We’ve switched places. I’m in Sophie’s chair now, Ashlyn’s behind my desk, reading a section of my—our?—my book. To lure her back to the fold, I’d suggested she read some of it, and then comment. Before she could choose, I’d opened the section about that taped phone call from the Dayton jail, when she’d yelled at her mother. In the long run, it won’t matter what she thinks. But this is the short run.
“Oh, see, this part is wrong,” she says, scrolling down the page. “I guess it’s not your fault, you were only…” She shrugs. “I mean, I guess you never thought I’d read this. Or if I did, there’d be nothing I could do about it. Maybe you were trying to be—what you call it—objective. But this isn’t right. Not how it was.”
She narrows her eyes, still scrolling. I’ve made separate files, so she can only see one section at a time.
“Did you hear the call?” she asks. “How we really sounded?”
I hadn’t, of course, I’d just read about it. I pretend to think. “I guess not. There was a transcript in the—”
“Yeah,” she interrupts, then, leaning in closer to the screen, reads out loud from the manuscript.
“‘You have to get me out of here!’ Ashlyn insisted. ‘It’s not up to me,’ Georgia replied. Which honestly, was a relief.”
She sits up straight, scratches her cheek. She’d high-pitched her voice to recite her mother’s side of the dialogue.
“See?” She says in her own voice. “You wrote that Mom thought ‘which honestly was a relief.’ But she didn’t say that, right? So how do you know she felt that way? You made it sound like she’s happy I’m in jail. She’s a bitch, but like, not that much of a bitch.”
“Well, I…”
“Let me go on. Starting with Mom, then me.” She clears her throat. “‘If you want help, why don’t you just tell me? Tell me what—’ ‘Because I don’t know what “happened” to her,’ Ashlyn interrupted, her voice rising, taut with scorn. ‘Are you kidding me?’”
Ashlyn stops. “You wrote ‘her voice rising, taut with scorn’? When you didn’t even hear me?”
“Yes, sure, but it’s all…”
“Wait.” She runs a finger down the screen, then picks up the dialogue. “‘Ashlyn, don’t shriek at me,’ Georgia said. ‘Are you blaming me that you’re sitting in jail?’ ‘Effing right,’ Ashlyn retorted. ‘Blame yourself,’ Georgia snapped. ‘For telling lies.’”
Ashlyn stops again. I hear the derision in her voice, so I wait for what she’s going to say. Plus, I’d used too many verbs.
“That’s so mean, Mercer,” Ashlyn says. “I didn’t shriek. I was terrified. And it was Mom’s fault that I was in jail. I mean—that horrible cop in the closet thing.”
She stares at the page. “All I actually say is that I want to get out of jail, and that I don’t know what happened. Mercer, how does that make me guilty?” Her eyes well with tears as she turns to me. “You just made me sound guilty. So guilty.”
I try to figure out how to answer that. She’s right. If you look at it that way.
“That’s why we’re going over all this,” I explain. “We’ll make it be exactly the way you say it was. And I cleaned up the language, right?” I go on, trying to lighten the moment. “If the transcript is correct about what you really said.”
“Yeah, well.” She rolls her eyes. “Gotta tell you, I remember wishing I knew some uglier words. I was behind bars! For—what? But see? I’m not a reporter like you so I don’t know, but seems like you could easily have written something like ‘Nothing Ashlyn said sounded like she had any idea of what had happened to her daughter.’” She shrugs. “You could have written it better. And truer.”
“Got it,” I say, fake-capitulating. “And thank you. But now that you understand we’re editing, and that means clarifying, let’s go on. Why did you keep asking for your phone?”
She blinks a few times. “How would you feel if your phone was gone? And like I said, the stupid cops still have mine, can you believe it? Wouldn’t you be mad?”
“Yeah, okay. I admit I’m pretty attached to it. But—”
“Exactly,” she says. “And I had to explain to Ron where I was. Can you imagine how humiliating it was? I wanted him to hear about this whole mess from me.”
“People will wonder, though, and forgive me, but why weren’t you asking about Tasha? Where she was?”
“Because I knew where she was, of course!”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because … it was too stupid. I was too angry. I’m sorry for not being perfect, Mercer, but, they’d just arrested me for like, telling my mother I’d seen Tasha in person. If they put me in jail for every time I lied to my mother—you ever lie to yours, Mercer?”
That made me laugh, which made her laugh, and for a minute I had to remember how much I hated her.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I had to keep remembering how much I hated her. And why. If she weren’t so—I don’t know, convincing and resourceful—she’d never have lured so many people into doing what she wanted. When she went to the bathroom, first time I’ve ever been relieved to see her go there, I reclaimed my desk chair and my position in our relationship. I felt mean-girl about my next move, but I selected the manila envelope from the hanging files anyway. To get myself on track. To my justice. My truth.
When she came back into the study, her hair was combed, and the edges around her face wet, as if she’d splashed with cold water.
“So to continue,” I say. “It’s almost lunchtime, if you’re hungry? But first, may I show you something? It’s kind of confusing.” I half-smile, proving I’m truly nice, and it’s all part of the job.
I pull out the photo of her in the wet T-shirt, the Hot Stuff sign behind her.
“Can you tell me about this?” I keep my voice nonjudgmental as I stand, and hand it to her.
“Oh…” she says, taking the photo. She sinks, slowly, into Sophie’s chair. “Where did you get this?”
“Research,” I give the standard answer. I wait.
“This is so.…” Her face softens. She swipes a tear from one eye. “Oh, damn.”
I feel my frown coming back. She’s crying? “Huh?”
“I worked, just part-time, at the community college, you know? In Dayton. Student union, see S-T-U?” She points to the letters. “And they—they had one of those ice-bucket fundraisers for ALS, and for childhood diseases, cancer and things like that. So it was especially…” She grimaces. “Yeah, not a good day to wear a white tee-shirt. I like, ran to the bathroom after that. Put on a sweatshirt. But—all for a good cause, right?” She hands the photo halfway back, then stops. “Unless, you don’t need this? I’d love to keep it. This was one of the good memories, you know? There weren’t many.”
“Sure,” I say, perching on the edge of my desk. “Keep it.” Katherine will kill me, but how am I going to say no? I can always get it back. We should never have slut-shamed her with that photo. Now I’m feeling sorry for Ashlyn, which is not a good thing. Because it makes me vulnerable. Time to make her the vulnerable one. I don’t like to be unkind, but she’s the one who killed her daughter. Probably her idol Casey Anthony raised money for charity at some point. Doesn’t make her innocent.
“Can I check with you about something?” I ignore my conscience. “I wrote a scene which is all from research, and it might be tough, but do you mind reading it?”
“Sure,” she says. “Let me put this photo away.”
When she comes back, I’m behind the desk again. And I’ve printed out the scene titled “You Are My Sunshine.” That was Tasha Nicole’s favorite song, so says Insider Magazine. The song the church organist played at Tasha’s memorial.
Ashlyn plops into the Sophie chair, tucks her legs underneath her. She looks at me, expectant.
“Why didn’t you go to the memorial?” I wince, stopping myself. “I’m sorry, Ashlyn. I should be more gentle. But this is the scene I’m talking about.” I hold up the pages. “Tasha’s me
morial.”
She presses her lips together, her face deflating.
I let the ugly words hang between us in the silence. Tasha’s memorial.
“Why didn’t I go?” She finally says. “Besides being held in jail?”
“The judge said you could go,” I remind her. “But you said no. It’s a horrible journalist question,” I continue, being honest, “but what went through your mind?”
“Oh, Mercer, you’re never going to understand this—but, hey. Maybe you will. Did you go to Sophie’s funeral?”
I nod. I asked for this. And I can handle it. Briefly.
“And are you—do you—feel closure?”
“Never.”
She nods. “Right. But the thing is—and you asked, Mercer, so I’ll tell you the truth. I know people might say it’s delusional. Thing is, the day of the memorial? I still didn’t believe it was Tasha. I still thought she was somewhere else. They showed me that composite drawing, you must have seen it. It didn’t look like her. At all. I kept thinking about that, and thinking about that. And what if the DNA test was wrong? It was all I could see in my mind, that there’d be some moment they’d show up with her. I imagined this scene, so clearly, I couldn’t get it out of my head, where Quinn would come in, and there’d be Tasha, and they’d say…”
“But where did you think she was? With who?”
“I didn’t know, I didn’t know, that’s why I needed Ron and I needed my stepfather—did you know they knew each other?”
“What?”
“Right. And did you know why it was really called Hot Stuff?”
“You told me because stuff was stolen.”
“I know what I told you. And don’t you think it would be … convenient?” She cocks her head, untucks her legs. Plants her bare feet on the carpet. “For someone dealing in stolen stuff to have someone with a private pilots’ license? Especially someone who’d blown his whole retirement in some stupid investment thing? Sorry to sound like a crime show. But I … I somehow got in the middle of it. They knew I’d do anything for Tasha. I wasn’t part of anything of course, but I knew.…”
She leans back in the chair. Talks to the ceiling. “I knew Ron. I knew my stepfather. I knew enough.”
“So what happened?” I don’t want the desk between us. I wheel my chair out from behind it, and scoot closer to her.
Ashlyn leans forward, our knees almost touching. I smell her baby powder deodorant, and the remnants of coffee and a flowery shampoo.
“Tashie loved her grandfather, and would have gone anywhere with him. Wherever he took her. Wherever Valerie was. That’s where Tasha was. Tom Bryant knew I’d understand Ron’s hold over him, and me, and Tashie, and us, and our lives. If I told what they were doing. If I told what they were having him fly on that plane. And he’s her—her grandfather. I never thought someone like that, someone who’d loved her since she was one second old, could do anything to harm her. That’s why I didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. All this time, I was hoping, hoping, hoping they’d bring her back, but I couldn’t say so. Of course I couldn’t say so! And Mercer, why do you think my stepfather refused to testify?”
“But wait, Ashlyn. Ron testified. That you were a ‘friend’ and came to the club.” I swivel my chair, once, then again. “Why didn’t Quinn ask him about this—stolen goods scheme?”
“Mercer, don’t you get it? She didn’t know! Of course she didn’t know. Setting me up for a murder charge back then was a test, of me, to see if I would rat them out. See? At that point I wasn’t sure it was actually Tasha. I hoped if I kept quiet, they’d bring her back.”
I’m silent for a beat, thinking about this.
“So you were willing to roll those dice?” I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, imagining. “You were willing to go prison for life to protect Tasha?”
“Willing?” She stands, so quickly I have to move my chair away. “I’m not sure ‘willing’ is the word I would choose. But would I sacrifice my life for my daughter’s?”
Her question weighs on my shoulders. I know what her next one will be, and I think, please don’t ask me that.
But she’s going to. I can see it in her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you?” she asks. “Have sacrificed your life?”
This room is too small, too small to hold me and Ashlyn and two dead little girls. And all those memories. All the choices we make. All the choices I made. All the choices I should have made. Could have made. This has to stop. This whole undertaking—oh, no, not undertaking, I didn’t mean to pick that word …
“Mercer? You know what?”
I blink myself back to reality, such as it is.
“I want to read about the memorial,” she goes on. “I’ve never talked to anyone about it, never read anything about it. But I think your book—our book—is a way for me to be there for her. Maybe get my closure. Say goodbye. Which I never got to say. You know how that feels, right?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
“I’ve pictured the whole thing, of course,” she goes on. “Imagined it. But you’re better at making stuff up.”
“Well, I took it all from research, and—”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” She holds out a hand. “Let’s see.”
I give her the pages. Watch her settle back into the pink-covered chair. Reading my words, she’ll be going to her daughter’s memorial service. She’ll envision the garlands of pink roses and baby’s breath, hear the piping soprano of the children’s choir, a minister in all black, searching for words to comfort the inconsolable attendees and grief-ravaged grandparents. See how on the altar, front and center, sat a glossy life-size photo of her wide-eyed daughter, surrounded by white lilies. That’s what I wrote, as gut-wrenchingly poignant and heartbreaking as I could make it.
I’m giving her the feel of real, all right. And it feels—wrong.
I snatch the pages from her hands.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “I wanted to read that!”
“And you can,” I tell her. “Whenever you want. But you know what? Let’s take a walk. Go to Ristretto. Get lunch. I’ve got to get outside. I feel like I’m in—”
I almost said jail.
“Yeah,” she says. “I hear you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Ladies?” Ken the turquoise-aproned waiter is our old pal now. He pulls a yellow pencil from behind his ear. “The usual?”
Ashlyn and I nod. We have a “usual.”
“Two ice coffees, one add hazelnut, two ham and cheese croiss,” Ken says. “Coming up.”
Ashlyn seems agitated, fussing with her scarf-disguise and fidgeting with her baseball cap. She’s chosen a table in the corner of the patio, and sits next to the white brick wall, her profile to the restaurant’s gated entrance. The sun is high overhead, but the rickety turquoise umbrella shades both of us. Ashlyn keeps her sunglasses on.
“What?” I ask. “You okay?” Maybe she’s upset over the funeral thing. Well, yeah, she should be.
“I’m worried, Mercer.” She spins the saltshaker, spilling a few grains. She dabs them up, tosses them over her left shoulder. Moves the saltshaker away. “I shouldn’t have told you about the private-pilot thing. Flying the stolen stuff. And Ron. And Tom.”
“That’s okay, really,” I say. “Don’t worry. We’re like lawyer-client. It’s your book. What you tell me is confidential.” I am making this up, completely. There’s no confidentiality, none at all, in fact exactly the opposite. But she killed her own daughter, somewhere in all this, so all rule-following is off the table. “We’ll only use what you want.”
“Um, no, I mean…” She takes off her sunglasses, and almost looks sheepish. A new face from our Ashlyn. “I mean—because it’s not true.”
“What?”
She cleans her glasses on a napkin, ever so diligently, then looks at me from under those lashes, as if she’s just had an idea. “I mean, that I know of. But it could be true. Right? Tom is a pilot. And there’s
definitely something going on at Hot Stuff. Where’d Ron get the money for that whole business? But yeah. I made it up.” She puts her shiny sunglasses back on. “It was just a theory.”
I’m glad we’re in public, because if we were at home, I’d have thrown her out the front door on her too-tight-jeaned rear. Which I cannot afford to do. But I can’t help it, I’m pissed. And Dex hated that word, and now I’ve mentally said it, and now I’m angry about that, too.
“Ashlyn? Seriously?” I shift in my chair, which knocks a fork off the table, which clatters on the concrete floor, which creates another flare of anger, a jolt of impatience and frustration. I’m annoyed at myself for feeling sorry for her. I totally fell for it.
“How hard is it to be straight with me?” I try to lower my voice to a publicly-acceptable level, but I refuse to diminish the bitter tone. “Listen. Should I call Katherine? Do you want to do this book or not? Why are you screw—messing with me here?”
“Mercer? Merce?” Ashlyn briefly puts both hands over her face, elbows on the table. Some of her hair escapes from under the Sox cap, two softly curled tendrils. “I know you see right through me, you’re so good at this. Yes, I’m avoiding the truth. I know I am. But I’m lost. Totally lost. I don’t know what to say or do or tell you. My life is ruined, and my family’s life is ruined, and I did—nothing, really nothing, but I’m terrified no one will ever understand.”
I pick up the fork, point it at her. “Try me.”
“Ladies?” Ken puts down our food, seems to sense he’s interrupting. As he quickly leaves, we both shift our plates aside. Ashlyn snaps two packets of sugar with a fingernail, rips them open, and dumps them into her hazelnut coffee. Some of the sugar spills onto the tablecloth.
“Okay. Truly. I’ll tell you the whole thing. But you have to hear me out.”
I gesture with a dubious flip of my hand, go on. I don’t trust what I’d say out loud. I’ll call Kath if need be. We haven’t heard from her, but that’s typical Katherine. Predictably unpredictable. Ashlyn’s worse.
“Tash and I were doing fine.” Her voice is soft, as if remembering a favorite story. “It was difficult, but sometimes when you love someone, you can make things seem possible, you know? I loved Tashie so much that no matter how she’d been born—”
Trust Me Page 19
