Choose Me

by Tess Gerritsen

  Adverse Reactions: Ativan may cause the following reactions: clumsiness, dizziness, sleepiness, unsteadiness, agitation, disorientation, depression, parasomnia, amnesia . . .

  Parasomnia. Sleepwalking. Taking nocturnal trips without awareness or recall.

  The night Taryn had died, he’d sat alone in the dark living room, sipping pinot grigio just to calm his nerves. By the time he’d finally climbed the stairs to bed, that wine bottle had been empty. Even then, he couldn’t fall asleep and had reached for the Ativan to knock him out. The next morning he’d awakened alone with a megaton hangover and Maggie already off to work.

  He scrolled down the page and clicked on another link about Ativan. It was a site featuring true-crime cases, and what he read there drove an icicle through his heart.

  . . . the defendant had no memory of the hours before the killing. He recalled that he took ten milligrams of Ativan, was unable to sleep, and took an additional pill. “The next thing I remember,” he testified, “was awakening with handcuffs on my wrists.”

  He had stabbed his wife more than twenty times.

  Maggie was sitting at the kitchen counter, watching TV, when he came downstairs. She looked up and frowned at him.

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I had a bad night—couldn’t get to sleep.” He poured a cup of coffee and took a shaky gulp. “What are you watching?”

  “The news. It’s about your student, Taryn Moore. The one who came to see me for a physical.”

  He took another nervous sip of coffee and tried to keep his voice steady. “What’re they saying?”

  “They still don’t know why she killed herself. They said she’d been accepted into the doctoral program and was looking forward to that. You must have helped her with the application. I mean, you were her adviser, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you would have known her pretty well.”

  His chest tightened. “Meaning what?”

  “Did you see any warning signs? She must have confided something about her personal life. They said she’d recently broken up with a boyfriend. Did you have any clue how distraught she was?”

  “She, uh, may have mentioned the breakup. But it seemed to me she was moving on with her life. Going to grad school and all.”

  Maggie said, “She was in perfect health. Smart, gorgeous, her whole life ahead of her. It’s just so hard to understand.”

  Casually, he crossed to the coffeepot to refill his cup. “What do the police say?”

  “The reporter said they haven’t ruled out the possibility of foul play.”

  “Foul play? They said that?”

  With the remote, Maggie flicked through the channels and stopped at NECN, where the story was now being aired. He felt a small shock at the photo of Taryn smiling radiantly, her eyes bright and daring, her hair lit by the sun. The shot shifted to Detective Frances Loomis as a reporter asked her: “So this is still an active investigation? Could it be something other than suicide?”

  “The manner of death is still to be determined by the medical examiner,” Loomis answered.

  Maggie muted the television. “Did you know the girl’s boyfriend? The one she broke up with?”

  “No. I mean, she did tell me they’d broken up.”

  “What did she say about him?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  She glanced at him. “Why are you so jumpy?”

  “Look, this whole thing is kind of upsetting to me. Can we not talk about it?” He looked at his phone, scanning the latest emails, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No new accusations, no anonymous threats.

  The TV screen again filled with the image of Detective Loomis’s poker-player face. Maggie turned up the volume just as the reporter asked: “Is there any indication this isn’t a suicide?”

  “I have no further comment at this time.”

  Maggie shut off the TV and looked at him. “That detective is being weirdly noncommittal, don’t you think? Could it have been murder?”

  “What makes you even think that?”

  “It’s just the way she answered the question. Very cagey. Oh well.” Maggie took her coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it. “I’m sure the police are checking out the big three.”

  “The big three?”

  “Like they talk about on true-crime shows. It’s the three pillars of guilt that police always look for in a murder investigation: motive, means, and opportunity.”

  Motive, means, and opportunity. Jack was already at one and climbing.

  CHAPTER 39

  FRANKIE

  The twins are once again going out for the night, and from the kitchen, where Frankie sits with her laptop and papers, she can hear her daughters chattering in their bedroom about which skirt and which shoes to wear, and should the lipstick be red or pink? At eighteen, the twins are old enough to choose their own clothes and their own boyfriends, and even if Frankie doesn’t approve of their choices, she tries to keep her objections to herself. Forbidden fruit is the sweetest of all; the travails of the Capulets and Montagues taught every parent that much. Frankie blocks out the twins’ inane debate of hair up or hair down. Instead she focuses on the typed pages spread out across her kitchen table. Here is the essay that Taryn Moore wrote in the weeks before her death. Might it contain clues to the turmoil in her own life? The document is still just a draft, with Taryn’s handwritten corrections scratched in the margins.

  HELL HATH NO FURY: VIOLENCE AND THE SCORNED WOMAN

  Stories about women betrayed by men abound in both Greek mythology and classical literature (Ariadne, Queen Dido), commonly ending in death for the women, often by their own hands in piteous acts of self-destruction. Some, however, like Medea, choose an alternate path: vengeance . . .

  Medea. Frankie remembers the textbook she saw on Taryn’s kitchen countertop with a woman’s face on the cover, her mouth open in a fearsome roar, her hair an angry corona of flames. She cannot remember the details of the myth or what drove Medea to vengeance; she knows only that the name itself carries echoes of violence.

  She types the name Medea into Google and clicks on the first link. What appears is not the monstrous face from Taryn’s textbook. This Medea is a golden-haired beauty in a flowing gown.

  Medea, depicted in many stories as a sorceress, is a prominent figure in the myth of Jason and the Argonauts.

  “Hey, Mom, we’re heading out now.”

  Frankie turns to look at her daughter Gabby and frowns at the short skirt and daringly low-cut blouse. “Are you really going out looking like that?”

  “I swear, you say that every single time.”

  “Because you’re dressed like that every single time.”

  “And nothing bad has ever happened to us.”

  “Yet.”

  Gabby laughs. “You never take off the badge, do you?” She gives her mom a wave. “We’ll be fine. Don’t wait up.”

  “You know, I’ve seen what happens to girls who get careless.”

  “There are two of us, Mom.”

  “There are two boys too.”

  “We always look out for each other. And we know all those cool self-defense moves you taught us, remember?” Gabby gives the air a vicious karate chop. “Don’t worry, these guys are okay.”

  Frankie sighs and takes off her glasses. “How do you know they are?”

  “You’ve gotta stop ragging on about musicians. They’re totally focused on their careers, and you should see the great gigs they’ve already lined up this year.”

  “Oh, honey. You could both do so much better than those boys.”

  “Ha! I bet Granny said the same thing to you about Daddy.”

  If only she did, thinks Frankie. If only someone had warned her about the man she was about to marry. Frankie has never told her daughters the truth about their father, and she never will. Let them go on believing in the daddy they loved, the daddy whose stature has only grown in their memories since his death three years ago. As much as Frankie w
ants to grab her girls by their shoulders and warn them, Don’t make my mistake—don’t fall for a man who’ll break your heart, the truth about their father will only hurt them.

  The laptop screen catches Gabby’s eye, and she asks: “Why are you reading about Medea?”

  “It’s for a case I’m investigating.”

  “I hope it’s nothing like what Medea did.”

  Frankie looks at her daughter in surprise. “You know the myth?”

  “Oh, sure. We read the play in Honors English, and it stuck with me, you know? How far a woman will go to get her revenge.”

  “What happens?”

  “You know the story of Jason and the Argonauts? Well, Medea falls in love with Jason and helps him steal the Golden Fleece. She even kills her own brother so that Jason can make his escape. They sail off together, get married, and have kids. But then Jason turns into a real dick. He deserts her and marries another woman. Medea’s so pissed off she murders his new bride. Then to really get back at Jason, she stabs their own kids to death.”

  “Hey, Gabby?” Sibyl calls out from the foyer. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  “Wait,” says Frankie. “What happens to Medea?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Gabby pauses in the doorway and looks back at her mother. “Some god takes her up in his magic chariot and whisks her off to safety.” She waves. “Night, Mom.”

  Frankie hears her daughters clack out of the house in their high heels, and the front door thumps shut. She looks once again at the laptop screen, where the image of golden-haired Medea glows, a beauty in a flowing gown. Only then does she notice what is clutched in Medea’s hand.

  A knife, dripping with the blood of her own children.

  The ringing of her cell phone makes her jump. She glances down at the caller ID and answers: “Hey, Mac.”

  “You ready for some good news?”

  “Always.”

  “Verizon just delivered. They can’t locate Taryn Moore’s phone, which means it’s either been destroyed or it’s turned off. But they did give us her call log, her text messages. Everything.”

  “And?”

  “You’re gonna love who shows up on that log.”

  CHAPTER 40

  FRANKIE

  Professor Jack Dorian is wearing a game face, but Frankie can see the man is nervous, as well he should be. If he knew what they knew, he’d be halfway to Mexico by now. With a tight smile, he ushers the two detectives into his office and closes the door.

  “I’m surprised you’re back to see me so soon,” he says. “I thought you’d completed the investigation.”

  “As it turns out, we’re just getting started,” says Frankie as she and Mac sit down.

  “Oh?” Dorian’s fingers briefly twitch into a claw on the desk. It is just a split-second spasm, but it’s a clue she doesn’t miss.

  “New evidence has come up that points in a different direction.” Frankie is enjoying this. Enjoying the pleasure of turning the screws on him and seeing the glint of fear in his eyes.

  “New evidence?” he finally manages to ask.

  “We didn’t tell you what turned up at her autopsy. A little surprise. Taryn Moore was pregnant.”

  He doesn’t respond, but the color of his face says it all. It is the ashen gray of panic.

  “Did you know she was pregnant, Professor Dorian?”

  He gives a stunned shake of the head. “Why would I?”

  “We thought you might, since you were her adviser. And according to Cody Atwood, you and Taryn had a very close relationship.”

  “An academic relationship. It doesn’t mean she shared details of her personal life with me. Kids have their own circle of friends. Most of the time, we adults are peripheral to their worlds. They hardly register what we do or say or think.”

  He is rambling, filling the silence to disguise his fear, but she sees the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, hears the rising pitch of his voice. She says, “We’re trying to find out who the father is. DNA is still pending, but we’ll learn the answer eventually.”

  “She, uh, did have that boyfriend.”

  “Liam Reilly insists the baby isn’t his.”

  “Can you be sure he’s telling the truth?”

  “He said they broke up months ago, before this pregnancy would have been conceived.” She lets the silence stretch on, lets him twist in the wind for a moment. “Do you have any idea who the father might be?”

  Dorian gives a helpless shrug. “I don’t understand why you’re asking me.”

  “Because her pregnancy may be relevant to the investigation.”

  “Last week, you seemed to believe it was suicide.”

  “Last week, we didn’t have a record of her text messages.” She pauses to let that sink in, and she sees his face snap taut. He doesn’t say a word; he is paralyzed, unable to stop this freight train that is now barreling straight toward him.

  “We know about your affair with Taryn Moore,” she says.

  The breath whooshes out of him. He slumps forward and drops his head in his hands, his fingers buried like claws in his hair. For a moment Frankie worries that he might drop dead of a heart attack right before their eyes.

  “Professor Dorian?” she says.

  “It was a mistake,” he groans. “A huge, horrible mistake.”

  “I would have to agree.”

  “I swear to you, this never happened with any other student. She was the only one. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Are you saying she seduced you? That it’s her fault?”

  “No. No, I have no excuse at all, except . . .” He raises his head and meets her gaze with a look of abject misery. “She needed someone to care about her, someone who’d value her. I was the person she turned to. She was brilliant. And beautiful. And so desperately hungry for love.” He pauses. “I guess I needed someone too.”

  “And your wife? How does she fit into the equation?”

  Pain contorts his face. “Maggie doesn’t deserve this. It’s my fault, all mine.”

  “So you admit having the affair.”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you the father of Taryn’s child?”

  He sighs. “Yes, it could be mine.”

  “DNA will prove it, one way or another. Just as it will prove you were in the victim’s apartment, where you had sexual relations.” At his puzzled look, she says: “We found semen on her sofa. Yours, I assume?”

  He winces but does not deny it.

  Satisfied, Frankie looks at Mac. You can take it from here.

  “Where were you last Friday night, Professor Dorian?” he asks.

  “Friday night . . .”

  “The night Taryn Moore died.”

  In an instant, the conversation has shifted, and not just because Mac is now the one asking the questions. Dorian’s head jerks up. He knows that things are about to get worse for him. Much worse.

  “I’ve already answered that question. I told you, I was home that night.”

  “What did you do that night?”

  “We had Maggie’s father over for dinner.”

  “Do you remember what you ate?”

  “Yes, because I cooked it. We had pasta with a veal sauce.”

  “And after dinner? What did you do?”

  “After Charlie left, I went to bed early, because I was exhausted. And I, uh, had an upset stomach.”

  “Did you stay in bed?”

  “Yes,” he says without hesitation.

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or did you get up sometime that night while your wife was sleeping? Did you slip out of the house and drive to Taryn Moore’s apartment?”

  “What? No—”

  “But you did have plans to meet her that night, at her apartment. That’s why she waited up for you. She let you into her building.”

  “This is crazy. I never left my house that n
ight.”

  “What about this text message you wrote?” Mac pulls a folded printout from his pocket and opens it up to read aloud. “On Friday, at six thirty p.m., Taryn sent you this text: ‘I’m pregnant.’ Two minutes later she sends you another one: ‘You know it’s yours.’”

  Dorian stares back, silent. Stunned.

  “And then three minutes later she texts you a third time,” Mac continues, relentless. “At six thirty-five she writes: ‘I’m going to tell Maggie.’ And that’s when you finally respond.”

  “No, that’s not true. I didn’t answer her! I never responded at all.”

  “It’s right here in black and white, Professor. What you wrote to Taryn. Six thirty-seven p.m., you texted: ‘Tonite, your place. Wait for me.’” Mac looks at Dorian. “Friday night, as you promised, you drove to her apartment, didn’t you? And you took care of the problem.”

  To Frankie’s surprise, Dorian suddenly bolts forward in his chair, his face florid with outrage. “This is bullshit! You’re lying. Is this how you get innocent people to confess? You make up crap like this and expect us to sign whatever statement you put in front of us?”

  “You can’t argue with your own text message.”

  “I never wrote any such text.”

  “It was sent from your cell phone.”

  “This isn’t going to work, what you’re doing.” Dorian’s voice is now rock steady, his gaze unflinching. He reaches into his desk, pulls out his phone, and slides it across to Mac. “See for yourself. There’s no such message on my phone.”

  Mac scrolls through the texts and gives a snort. “It’s not here because you’ve deleted the entire conversation. But you know it never really goes away, don’t you? You may have erased it, but those messages are still on the server.” He slides the phone back to Dorian. “Now tell us where you were last Friday night.”

  “At home. In bed with my wife.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it’s true. Ask Maggie. She has no reason to lie.”

  “Does she know about your affair?”

  The question seems to knock the wind out of him. Defeated, Dorian slumps back in his chair. “No,” he says softly.