Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “As I explained to Ashlyn, you were writing about the trial,” Katherine goes on. “A straightforward, objective view of the unfolding events. Right? And of course we’re eager for you to continue your project. Of course.”

  That’s the most ridiculous “of course” I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t she call or email and warn me about this? Whatever “this” is. Although maybe she did. I’d deleted her messages.

  “But now it becomes even more compelling.” Katherine goes on, in full pitch mode. “Now we can use what you’ve already written to create a book that’s…”

  I know I’m frowning as she searches for a word. I am beyond bewildered. The book is over, just like the trial. Katherine told me from the beginning the book was a go only if Ashlyn was convicted.

  Katherine gives me a look full of subtext, then continues. “A book that’s big. An important hardcover memoir that proves how a truly innocent person in partnership with a zealous attorney and a fair and just legal system can battle through a trial by fire and prevail. And Ashlyn, so tragically tested, has agreed to give us—you—us—her exclusive story. Her legal and emotional redemption. Her brave new start on her brave new life.”

  The light is beginning to dawn. I briefly check for candid cameras. Then realize the media winds have shifted. To flat-out sensationalism.

  Katherine actually puts one hand on my arm and the other on Ashlyn’s, like a bridge between two islands.

  “As I explained to Ashlyn, we’ll do the book with her or without her,” she says. “But ‘with’ is better. I know you two will be a good match.”

  She pauses. I look at Ashlyn. Ashlyn looks at me. Weird, because I’ve contantly seen her, on TV and in newspapers, for the past thirty-some days. She’s never seen me in her life. Katherine sighs, and I feel the pressure of her fingers on my bare arm. I wonder if she’s squeezing Ashlyn’s arm, too.

  “You’ve both lost your poor daughters,” Katherine whispers. “You’ve both had a miserable year.”

  It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. Oh, right, yeah, miserable. Precisely the word for what happened. Then I had to deal with the miserable reality of two cops at my door. Guess Ashlyn did, too. I swallow my reaction, trying not to yank my arm out from Katherine’s clutches. Her grasp is verging on metaphor. This is a Journalism 101 technique, create empathy.

  I imagine Ashlyn saying, “Oh, did you kill your daughter, too?” But she doesn’t.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says. “What was her name? How old was she?”

  Okay. This is too much. I am not, I am absolutely not, going to discuss Sophie with this woman. Not a chance on the planet. It’s disloyal. That’s the only word I can think of. Followed by crass and hypocritical and phony. I won’t say her name, not out loud, not to her. Not to this wretched woman who someday, I hope, will be justly punished for killing her own daughter, even if she doesn’t spend another day behind bars. And now she has the nerve, that’s hardly a strong enough word, to sit here at my kitchen table and ask me about Sophie.

  As for Kath, she wins the prize for exploitive. As well as inappropriate, sleazy, manipulative, and duplicitous. Some friend. She and Ashlyn are quite the duo. Not even a warning phone call. Maybe.

  Katherine clears her throat, lets go of our arms. “Sorry to cut to the business chase,” she says. “But we’re thinking this will be more successful—forgive me, Ashlyn, if this is difficult for you—as a sort of true-life legal thriller combined with an ‘as-told-to’ biography. We’ll put both your names on the cover…” She looks at Ashlyn, who’s nodding agreement, and then at me. Who, she must surely recognize, is still wondering if this is a particularly cruel joke.

  “No problem,” Ashlyn says. “If that’s all right with you, Mercer.”

  I always envision myself on a tightrope, walking along, cautiously, step-by-step to an end I cannot see. Balancing, sometimes, but often, like now, struggling for equilibrium. I wait, as the high wire settles. Wait, as I accept the preposterous idea that this woman is calling me by name and asking me for permission, like we’re at some tea party. I wait, recovering my emotional and spiritual footing.

  “How does Quinn McMorran feel about this?” That’s all I can think of to say that appears to be responsive, but actually is not. “I saw on the news—”

  “Could you believe that? They—” Ashlyn begins.

  “So wise of you to bring that up, Mercer,” Kath interrupts. “I was going to mention that next.”

  Another journalism technique. Compliment the potential antagonist, try to get them on your side.

  “Wise?” I’m not sure whose side I’m on right now. I’m barely staying upright.

  “Yes,” Katherine says. “Because of the—”

  “I was there, Mercer!” Ashlyn whispers, elbows on the table, cheeks in her hands. “Actually there! How did those people know that? They, like, almost got in! It was—so terrifying. Plus they showed where Quinn lives. On TV. It’s so awful.”

  “No one knows you were there.” Katherine puts a hand on Ashlyn’s thin shoulder. “And Quinn’s left town for a bit. Until the smoke clears.”

  “Smoke?” I say. Was there a fire, too?

  “Fallout. Reaction. Aftermath. Whatever.” Kath dismisses me with a flip of a hand. “Anyway, now we need to make some new decisions.”

  “So terrifying.” Ashlyn’s continues her memory, shaking her head. “When Quinn’s alarm system went off? I totally freaked. I’ll never feel safe again. I can’t believe how horrible people are. Can you?”

  Am I supposed to answer that? On the muted television, I see the beginning of some syndicated courtroom show, Judge Some-woman-or-other, play-acting at justice. Outside the kitchen window, a cicada, some bug like that, flutters against the glass, then flies away.

  “Which brings up my final point.” Katherine takes a long drink from her mug, sets it back down on the kitchen table. I’m sitting in Sophie’s chair, Katherine in Dex’s, Ashlyn in mine.

  “I had talked to Quinn about the book,” Katherine goes on. “And she’s aware. The plan was for Ashlyn to stay with her while you two finalized the manuscript. The book’s almost done, of course, so we’d figured, if you both put your mind to it, it could take two weeks to repurpose. Sooner the publication, the better. But now that Quinn’s unavailable, and her house, too, of course, the publisher and I think it might work if…”

  She looks at me, takes a deep breath.

  You have got to be kidding me. My brain is screaming “no,” so loudly, I cannot believe these two women can’t hear my thoughts. Kath wants me to do this?

  “Well, we think it would be efficient.” Katherine’s face has an expression I’ve never seen before. “If Ashlyn could stay here, with you. To work on the project day and night. I mean, you have a guest room. If you can do it in two weeks, the publisher will pay double. Plus all the expenses, food, and whatever.” She smiles. “Even wine.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Even for sixty thousand dollars, what Katherine’s proposing is so outrageous … I stop. Rebalance. I think of Sophie’s closed door. Dex’s boxes in the guest room. My one bathroom. My mirror, marked this morning with 475. No. I’ll say no. I have to say no.

  “Ashlyn will be safe here,” Katherine goes on. “It protects her from whoever has a grudge against Quinn. And from the drooling pack of reporters who’ll be hunting her down. You remember how it felt after your … the accident. Right, Merce? How awful it was?”

  I don’t, actually. At least I try not to.

  “Why doesn’t she just leave town?” I ask.

  “Exactly. And that’s what we’ll say.” Kath nods, like I’m so smart. “We’ll tell everyone Ashlyn’s left town. No one else will even know she’s here. And your book can be her lifeline. With her parents estranged and her family destroyed and her reputation in shambles, there’s really no place else for her to be. Only with you, Mercer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I let the shower
sluice over my hair, my face, feeling the warmth and the steam. Washing away the sludge from yesterday’s encounter. I feel confused. Defensive. What was I supposed to do? Tell Ashlyn, “No, go to the Holiday Inn, and I’ll meet you every morning in the coffee shop?”

  Maybe. But even with what happened to Quinn’s house, I need the work. And the money, since Dex’s insurance has to last my whole lifetime. I’d wanted to put the nail in Ashlyn’s coffin, and somehow honor Sophie, but the ridiculous verdict put a stop to that quixotic idea. Plus, writers write.

  Reporters get hooked on a good story. But “good” is sometimes negotiable.

  So what do I do this time? Plenty of people are accused, unfairly, of crimes. Who am I to know what really happened? And shouldn’t I be interested to find out?

  I stick my tongue out at no one. Gah. I know what happened. But fine.

  Ashlyn Bryant will now be living in my guest room. I cannot comprehend it. She’ll show up later this morning. And we’ll go to work. Plus, Katherine insists no one else will know she’s here.

  “She’ll come tomorrow,” Katherine had said. “Saturday. Deadline is—two weeks from Tuesday. First thing Tuesday. I promise I won’t call and bug you. Just work.”

  As Ashlyn walked back to the car, I’d clutched Kath’s arm, stopping her.

  “What happened at Quinn’s is scary,” I said. “And now—Ashlyn in my house? I’m not sure that’s, you know, prudent. To put it mildly.”

  “Sweetheart, forget about it. You’re a writer, you can come up with every bad reality.” She’d actually patted my hand. “Trust me. I got a text a second ago. It’s nothing about Ashlyn. You’ll probably see it on the news. The cops caught the guys. Stupid kids.”

  “Same as the ones who bomb-scared the court?” I’d asked. But she didn’t know. And I suppose if the cops say it’s fine, it’s fine. Hard to think clearly about what’s “real.”

  So it’s a done deal.

  I wrap the monogrammed white towel around me, then one-finger write, as always, on the steam-clouded mirror: 476. The start of another new real.

  “Two weeks, darlings,” I say out loud.

  Last night, illuminated only by the glowing streetlight, I looked at the photo of Sophie I’ve tucked under my pillow because it brings me close to her in dreams. It’s of her in Dex’s arms, just a silly casual snapshot in our front yard, almost out of focus—maybe Katherine took it? She adored them both. It’s one I might have deleted in another life. But now I’ll never again delete another photo. There won’t be any more.

  I fluff my hair dry. Thing is, and it almost sickens me to consider this, but what if Ashlyn didn’t do it? She appears pleasant enough. Not whiny or selfish or manipulative, not at all the “bitch” her mother described in interviews and on the witness stand. Hard to imagine this is the same woman who was photographed in the Hot Stuff wet T-shirt contest. Of course, maybe that’s part of Ashlyn’s con game, putting the other person off guard, then moving in for the kill. A chameleon.

  “Try it, sister,” I say out loud, half-smiling at my blurry reflection in the now-dripping mirror. I’ve handled worse. And it’ll be interesting to hear what she says. I wanted her to testify in court, after all. Now she’ll be testifying. But only to me.

  To me.

  I take a deep breath, reorienting my moral compass.

  Testifying only to me. It could be a good story. A terrific story. It could give this manipulative bitch the punishment she deserves. International notoriety. Unending shame. I can bestow justice. I can’t help Sophie, or Dex. Or change the verdict. But this—writing, storytelling, exposing the truth. This I can do.

  By the time the doorbell rings, I’m ready. Ashlyn stayed with Katherine last night, so I guess she wasn’t apprehensive about that, and Kath had texted me they were on the way. Kath waves as she drives off.

  “I brought you coffee.” Ashlyn’s wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses, her ponytail under a Red Sox cap. “With skim milk. I saw the container on your counter yesterday. Nobody followed us, so that’s a relief. Guess ‘they’ haven’t found me. Reporters, I mean. No offense.”

  She smiles, handing me a cardboard coffee carrier with two covered paper cups, Starbucks ventis. A small black wheelie bag is beside her. It looks new. She’s wearing jeans, which also look new. And a black T-shirt, respectable but snug. Wonder what she did with her dumpy trial outfits? I would have burned them.

  “Thanks,” I say, gesturing her inside. “Yes, reporters can be persistent.” Which I know, from both sides of the notebook, is the truth. Sure, she was thoughtful—thoughtful?—enough to notice the skim milk. But I’ve decided to treat her as a subject, not a friend. Nor a potential friend. Not only because I still believe she’s a monster. There are never friends in journalism, although considering the preparation and attention devoted to a big interview, sometimes interviewees get the wrong idea.

  Fine with me. Old journalism technique, to allow the subject to believe the story is for their benefit, instead of for your own. The notorious Ashlyn—and little Tasha Nicole—will be my complete focus for two weeks. Then they’ll be out of my life forever. Ashlyn’s life will crash and burn.

  Ashlyn eyes my front hall closet, and I wonder if she fears there’s a cop hiding inside. I almost laugh.

  “Let me show you the guest room,” I say. “Then we’ll start.”

  She’s checking out the family portraits on the hallway walls as we walk by. Like Joe Riss did, I remember. Framed photos of Dex and Sophie, and me. Dex and me before Sophie. Paris in the rain, snorkeling in Bermuda, and two goofy yellow-slickered selfies at Niagara Falls. I regret that I didn’t take them all down. Her scrutiny feels like an invasion of privacy.

  She makes no comment, though, and neither do I.

  I try to see the guest room through her eyes, the eyes of a woman who’s most recently inhabited a windowless cinderblock cell. This room is pale yellow and white, ruffled pillow shams, white curtains. Bookshelves, filled. I thought about putting fresh flowers on one of the nightstands, but felt queasy about that phony hospitality.

  “Bathroom’s down that hall, white door.” I show her the pile of yellow towels, not our monogrammed ones, on the corner of the bed. I hate that we’re sharing my bathroom. For the first time it’s annoying that this house has only one. I gesture to Dex’s numbered cardboard boxes, still stacked one on top of the other, halfway up the corner wall. “Sorry about those. I have nowhere else to put them.”

  “It’s all so pretty,” she says. “So light. Thank you. You’re so kind to—”

  “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in twenty minutes, okay?” Business, all business. “We can start talking. You’ll find hangers in the closet.”

  Which I’d cleaned out months ago, in a tear-blinded flurry of angry despair, trashing everything except boxes of photos and newspaper clippings and some of my out-of-season coats and extra shoes. The study closet’s equally un-Dexed. I don’t want her in here or in the study or the kitchen or anywhere. I feel like putting plastic over everything. As I head down the hall, I’m fuming. No one else has been in this house overnight for the past, well, year or so. Only me and my memories. And now this woman.

  I slip inside my study and shut the door behind me, making a physical and mental partition. It’s a job. Living two weeks in bizarro-world is only a job.

  Someone might say—you’re letting a murderer stay in your house? Possibly. The jury didn’t think she was. And even if you believe Royal Spofford, she killed Tasha because her inconvenient daughter got in her way. I’m exactly the opposite situation. She thinks she needs me. She thinks she’s using me. She thinks I’m her ticket to redemption. She’s not gonna kill me.

  Plus, she thinks I buy the jury’s not-guilty verdict, and must realize I understand there’s no legal process that can change that. All I need to do is keep her happy. Keep her thinking I’m her best friend. As long as I do, no one is safer than I am.

  I flap my laptop closed, and next to it is the list
I made as I kept track of the trial. All the unanswered questions.

  Who is Tasha Nicole’s father? That was the first one.

  Ashlyn/father DNA?

  Where is Valerie? Luke Walsh?

  Tasha talk?

  I scan the list, realizing I’ve created my own perfect road map for what I need to ask Ashlyn.

  What does McMorran mean by “issues”?

  Duct tape?

  Did Ash computer search for chloroform? Why?

  Why didn’t father/Tom testify? What up with Tom?

  Why did A go to Boston?

  Why didn’t A testify?

  Why A not sad abt Tasha?

  Ashlyn INSANE??

  And the big one: Who killed Tasha Nicole?

  I mean, I know who. That’s no mystery. Now I need to know why and how.

  I hear Ashlyn’s footsteps on the hardwood floor, walking toward the bathroom, then hear that door shut. I close and stack my notebooks. Straighten my desk. I check that list again, memorizing, and, I realize, forming a plan. Then I fold the list in half and slide it under the closed laptop. Head for the kitchen.

  And now I wonder, I just wonder, if this could turn out to be the best thing that ever happened. I’ve got her full attention, and soon her trust. There’s nowhere else she can go, exactly as Katherine said. Maybe it was brilliant to have her stay here.

  What Ashlyn Bryant doesn’t know—I’m not about the law. I’m about the truth.

  And I’ll use every trick in the journalist’s handbook to make her reveal it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “It’s nice here.” Wearing her sunglasses and Red Sox cap again, her shoulders wrapped in a gauzy striped scarf, Ashlyn’s received not one curious glance as we walk side by side up Lincoln Ave. She gestures at the Rayburns’ gold chrysanthemums, the leafed out maples, a robin bouncing on a newly mown lawn. “So pretty. How long have you lived in Linsdale?”

  “A while.” I say. Small talk about me and my family is so not gonna happen.

  It’s our first day on the job. Two weeks or so until Katherine’s deadline. We should be working. But when Ashlyn finally left the bathroom, then arrived in the kitchen, she asked if we could take a walk. I don’t blame her. Being outside, being allowed to be outside, free, must be such a relief. And all good. I want her to be comfortable. Off guard. I need her to trust me. There’s a dead baby sparrow on the sidewalk, one feathery wing extended. We each notice, but say nothing as we walk toward the town square. Things happen. As we both know.