Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Ashlyn as victim. As terrified victim. Ensnared in the lies of others. I test the possibly reality of this new vision, the colors clicking into a new pattern.

  A pattern that means I’ve misjudged, assumed, let my own depression poison another human being’s life.

  Maybe Katherine’s right. Maybe this is a redemption book.

  Redemption of me.

  “Ashlyn?”

  She stops, mid-sentence. Looks up at me.

  “I’ll make everything okay, Ash,” I whisper. “Trust me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “Ash?” I call out. She’s not in the kitchen this morning. She’s not in the bathroom, since I was just there writing my numbers, 485. The study door is closed. The guest room door is open. Her bed is unmade, a dresser drawer open but not empty. She’s not there. “Ashlyn?” She’s not in the living room.

  Holding my coffee, I look out the sliding doors into the backyard. “Ashlyn’s” green-webbed lounge chair is there on the grass, the white plastic cube table next to it. A magazine she left out overnight is dimpled with dew. But she’s not there.

  “Ash?” I call for her again.

  We’d talked the rest of yesterday, sharing stories, both of us, and although I told her more about my life, and Dex, and Sophie, than maybe was necessary or prudent, I think we made some book progress. I made emotional progress, too. I’m open to the truth. I can handle it, now, whatever it is. Even if she’s innocent. Which—she might be. Maybe I can actually do good. Help her. And seemed like she’s decided to trust me. I’m invested. We’ll do this together.

  I can’t “explain” to her that I’m more open-minded about her innocence now, since she didn’t know I wasn’t before. Still, it’s fine. All I have to do is continue to pretend I was always telling the truth.

  “Ashlyn?” I come back inside. Did she go out? Maybe to get reconciliation croissants or something? But why didn’t she leave a note?

  “In here, Mercer.”

  I turn, and now the study door is open. Ashlyn stands in the doorway with one hand high on the doorjamb. One tanned leg extended, like a fashion model. She holds out a little packet, looks like a facial tissue folded up.

  “What’re you … what’s up?” I say. Détente or not, I don’t like that she’s apparently been in the study again. She invaded my territory yesterday, and now again today.

  “First,” she says, offering me the packet, “here’s your sleeping pill back. I know you said ‘no problem,’ but yeah. You were probably lying about that, too.”

  I take the tissue, confused. Stash it in my jeans without looking at it.

  She doesn’t budge from the doorway, her chest rising and falling under a black T-shirt, tight cutoffs, flats. I get the impression she’s keeping me out of the study. My study.

  “No, it’s really—” I begin as I take a step forward.

  She doesn’t move. Narrows her eyes.

  “Please tell me it’s true that your daughter died, Mercer. Or were you making that up, too? So you could be all what do you call—empathetic?” She sighs, puffing out a breath. Her lips are glossed and raspberry. “I don’t know why I believe anyone about anything. Do I look like a stupid person? Or some kind of—”

  “Hey, no, I understand, I’m so sorry, keep it.” I take out the pill and hand it back to her. Maybe she’s acting nuts because she’s tired. I certainly know how that feels. But I’m trying to untangle this. “But Sophie? Not sure why you’re asking me that, Ashlyn. I’m sorry, and I know you’re worried and unhappy. But that’s over the line.”

  “Oh.” Her eyebrows go up. “I’m over the line. Okay, sure, definitely. I’m over the line. So sorry.”

  She waves the pill away, keeps talking. “But can I just ask you? Over the line about what? Do I lie or manipulate or make up stuff to get you to tell me things? Is that what you’re implying? Because, yeah, if you are, I guess you would recognize the technique, right?”

  She backs away from me, putting one foot onto the study rug, and then another. And another. Her eyes stay on me.

  Then she whirls, goes behind the desk, pulls a piece of paper from under the laptop computer. “Recognize this?” She holds it between two fingers, fluttering it. “Do you?”

  I squint toward it. Hold out my hand. “Can I see?”

  “Oh, you’ve seen it, I’m pretty sure,” she says. “And I have, too.” She holds it out, keeps fluttering it, facing it forward.

  It’s my list.

  “Yeah.” She shakes her head in dramatic contemplation. “Interesting.”

  “Well, sure.” Damn. This is such an invasion of privacy. I can’t believe she was snooping. Or maybe I can. And I do understand why she might be upset, but I need to nip this paranoia in the bud. “Every writer needs notes, Ash. Otherwise we’d never remember anything. A book’s a big project, you know?”

  “Yeah,” she says again, making it into three syllables. She presses her lips together as she looks at the paper. “Great list, Merce. Of all your brilliant questions about the trial. Or should I say, of all the ‘holes’ in my story.”

  “No, I, well, there’s nothing sinister about it, Ashlyn. It’s just notes. Gee.” I push a step further, reassure her. “Go ahead, read it.”

  She sits down. In my desk chair. “Oh, trust me. I have.”

  She makes a tsk sound, disapproving, then slides the list back where I’d hidden it under the keyboard. Pats it into place.

  “But Ashlyn,” I say. “Those would be the most important topics. The things I’d want to know. Anyone would.” I’m not pretending anymore. I do see her side. But now whatever I say will ring false. She thinks she’s found my smoking gun. Maybe she has.

  “‘The most important topics’? Yeah, in one way of thinking. The guilty way.” She’s leaning back in my chair. “The chloroform. The ‘issues’ with my mother. And Tom. Sure. But you know what’s not here? Anything like—who’d want to hurt Tasha? Who’d want to hurt Ashlyn? Other people’s motives. Anything like—who’s the real killer?”

  She covers her face with her hands, just briefly. “And to think, yesterday I decided to buy it. Truly believe you, that you were on my side. I am such an idiot.”

  “No, Ashlyn, really,” I try again. “Believe me, I—”

  “Believe you? Give me a freaking break. Do I need to make it clearer, Mercer? Forget about it. Forget about everything. There’s nothing on your little agenda about how innocent you think I am. It’s all about how guilty. It’s your—road map to convicting me.”

  “Come on, that’s not fair.” I come closer to the desk. “I wrote those before I knew you, right? Plus, it asks who killed Tasha Nicole, and that’s the whole ball game.”

  “It also asks ‘who is Tasha’s father.’ Bet you were psyched when I spilled that whole thing yesterday. But, hmm. Did you buy that story?”

  “So it wasn’t your stepfather?” I take another step closer. Maybe I can turn the tide here. “Who was it, then?”

  “Was?” Her face darkens. “Why would you say was?”

  Damn. That was from Joe. And I’ve already said he hadn’t told me anything.

  “Was. Is. You said was. I didn’t mean anything specific by it.” I’ll keep trying to pivot. “So he’s alive?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Mercer. I’m not stupid. Or…” she lifts her chin, eyes narrowing. “Or insane. Yeah. I was especially fascinated, I must say, to see your list says ‘Ashlyn insane?’ In all big letters. INSANE?”

  She smiles, fake-prettily, batting her eyelashes. “You think I’m insane?”

  Oh. Shit. I back up two steps, almost lose my balance and fall into the seat of the Sophie chair. “Oh, no, Ashlyn, that’s only—I was simply—the list was only my partial notes from the—you know there was a possibility of the insanity defense.”

  “You are such a liar,” she says, almost a hiss. “Instead of understanding my grief, supporting me, showing the world I’m truly innocent, like you agreed to do, like you’re
being paid to do, you decided to trick me. Make me look guilty. ‘Insane’ for crap sake. You told me, your very words, ‘It’s just another job for me.’ Liar.”

  She stops. Almost smiles. Cocks her head. Stands, and picks up Dex’s Aegean rock. “What if Joe Rissinelli was found, just for example, killed by chloroform? If the police checked the search history on your computer right now, what would they find?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “You were just showing me about your mother.”

  “Was I? You typed it.”

  She hefts Dex’s rock from one hand to the other, back and forth. It’s the same size as her fist, and I gauge its weight as she shuttles it. Should I try to grab it?

  She shifts the rock again. “I suppose it all depends on what your prosecuting attorney would say. And what your jury would decide. Guess you better hope Joe’s okay.”

  “Do you have a point, Ashlyn?” Is she threatening me? I stay near the door. Just in case. It dawns on me, with a goosebump chill, that no one I can contact knows she’s here. If she bashes me in the head with Dex’s rock, there’s no one who would notice. Not soon.

  She sets the stone down, placing it with a solid thunk. Puts both palms flat on the desk. Leans toward me. “Reporters,” she says, as if the word tastes bad. “Did you think you’d lured me to ‘confess’? I saw your face when I said that word. You were totally salivating.”

  “I never—”

  “Mercer?” She puts up a palm. “It’s too late now to screw around. You’re trying to con me. I get it. But remember that dead chipmunk? On the porch?”

  Okay, she’s lost it. “Yeah.”

  “And the texting guy in Ristretto?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No. You said he was a juror, but I never saw the jurors.”

  “Exactly. And the kitten heel woman on the cell phone at the school bus stop? The toaster fire?”

  “Ashlyn?” This makes zero sense. I’m embarrassed she found the list, and embarrassed she’s accusing me of something that’s true, and relieved she’s put the rock down, but I’m also confused. And more than a bit uneasy. What if I’m wrong again? What if she’s a nonsense-babbling murderer? Who might now have decided I’m in her way. “Why does any of that matter? What are you talking about?”

  “Let me ask you. Ever see any other dead animals?”

  Dead animals? I pat my back pocket for my cell. This is way disturbing. Should I call … someone? The police? Does Katherine understand how scary-weird Ashlyn is? Where the hell is Kath, anyway? I’m calling her. Like, now. Emergency level. And tell her to haul this woman away. I gambled, I lost. I have no idea if she’s guilty or innocent. But I’m not going to risk any more.

  “Ashlyn, listen. We’re done here. I’m—”

  She pushes the chair away behind her. Comes around the desk. “Seriously, listen. Stop. Put away the phone. Don’t call anyone.” She stands across from me, palms together, touching her fingertips to her mouth, as if in prayer.

  She takes in a deep breath. I see her chest rise and fall.

  “I’m taking a huge risk telling you this,” she says. “The texting guy? He’s not really a juror. But the chipmunk? The kitten heel woman on the phone? The fire? All of it? All that kind of stuff happened to me, too. Before Tasha Nicole disappeared. They’re warnings. I learned that too late. I know it’s hard for you to trust me, but even though you’re a liar, you’re another human being. And I have to tell you.”

  Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to hear the rest. Is she testing me? Seeing how I’ll respond?

  “Warnings?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

  “Fine. You don’t believe me. As always. Don’t, then.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “I’ve done all I can. It’s your funeral.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  With that, she brushes by me, runs down the hall, and opens the door to the guest room. Slams it closed behind her.

  “Ashlyn?” I follow her, stashing my phone in my back pocket.

  “Don’t come in here,” she calls out. “I’m packing. I’m leaving. Never mind. You can tell Katherine I bolted. Whatever. Make something up. You’re great at that.”

  “What?” The door doesn’t lock, so I start to turn the knob. She’s invaded my privacy, so I can—but wait. I can still respect hers. I take my hand down. “Ashlyn, let’s talk.”

  “Leave me alone.” She’s raised her voice, not yelling, but I can hear her perfectly. “I read every word of your ‘book,’ Mercer. Every word. Of your so-called truth.”

  Read my book? My so-called truth? I tap on the door, trying to make my knock somehow sound supportive. “We’re so cooped up in here, Ashlyn. And you’ve had such a frightening time. Maybe it’s too much pressure, too soon? Reliving the whole thing? Maybe we can call Katherine and get an extension on the deadline.”

  “No!” She yells. “Get away. Nobody can ever understand!”

  I hear noises, the closet opens, and slams, and drawers, maybe?

  “I’ve had it, totally had it!” She’s almost screaming now. “Your stupid list. Your twisted book. Your constant lies. No one will believe me! My whole family is gone…” Her voice trails off, and it sounds muffled. Maybe she’s not near the door anymore. “There’s no reason, Mercer, no reason at all for me to—oh, Mercer, please, please, please, just this once do the right thing. Tell them I’m innocent, I’m innocent, and I’m so sorry it had to end this way.…”

  Silence.

  “Ashlyn?” Nothing. End this way? I press my ear to the white-painted door. Silence. She’s such a drama queen, but what if she’s—oh, I don’t know. This is completely absurd. But she’s so volatile. And completely off the deep end, threatening me, if she was, with Dex’s rock and chloroform. And then saying “end this way.”

  I open the door.

  She’s at the window. Not dead. Or almost dead. A gauzy curtain flutters back into place. Her suitcase is nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m not ‘okay.’” Her face is blotchy red. From crying? Or anger? “You are a stone liar. And out to ruin my life. Even more than it was.”

  On the floor, under the window, is box four of Dex’s boxes. Not on top of the pile any more, but canted to one side. Open. I know the boxes were stacked, my tower of memories, when I brought Ashlyn into this room nine days ago. Was she pawing through Dex’s boxes? Snooping, or stealing? Did she touch his posessions? That’s disgusting. Only I have the right to do that. But first I better see if she’s still driving the crazy train.

  I shake my head, trying to look conciliatory. “I’m so sorry you feel that way, Ashlyn. And we should talk about it. But, um.” Damn. I can’t help it. I gesture to the box. “What were you doing with that?”

  “Doing? Me? Nothing. I was trying to listen to you and that cop, and needed to get closer to the wall. So I had to move the boxes to do it.” She shrugs. “Didn’t you hear this one hit the floor when I dropped it?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Well, I was gonna put it back before I left. So you wouldn’t notice. But then the top opened—it was only flapped shut, that one strip of tape, and it came apart.”

  I draw in a calming breath, try to hide my annoyance. Was the box like that when I checked the room a while ago? I hadn’t come all the way in. She’s invaded my study, my desk, my computer, my refrigerator, my linen closet, my bathroom, looked in my mirror—why is this any different? But it is. She wrecks everything she touches, Overbey said. She was trying to eavesdrop. Did she succeed?

  “I’ll get out of your life, Mercer.” She’s apologetic. Sounds like it, anyway. “You think I’m guilty, and I understand, but I can’t deal with that. And I don’t need to live with your lies. As for your box, whatever, I’m sorry. It didn’t sound like anything broke. Want me to tape it back up?”

  “That’s okay.” I’m sick of this. I’m tired. And I’m
not sure what to think or how to think it. It’s just a book. But it’s the book! If she’s leaving, that means no more book. I need that book. That’s why Dex and Sophie wouldn’t let me off the hook this morning. They want me to write it. And Ashlyn needs it, too—she’s always talking about the money. I can make the deadline, it’ll be over, she’ll be gone. I don’t have to like her to write about her.

  But right now it kills me that she’s messing with Dex’s possessions. They’re—sacred. They’re all I have.

  “I’ll tape it myself,” I say.

  Ashlyn steps aside, back to the wall, as I shift the box flat, then open the flaps so I can tuck them closed again. On the top there’s a photograph, in one of those molded clear plastic frames. The rest of Dex’s frames are black wood, so this one is different. It’s of Dex and Sophie. In Pallisey Park where we always played, and where they had their private Sophie-and-Daddy days. “Just the two of us,” Dex would insist. “I’m two!” Sophie once crowed. Her first sentence.

  In the photo, Sophie, beaming, is holding Bunno and a white balloon. They always got balloons, brought them home. Tears brim as I remember, and I turn the clear plastic over, just a reflex. Someone has drawn a big heart on the back of the photo, in thick black Sharpie. A heart? There’s an inscription, too. Remember the happy days. Katherine.

  “What?” It doesn’t sound like my own voice. Not sure I’ve seen this photo before, come to think of it. Who took it? A heart?

  “What is it?” Ashlyn doesn’t move, but I can feel her looking over my shoulder.

  I step back, holding it out. That lets her read the inscription, too.

  “Oh, Mercer.” Ashlyn’s voice is soft. I can barely hear it through the roar of the tidal wave in my head. “That’s what I was trying to—she poisons everything she touches. I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you write that?” I whisper. Is that Kath’s writing? Could be. Or not. “You wrote that. That is so nasty.”

  “You’re a good person, Mercer,” she says. “I know you’re hurt. You don’t mean to accuse me of something horrible. Like you do in your book.”