. Is she waiting for her to turn, or for the tap to go off? I think so. I think she’s worked out that, for as long as the water’s running, we won’t be overheard.
“Kristie said I told her about the things when I was little, but I just don’t remember. Do you think that’s bad? And I pretended I did, because Jeff said I did, too. And then I said I did, to the other Kind Smiles. To Bonnie. She believed it because I helped to . . . to make it seem true. That’s bad, that I did that.” She’s speaking quickly. To say as much as she can while the tap’s still gushing?
“So . . . when your mother cut up Rosa the bear, and when she talked you into pretending Woody was your boyfriend—you don’t remember those two things happening?”
The tap goes off. Jennifer turns around. “Okay, I’ve finished in the kitchen,” she says brightly. “Cara, would you like a drink? Coffee?”
“No, thanks. Melody? Do you . . .” I can’t ask the question, not now we’ve got an audience. I’ve said too much already. Stupid.
“What’s the matter?” Jennifer asks in a different, more alert voice. “Melody? Is something wrong?”
“No, thanks, Jennifer. I’m fine.” She’s a better actor than I am. A lot better.
But this is crazy. Jennifer’s on our side. She’s on Melody’s side. There’s no reason to hide this from her.
“Listen . . .” I start to say.
“Yes.” Melody looks straight at me, but it’s not the same girl who spoke so urgently a moment ago. This is Official Melody. Public Melody. “I remember all the things you just said: Rosa, and Woody.”
“But you told me you didn’t.” Panic rises inside me, all the way up to my throat. It’s my word against hers. Hers, and Kristie and Jeff Reville’s.
The only loving parents she’s ever likely to have.
“You can tell Jennifer, Melody. Everyone’s on your side—me, Jennifer, the police—”
“Okay, I’m going to need to know what this is about.” Jennifer’s moving briskly toward us, as if we’re a fight in a bar that needs breaking up.
“It’s nothing,” says Melody calmly. “I do remember, Cara. Really.” She doesn’t seem scared anymore. “I remember all of it.”
Acknowledgments
I am hugely grateful, as always, to the legions of absolute stars at Hodder, especially Carolyn Mays, who has improved this book immensely with her brilliant editorial input. Also to my incomparable team at William Morrow in America for their unwavering support and enthusiasm, even when I suggest outlandish American-title possibilities that will appeal to no one but me and maybe a few other oddballs like me. Thanks to Tomas Kruijer from The House of Books for his passionate commitment to this novel from the second he learned of its existence.
As always, I could not be more thankful for my fantastic agent, Peter Straus. I’d also like to thank the wonderful Matthew Turner, Peter’s sidekick, for being always brilliant and on the case, and my amazing film and TV agent, Will Peterson, whose enthusiasm for this book has been very encouraging. Thank you to Faith Tilleray for designing a stunning new author website for me.
An enormous thank-you to Jamie Bernthal, who gives me the best possible help, advice and support every day and in every way: practical, editorial, creative, the lot. I couldn’t do most of what I do without him.
Thank you to my family—Dan
, Phoebe, Guy and Brewster—for making it all feel worthwhile, and for providing, among other things, interesting perspectives on how best to use a cutlery-divider, Instagram instructions, and currently fashionable-among-young-people vocabulary. You are all “dank AF.” Whatever that means. Thanks to Adele Geras and Chris Gribble for reading and offering feedback when this novel was a work in progress, and to Emily Winslow, my writing-group-of-two partner, whose editorial insights were as superb as ever.
Last but not least, thank you to the state of Arizona—with a special mention for the awesome Poisoned Pen bookstore—for winning my heart to the extent that I eventually said to myself, “I have to set a novel in Arizona.” And thank you to the various inspirational Arizona spa resorts I have happily lounged, swum and floated in, dreaming up fictional murders . . .
Three books, one TV show and one podcast about true crime cases in America inspired me greatly while writing this novel: Without a Doubt by Marcia Clark; Imperfect Justice: Prosecuting Casey Anthony by Jeff Ashton; Conviction: The Untold Story of Putting Jodi Arias Behind Bars by Juan Martinez; Making a Murderer by Laura Ricciardi and Moira Demos; and Serial by Sarah Koenig and Julie Snyder. My thanks to the creators of all of these. Thanks to you all, my fantasy of one day becoming an American judge who yells “Pull that in my courtroom again, I’ll have you disbarred” is still going strong!
About the Author
SOPHIE HANNAH is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous psychological thrillers, which have been published in twenty-seven countries and adapted for television, as well as of The Monogram Murders and Closed Casket, the only Hercule Poirot novels authorized by the estate of Agatha Christie.
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