by Jason Starr
Shocked, Karen ended the call. People were so cruel and awful; she hated everyone.
“Who was it?” Owen had entered the kitchen.
Standing facing away from him, so he couldn’t see that she was crying, he said, “No one. Wrong number.”
She remained, waiting for him to leave, go back upstairs, but hoping he wouldn’t. She felt so alone.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
She did want to talk about it, and he was the only one who seemed to understand her, so why not?
So she turned toward him, letting him see her tears and said, “It’s so hard to explain, I’m not sure you can relate.”
“I’m good at relating,” he said, smiling. He had warm blue eyes and cute dimples; no wonder Elana liked him so much.
“Where’s Elana?” Karen asked.
“Upstairs, doing some homework or something,” Owen said.
“Good, I’m glad she’s able to focus on something else.”
“So who was that on the phone?”
“That was actually a prank call, some man called me a slut.”
“Shit, I’m really sorry,” Owen said, taking a couple of steps toward her.
He was a bit too close, violating her space, but she let him.
“He’s probably somebody I know,” Karen said. “Maybe a dad from school, or somebody from the country club. Probably somebody I’ve been to parties with, somebody I’ve laughed with, somebody I like. But then a story got around, he made assumptions, and turned on me. It makes me wonder, how can I trust anything anymore? How do I know what’s real and what isn’t?”
“It must be so hard,” Owen said, even closer now.
“You have no idea,” Karen said, needing to vent. “Being a divorced woman in the suburbs, in a small community, is like a curse. People need to talk about something, so what’re they going to talk about? They talk about what’s different, what doesn’t fit. Then they start with their assumptions, they think they know me, but they don’t, they don’t. I’ve sensed it since Joe and I separated—the undercurrents. People say things but they’re really saying something else, I always know what they’re really saying. Then something like this happens and it proves that not only was I right all along, but the reality is even worse than I thought. Suddenly I’m not just a slutty divorcee, I’m an adulteress, and a killer too. It’s not just a suspicion anymore; it’s what they actually think. I’ve been through so many changes in my life the past few years—the divorce, adjusting to life on my own, being single again, dating, meeting new people. I never expected to be where I am now, this isn’t the way I’ve planned it. I’ve grown a lot, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve also been through so much disappointment, so much pain, so much struggling. I know I’m rambling, but it’s how I feel, I can’t help it. What I’m trying to say is trust has been hard for me, it’s been my biggest struggle of all—to learn how to trust people, trust situations. People sometimes tell me that I put walls up. Joe, my ex, used to say it all the time, and other people have complained about it too. But I don’t do it to hurt anyone, I do it to protect myself, and today people’s reactions have confirmed what I’ve been trying not to believe. I’m sorry, I know I’m not making any sense, and I shouldn’t be telling you this. You should go upstairs with Elana. Please, just go.”
But Owen didn’t go. Instead he moved closer, they were maybe six inches apart now, and he said in a warm, kind voice, “You can trust me.”
It was weird, but she did trust him, more than she’d trusted anyone else lately anyway. After all, who was this guy, this kid? She’d only spoken to him a couple of times, but she couldn’t deny how she felt. He was the only one she was able to let her guard down with, even if it was just a little bit.
“I’m glad I can trust you,” she said. “Actually, you’re part of my alibi. Can you believe that? I need an alibi.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the detective came to talk to me at school, he asked me where I was Saturday night and I said I was home and you and Elana saw me here.”
“Oh,” Owen said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t drag you into anything, I promise,” Karen said. “But, I have to say, it’s nice to have somebody to talk to about all this stuff. I feel like I’ve been going through this alone.”
“Yeah, I know how that is.”
“What do you mean?
“I walk around feeling alone inside all the time,” Owen said. “I mean, ’cause of everything I’ve been through with my family and shit. It sucks.”
Feeling connected to Owen with their shared pain, Karen said, “Well, you have us now,” and reached out to Owen and held his upper arm for a moment then, feeling a little weird about it, let go.
“I’ve been thinking about this whole thing with Debbie,” Owen said. “I think that people got it wrong.”
“Do you know Deb?” Karen asked.
Karen saw a flash of something—concern or maybe just awkwardness—in Owen’s expression.
Then he said, “No, I mean just from around. I’ve seen her at the country club a lot, and I know she’s Riley Berman’s mom.”
“Oh,” Karen said, “because the way you called her Debbie, it sounded like you knew her. So what were you saying, about how people have it wrong?”
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t understand why they’re talking about you when they should be talking about her husband, Mark. How do you know Mark didn’t kill her?”
“First of all, Deb isn’t dead,” Karen said. “She’s just missing.”
“You know what I mean,” Owen said. “Usually when a wife goes missing the cops blame the husband and usually they’re right. But this time they’re talking about you just because of one stupid argument that wasn’t even your fault. I think it’s bullshit.”
“You know you make a really great point,” Karen said. “Why isn’t Mark more of the focus?”
“Because it’s bullshit, that’s why.”
“Mark has been acting so weird lately,” Karen said, “but I couldn’t imagine him actually hurting anyone. Then again, you never know about people, do you?”
“Nope, you never do,” Owen said.
All day Karen had been so concerned with what people were saying about her and so hopeful that Deb would return home at some point unharmed, she hadn’t really thought about other possibilities. Maybe Mark snapped, killed Deb in a fit of passion and rage, and maybe that’s why he’d come over before, trying to get her to confess. After all, if he felt the police were on the verge of discovering the truth, he’d get desperate and desperate people will do anything to avoid getting caught, including trying to coerce other people into a confession.
Karen had already lost faith in Mark, and felt betrayed by him, but this clinched it; she officially hated him.
“We should tell the cops to leave you alone, go talk to Mark Berman,” Owen said. “He’s the one who knows where his wife is.”
“I think you’re right,” Karen said. “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right.”
Owen was hugging her. At first she was so absorbed, thinking about Mark, that she didn’t realize what was going on. Then she was aware of it, but she didn’t say anything because she’d felt so alone all day that it was nice to get support from somebody, to have an ally.
“Owen?” Elana had entered the kitchen? “Mom?”
Karen immediately ended the embrace and pushed Owen back a little, which probably made it look much worse.
“Elana,” Karen said.
“What’s going on?” Elana asked.
“Uh…” Karen couldn’t think clearly, feeling weirdly guilty.
Owen cut in with, “Nothing. Your mom was just upset and I was soothing her.”
Karen didn’t like that word, soothing, so she explained, “I was just having a moment, and Owen was nice enough to help me through it. Thank you, Owen, I really appreciate it. Why don’t you two go upstairs and watch TV or something? I have some things I need to take
care of.”
“Okay,” Elana said, giving Karen a look that said, What the hell? and Karen gazed back as if saying, Oh, stop it, it was nothing.
They left and Karen was aware of how much more empowered she felt. All day she’d been the victim, but now anger was taking over. Usually she went out of her way to avoid anger—it was how she’d survived her divorce—but now she needed to motivate herself, to get in control. It’s all Mark’s fault. This had to be her mantra, whenever she felt like the victim, she had to remind herself that Mark had caused this, that he was to blame, not her.
She peeked through the blinds and saw the reporters were still camped in front of the house. She checked online and nothing had changed there either—as of the latest news report, in the Westchester Gazette eleven minutes ago, Deb was still missing. There were more articles about the argument in the country club and one even called Karen “a person of interest.”
“Are they fucking kidding me?” Karen said, then she shut her eyes and told herself, “It’s all Mark’s fault, it’s all Mark’s fault.”
A little calmer, she decided to be proactive and called the cell number on the card Detective Walsh had given her earlier.
“Detective Walsh, Bedford Police.”
“Detective Walsh, it’s Karen, Karen Daily.”
“Oh, yes.” He sounded surprised to hear from her.
“Have you found Deb Berman yet?”
“No, in fact, we haven’t.”
Because she’s dead, Karen thought.
Then she said, “I feel strange bringing this up because he’s been a friend for a long time and I don’t want to cause more trouble for his family, but I’m concerned about Mark Berman.”
“Concerned how?”
“He’s been acting weird for a few days now,” Karen said. “It started at a party in Bedford Hills on Friday night. He held my hand and Deb saw it, that’s why she was upset at the country club. I don’t know why I didn’t think of telling you about this at school today, I think I was too upset. Anyway, Deb had the wrong idea about us because of Mark. I think he’s been having a midlife crisis or something. He thinks he’s in love with me, and I have no idea how he got this idea into his head, but he obviously has issues. I think he… I don’t want to even imagine the scenarios, but maybe he was afraid of going through a divorce, maybe he was worried about money or custody or who knows what, so maybe he… Maybe it was for the life insurance money. I’m just thinking of this right now, but it makes sense. He’s the husband, in these cases it’s always the husband, and I’m just saying he’s the one you should be investigating not me. He’s the crazy one, not me.”
When she finished her rant, she was out of breath, and she realized how manic she must have sounded, and wondered if this call was helping, or hurting, her cause.
“I understand your concerns,” Walsh said. “Rest assured, despite what you might be hearing in the media we haven’t reached any conclusions in this case. We’re exploring every possibility and actively searching for Deborah.”
“But what about Mark? Have you questioned him the way you questioned me?”
“Like I said, we’re actively exploring—”
“I’m telling you, he’s hiding something. Look, I’d be shocked if he actually… if he actually hurt Deb, but people are always shocked about people. Don’t you see that all the time?”
“Ms. Daily, as I said, we’re talking to everybody, not just you.”
Christ, he was talking to her as if she were a child, or if she were crazy, she didn’t know which was worse.
“Just talk to him,” she pleaded. “Stop wasting your time and talk to him.”
About twenty minutes later, Karen was in her room, regretting her call to Detective Walsh. She didn’t regret trying to get him to focus more on Mark, but she wished she had come across calmer, more in control.
Though it wasn’t nine o’clock yet, she got ready for bed—well, splashing her face with cold water and putting on sweats and a T-shirt. The way her mind was churning she had no idea how she’d sleep knowing that as bad as today had been, tomorrow could be much worse.
Then someone was knocking hard on the bedroom door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Lemme in.” It was Owen.
Karen, remembering the awkward scene in the kitchen, didn’t bother going over to the door and called out from near the bathroom, “This isn’t a good time, I’m kind of busy.”
“I need to talk.” The doorknob was rattling. “Right now.”
It sounded urgent. Had Deb come home? Was there going to be a happy ending after all?
When Karen unlocked the door, Owen opened it. She saw his intense expression, heard him say, “We need to leave.”
His eyes were so wide she could see white all around the irises.
“What?” She was confused, had no idea what he was talking about.
“We have to go.” He grabbed her hand with a grip that was so firm it startled her. “Right now.”
“WHAT’S YOUR take on Karen Daily?” Nick asked Larry.
They were at the Bedford police station—both standing outside Larry’s office. Larry had just come back from interviewing Karen at Meadow Pond Elementary School.
“I don’t believe she’s involved,” Larry said.
“But could she be involved?” Nick asked. “There’s a difference.”
Instead of letting Nick’s belittling tone get to him, Larry threw it back at his superior, going, “Do you mean does she have an alibi? Not really. She dropped her son at a sleepover at around seven on Saturday evening and she said she returned home afterward. There’s no reason to believe she’s lying about this, but she says that no one saw her at home until her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend arrived at approximately eleven-fifteen on Saturday evening. So is it possible she met Deborah sometime during that time? Yes, it’s possible. Do I think she did? No, I do not.”
“And what’s this based on?” Nick asked. “I mean, except your gut feeling.”
“That’s all it is, a gut feeling,” Larry said.
“Fuck gut feelings,” Nick said. “If I was going on gut feelings, I’d be pulling Mark Berman in here and booking him for murder before we found any evidence or any body. My gut was screaming at me that this guy’s hiding something, his own daughter thinks he’s guilty, for fuck’s sake. Oh, and hearsay, I’ve got lots of hearsay too. I interviewed four witnesses so far who saw the incident at the country club and they all told me that it’s common knowledge that Mark and Karen Daily are having an affair. Are they actually having an affair? Did it get out of control? Who knows?”
“You got nothing from Deborah’s car, huh?” Larry asked.
“Nada so far,” Nick said. “But right now it looks like she went to that parking lot to meet somebody and got into the other person’s car.”
“Doesn’t it seem unlikely that that person was Karen Daily?” Larry asked. “I mean, if there was bad blood between them after the argument at the country club, why would Deb get into Karen’s car?”
“I’m with you on that,” Nick said. “But an altercation could have taken place outside and maybe the rain washed the evidence away. Unfortunately there are no security cameras in that area, so no help there either.”
“And no witnesses,” Larry said. “That’s surprising, I think, on a Saturday night.”
“The rain probably kept kids away,” Nick said. “We did find a couple of kids who said they were there that night and they thought they saw another car, but they couldn’t remember. They might’ve just seen Deborah’s.”
“What about credit card and cell phone info?”
“We have most of Deborah’s, no red flags,” Nick said. “The credit cards going back three months look pretty normal. No trips, no hotels, no restaurants. Her cell looks normal too. Her most recent calls were to family members. Her last call was to Scott Greenberg, a divorce lawyer, which jibes with what the daughter told you, about her wanting a divorce.”
&
nbsp; “What about Mark and Karen?”
“Not much there either. Mark certainly texted with Karen frequently and there’s phone calls too, but nothing to prove one way or another that an affair was taking place. Most of the texts came from Mark, and it definitely seems like Mark has some kind of obsession going on with her. It could just be a bored married guy looking for some action on the side. But what does that tell us about what happened to Deborah?”
“Okay, I have another theory for you,” Larry said. “What if it was all a setup? Deborah’s unhappy in her marriage, suffering from depression maybe, so she decides to disappear and ditches her car in a place where she knows there are no security cameras.”
“Okay,” Nick said, “then where’d she go?”
“Maybe she ran away, left the country,” Larry said. “She could’ve gotten into another car, or taken a cab somewhere.”
“Then why was she looking up divorce lawyers?”
“Part of the setup, to throw us off? Okay, I admit there are holes but, okay, what if it’s something else? What if it’s part of a suicide plan?”
“A little elaborate for suicide, don’t you think? What’s wrong with the ol’ slitting your wrists in the bathtub or OD’ing on pills?”
“If she was pissed off at her husband, maybe she hoped he’d be blamed,” Larry said. “Or, okay, maybe it was about her kids, she didn’t want to put them through the trauma of finding her body.”
“Interesting,” Nick said, “but before we start checking the borders, I think we have to focus on the idea that she was meeting somebody at that parking lot. There are no cameras there, and she probably knew that, so why do people meet at a spot where there are no cameras?”
“Maybe Deborah was the one having the affair, not Mark,” Larry said. “Maybe that’s why she left Saturday night without saying where she was going, and maybe that’s why she was the one looking up divorce lawyers. Maybe she met her lover at that parking lot and an altercation took place or they went somewhere.”
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that a woman in her forties would meet her lover in the parking lot of a high school?”
