Where We Went Wrong

by Andi Holloway

  I wish I didn’t have to say what I do, to know the disturbing truth and to let her know I know it. God, the embarrassment. There’s no place in this girl’s world for more pain, betrayal or loss. There’s no room for pressure from the jealous wife of a murder suspect with whom she may or may not have been having an affair.

  “I only want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “I know what you want, and I don’t want to talk about it.” Ansley shows me the cell phone she’s holding. Maybe you called her. Maybe she confessed to the night at the hotel. Maybe you’ve realized it isn’t Vern who’s uncovered the identity of the mystery girl you’ve been seeing behind my back, but some careless mistake on your part, leaving me unattended with your phone. Whatever’s clued Ansley in, she is adamant and unapologetic.

  “Ansley, please.”

  “Go away.”

  She’s about to shut the door when I hold my hand out to stop her. She presses harder than I would’ve thought someone so frail-looking could, but I’m stronger and angrier, and I don’t know what the hell is going on here other than I need to get some things off my chest and this girl of yours is shoving me aside as if I don’t matter, refusing to confess or even be spoken to about her actions.

  “You owe me at least some explanation.” An annoyed bite finds its way into my tone, a conversational turn that won’t end well.

  “I don’t owe you anything,” she says, and how she’s become angry with me is beyond comprehension. She presses three numbered buttons on her phone, her thumb hovering over a fourth. “And if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  “Oh, that’s great.” I’m freaking out, but I can’t let her see that the police are the last people I want to see right now because that gives her threat, no matter how idle, teeth. “You sleep with my husband and you’re going to call the cops on me? You’ve got some nerve, young lady.” I’m intentionally condescending, needing for Ansley to feel childlike compared to me. I have both the leverage and the experience to make her life far more difficult if I so choose.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I wish I could say you’re wrong and that you’re the first, but you’re not, and you’re probably not the last, either.” I want to hurt her. “All I want to know is this: how long have you been screwing Bert?”

  Ansley slams the door in my face, and I entertain the thought of breaking it down. She probably still wouldn’t admit anything, but I’d feel better. I resume knocking, because what else can I do?

  A neighbor’s outside light turns on, and I see a face through the window. I don’t how long they’ve been watching me, but they clearly perceive me as an unwelcome threat. I’m an intruder, someone they’ll get rid of if they have to.

  Ansley might not be the first to call the cops, assuming she did, in fact, dial. A part of me wants to believe that if she can’t admit what she’s done to me, she won’t want to admit it to the police, either.

  I continue knocking, ringing, calling her name. Drawing attention I know I should avoid. Everything in me warns me to walk away, but I can’t leave. Not without confirmation because this is a bombshell, one Vern will use against you if he finds out.

  I need to get inside. I need to make Ansley listen, to understand the implications of your actions and hers where this investigation is concerned. I consider unlocked windows, and what it might mean to break in. Then I realize how unhinged and illegal that sounds. I sense her, standing on the other side of the door, and the phone in her hand is all the confirmation I need. I search my contacts and find the number belonging to H. before pressing Send.

  I hold my breath for a long moment, praying I’m incorrect. I hadn’t realized until now how badly I want to be wrong. How much I need you to be innocent, not only for the sake of this investigation, but for our marriage, which has endured too much already. We’re both guilty of actions neither of us should be proud of, things I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to admit to. Lights swirl in my periphery. No sirens, but I sense trouble as the line connects. As lampposts and door lights turn on farther down the street, confirming spectacle status. Verifying that I’m sunk. A phone rings on the other side of the door just as the police arrive to remove me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AN INNATE FEAR OF UNIFORMED officers convinces me it’s better to cooperate than to insist on exercising my civil rights. After verifying my identification, I’m asked to accompany the men to the station. Asked, but it feels more like an order. Like I’m being challenged to resist or insist upon driving myself. I do neither, and within half an hour, I find myself sequestered inside an interrogation room, across from an annoyed but smug-looking detective.

  “Well, Harper,” Vern says, “I wish I could say I’m surprised to see you.” He speaks confidently, more self-assured than I’m used to seeing him. Pompous, even, and I bet it’s the location. Surrounded by cameras and security glass, by fellow law enforcement and a yet-unacknowledged lieutenant, Vern is in his element.

  An overstuffed folder sits in front of him, which, if I had to guess, contains supporting evidence for whatever questions he’s about to ask me or whatever accusation he’s about to make.

  “So, tell me, again, what you know about Ansley Davis.”

  I’m certain, as sure as I’m sitting here, that Vern, too, knows about your affair. How do I admit knowing about it without looking foolish? Without bolstering the reasons you might have had to kill your son?

  After considering my limited options, I say, “Nothing more than I knew the last time we talked about her. She wouldn’t let me in.”

  At least half a dozen neighbors could testify to that.

  “Yet you insisted on banging down her door?”

  “I was worried about her.” It’s a lie, but until Vern specifically states that he knows about the two of you, I’m sure as hell not going to say it. “There’s no crime in talking to someone.”

  “Well that’s mostly true.” His faint grin reveals a row of coffee-stained teeth. “But the timing is coincidental, don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “I can, and I’m sorry if it’s anything to do with our conversation. I may have misled you. I did a little more research into the money I asked about and it turns out the older deposits into Claire Davis’s account weren’t from your husband.”

  Had Vern not specified the timing, I’d have been relieved to hear this bit of news but that he qualified the money as “older” and “deposits,” something traceable, indicates the reason I’m here has nothing to do with your extramarital affairs. This is a continuation of our previous conversation, which thankfully—sort of—has nothing to do with sex.

  “I don’t know anything about any deposits.” This is, in fact, the first I’m hearing of them.

  Vern looks skeptical, as though I’m withholding crucial evidence again. He produces a piece of paper from the folder and slides it across the table. “This Key Bank statement says otherwise.”

  Ha! The joke’s on him.

  I fold my arms and lean back smugly. “We bank at BSNB.”

  “Not according to that, you don’t.” Vern taps a thick finger at the top left of the first of several pages. It’s a monthly bank statement for a joint account I swear I know nothing about, though my name is on it, right next to yours and right above a starting balance of fifty thousand dollars and a running list of suspiciously identical withdrawals. I flip through page after page of more of the same and want to scream because you’ve been hiding money we desperately need.

  “I’ve never been to Key Bank,” I say, not bothering to hide my anger, which should at least let me off the hook for whatever this is. You, on the other hand, appear to be beyond saving.

  He fans the pages, gesturing at the thousand dollars every two weeks withdrawn in cash. I can’t imagine where the money’s come from or why you’d be giving it to someone, but I’d bet Vern’s further ahead of this lead than I am. He’s formed a hypothesis, and whe
ther he’s correct or not, he’s determined to support it.

  I mentally tally the tab, stopping with pages yet to go when I reach ten grand.

  Vern pulls what looks like a statement from a different bank—different colors, different logo—from inside his folder and overlaps the two. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. The deposits and amounts line up almost exactly with the withdrawal dates. The name at the top: Ansley Davis.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Vern will secure video footage sooner or later, so yes, I’m positive.

  “I guarantee it.”

  That you had the audacity to put my name on this account infuriates me, and yet I try to think in the longer-term. If Vern had any idea what this meant, he wouldn’t have summoned me. There is no other activity, no credit card payments, nothing to any utility, no ATM withdrawals, and the amount is identical each time you go to the teller. If this were proof of anything, I wouldn’t be here.

  “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem feasible to me that fifty thousand dollars went unaccounted for, and you didn’t have some idea where it went,” Vern says.

  He’s absolutely right, but the fact is that I never knew the money existed in the first place. “Feasible or not, I’ll take a lie-detector test on this one.” I instantly regret opening that door. “I have no idea about that account or how my name ended up on it. Maybe I signed a form or something and didn’t realize—something Bert took to the bank. But I don’t remember doing it, and it isn’t like me to sign something without reading it first.”

  Vern doesn’t appear swayed. “Two thousand dollars a month. That’s a lot of money not to notice has gone missing, even for people of means.” He clings to your fame, to the façade of wealth, which tells me he hasn’t dug far enough into our financials, at least not yet.

  “I understand that, but I still can’t help you.” I shake my head. I don’t know what he expects me to say.

  “Do you want to know for how long these payments have been made?”

  I happen to have looked at the opening balance so no, I don’t want to know because I already do. I let him tell me anyway.

  “Almost exactly two years,” he says.

  I brace for what I know is coming next.

  “How long has Matthew been gone?” he asks.

  There’s no getting out of answering this one. “Two years.”

  Textbook serendipity.

  “So, here’s what I’m thinking.” Vern leans back, his suit jacket falling open as he rests his hands on his round stomach. “There’s a connection between Matthew, Bert, Claire, and Ansley. Two of them are now deceased, and one refuses to talk to me.” This is the first Vern’s admitted to the problem, though I should’ve suspected Ansley stonewalled him when he came to me with questions she should’ve been answering. “The one who is talking isn’t saying much”—he means you, which explains why he’s been so relentlessly pursuing me, the uninvolved party by his estimation—“and you deny any knowledge of a financial arrangement or an account with your name on it, which means either you’re hiding something or the secrecy extends even to you. Be honest with me. When I asked you about Ansley after the funeral, you said she hadn’t been part of your lives in years. That’s obviously not entirely true, so if I give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t know when we spoke, are you now aware of a connection between her and your husband, something that might’ve gone back as far as two years, starting around the time Matthew left your home?”

  I shrug. I am aware, but know damn well he can’t prove it yet. “Like I said, I went to talk to Ansley out of concern for her and she wouldn’t let me in.” The worst thing I can do at this point is deviate from my original statement. Yes, I’m probably interfering with the investigation, for which I chastised you, and yes, Vern could call me on it, but I’m protected, as are you, by law. I don’t have to give any statement against you, now or in court. We’re legally immune to damning each other, but when Vern pulls out another set of papers, I worry that it no longer matters. He doesn’t need me to sign your arrest warrant.

  He turns the papers around to face me and slides the significant stack across the table. I get the impression this is only part of the old bank statements belonging to Claire. A lump rises in my throat because they’re not only years old, they’re twelve years old, and the timeframe coincides with another significant event in our lives that I prayed was dead and buried.

  There is such a thing as too many coincidences.

  “The other day, I asked how a single mother might have afforded private school on a counselor’s salary,” Vern says. “I suspected Bert might’ve had a hand in things, based on the money he’s been paying Ansley.”

  Allegedly, I want to remind him.

  “But it turns out he’s not the only one contributing to the Davis household finances.”

  Allegedly!

  “Deposits were made into Claire’s account from someone else with whom you share a past.” I’ve nearly passed out at this point, in the throes of an oncoming panic attack when Vern asks the dreaded question: “Harper, what do you know about Hannah Harman?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE ANSWER, TO YOUR dismay, would probably be not as much as I should for a woman married to a man obsessed with the cold case, who lives under its enormous shadow.

  Vern studies me while I sit in silent contemplation of the facts that previously didn’t involve money. “Well?” he asks.

  “I know Matthew had nothing to do with Hannah’s disappearance.” I can’t explain why this feels like an important assertion, but Vern’s demeanor makes me wonder if he doesn’t believe this is the case.

  “How can anyone know, when she’s never been found?” he asks, and he isn’t wrong.

  Lack of physical evidence keeps Hannah’s case open, though the generally accepted story of what happened is that she fell prey to one Wayne Watson Price, a serial killer in the greater northeast, from New York City to Maine, who sits on death row for his latest victim’s gruesome murder. A five-year-old was found sodomized and exsanguinated, her torn panties knotted around her neck in a cruel act that might have been the closest thing Price ever showed to mercy. The girl would have died without being strangled, but not as quickly. According to the coroner, the attack lasted days, and his account of the anguish she must’ve suffered, given the number and extent of her injuries, led jurors to return a guilty verdict in record time.

  Wayne Watson Price had a long history of mental illness, of institutionalizations and unsuccessful electroshock therapy—now called ECT, short for electroconvulsive therapy—and a heartbreaking backstory that doesn’t lead to forgiveness, but to understanding the kind of torture one must endure to become so acutely twisted.

  During the trial, Price grinned at evidence so graphic it caused one juror to vomit and another, a pregnant schoolteacher, to faint in her chair. No one wanted to look, but everyone had to see what this monster had done to not one but six girls, ranging in age from four to nine. Hannah, eight at the time of her disappearance, and with the same dark hair and eyes as the others, fit Price’s location and pattern. Price abducted and killed on a cycle: four-year-old Melanie Martell first, then five-year-old Annie Henderson five months later, and six-year-old Brittany Johnson six months after that. There was a gap in his timeline: eight months after seven-year-old Holly Hernandez died, law enforcement began to speculate that eight-year-old Hannah Harman might well have been the missing link. Price never admitted to there being a seventh victim, and patently denied the damning, if not intentional, interval between murders, but the pieces fit. He was in New York when Hannah vanished, living in a trailer on a ten-acre plot adjacent to the development where Ella and Matthew lived, Hannah’s last known location.

  When asked about Price and later shown his picture, Matthew shrugged it off, neither confirming nor denying that he saw this man the night he and Hannah ran away. He said it had been too dark to see anything. Matthew’s evasiveness turned out to be
the thing that kept him safest during numerous interrogations.

  “A guilty boy would have identified Price as the culprit regardless of what happened to Hannah,” you told News Channel 9, “but Matthew isn’t guilty of anything. He’s an eight-year-old victim of a potentially unimaginable horror that he might well have been traumatized into forgetting.”

  Matthew’s first therapist asserted that, given Price’s perversions, Matthew may have disassociated, plunging the memory of what really happened to Hannah so deep into his psyche as to render it irretrievable.

  We waited years for recall that never came, nursing an emotionally numb child who himself became increasingly agitated and unpredictable. I often wonder if we did the right thing in defending Matthew. If all the time you spent buried in requests for information—mostly denied due to the investigation being ongoing if not also because you were Matthew’s father—and questioning people who knew Hannah didn’t make him look guiltier.

  The memoir of your investigation, your first and only nonfiction bestseller, supported Price’s guilt in detail, asserting Matthew as the “lucky one,” if such a thing existed in cases like these. Had boys been Price’s thing, Matthew might have disappeared, too.

  At last check, Price hasn’t exhausted his final appeal and is living on death row long after any of the girls he murdered have decayed to bones. It is, I think, the greatest travesty that such matters can be so indefinitely drawn out. Families need closure. I need closure, and because of that, I ask the question I dread the answer to.

  “Who was paying Claire?” My voice sounds weaker than when I arrived, when I was sure Vern had nothing but the intention to rattle me. He has, but with facts I almost wish I didn’t know.

  Vern leans forward, eager to reveal the source. “Marjorie Harman.”

  “Hannah’s mother? Why?”

  “There’s only one reason I can think of,” Vern says. “Blackmail.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE