Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  The girl ignored her. Ashlyn watched the harried young woman who must be her mother trying to keep one hand on her roller bag, one eye on her daughter, and battle an annoying credit card machine.

  “Puppy!” The girl held out one chubby arm, pointing to a Chihuahua writhing in a traveler’s arms. The dog’s owner put the tiny speckled pup on the terrazzo floor for the child to see.

  “Hannah!” the mom called out, glanced over her shoulder as she signed a receipt. “Stay with me, honey.”

  Ashlyn couldn’t stand it. She stooped down next to Hannah. They both reached out to pet the dog at the same time, and when their fingers touched, Ashlyn almost fainted.

  I blink at the computer screen, trying to envision this. So far, it certainly matches how I remember Rogowicz’s description of the airport video. In that, I think the toddler—Tasha? but not in this version—runs off, and Ashlyn goes with her. In my version, they also leave. But not together.

  My writer brain outlines what happens next. Ashlyn meets her stepfather at the taxi stand. They put the cooler in the trunk of a cab, they maybe tell the cabbie to go somewhere benign, then change to another cab just in case. No one would notice anything unusual. Then maybe a third cab to Castle Island. They’re picnicking on the beach, just like everyone does. They have trash, just like everyone does. They wade into the water, just like everyone does.

  Well, no. They have to get the body—yeesh—farther out into the harbor.

  I imagine it another way. They take some sort of harbor cruise, with the cooler, just like everyone does. Well, wait. Would someone check what was in the cooler?

  Okay, another way. They rent a little J-boat from Boston Sail, and load up the cooler, just like everyone does, a father and daughter taking an afternoon picnic out into the harbor. Peaceful. And private enough.

  Could that have been the way it happened?

  I feel my foot jiggling. I save my draft of the airport scene.

  But I have questions.

  My cursor blinks. Demanding: what next, sister? I realize there’s no need for me to research my files about this. The primary source is in my living room.

  “Ashlyn?” When I get there, she’s sprawled on the couch, watching a movie. Sixteen Candles, if I’m right. She clicks the TV to black.

  “You have more?” she asks. “Can’t wait.”

  Piece of work, I remember Joe Riss saying. He was right. Where the hell is he?

  “I have a question,” I say. “Or two.”

  “Sure.” Ashlyn looks expectant. I wonder if she takes my questions as challenges, seeing if she can come up with a plausible answer. Or maybe she’s telling the truth.

  “The Dayton police found evidence from TSA,” I begin. “Your plane ticket, showing that you and a lap child had flown to Boston. Before Tasha’s body was found in the harbor.” It’s still odd that I can say those words to her—in another life, it would be unacceptably impolite to be so crass. I get queasy when someone mentions a car accident, and people are always sheepishly apologetic when they forget.

  Ashlyn doesn’t seem distressed by my words. “So?”

  “So, you told me you and your father flew in his private plane to Logan Airport. And okay, fine. But you didn’t use a ticket for that, so you clearly were also in Boston, at Logan Airport, another time.”

  “That was before we went with–I mean, before the cooler.”

  “So you were in Boston before? And then came home? But there was no return ticket. We need to deal with that in the book. It’s a provable thing.”

  Ashlyn looks at the ceiling. I look up, too, then realize she’s thinking. She sighs. I wait.

  “Okay,” she says. “It was after we put it there, but before they found it. Her. It was part of Tom’s idea to prove Tasha was still alive. Like you said in the book, he told me he’d think of something. We were going to say Luke lived in Boston, and we were going to visit him. See? It would prove Tasha was alive. So we got a kid to come with me, and we dressed her like Tasha. On some airlines, you don’t need ID for a lap child. And anyway, all girls that age look the same.”

  Ouch. No. They don’t. “But that’s dumb, Ashlyn. It proved you were in Boston. And when you came back—how’d you do that, anyway?—Tasha wasn’t with you anymore.”

  “Well…” she says. Shrugs. “What can I tell you. Tom is an idiot. I guess he never figured it would matter. Lucky for me, that janky cop lost the thumb drive. Yeah. Quinn told me. Because that video would have—well, whatever. I know you’ll figure out a way to write it. Cannot wait to see what comes next.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  She’s taking a nap. A nap!

  I’m at the living room entryway again, after spending the last three hours trying to come up with a believable story about how a terrified daughter and her overbearing stepfather dump their sickening cargo in Boston Harbor, then fly back to Dayton, all distraught and second-guessing each other (to make them more sympathetic to readers), and then debate how to convince a meddling Georgia Bryant to stop asking after her darling granddaughter’s whereabouts. My fists plant themselves on my waist. Ashlyn’s asleep? On the couch?

  It’s past one in the afternoon. I needed Ashlyn to help fill in the considerable holes to the “feel of real” in her story. I mean, my story. Our story. The story. Whatever story means Tasha’s death was not her fault. And not some fictional sinister kidnapping. I was going to suggest we talk over lunch.

  But looking at her, stretched out and face down on my white couch, her feet bare and one arm dangling to the floor, it appears she’s already had lunch. That’s based on the two curved pizza crusts, leftovers from the other night and nibbled up to the edges, discarded on a paper towel. And the tipped-over empty beer can. That beer’s been in the fridge for—a long time. Dex’s. I couldn’t bear to throw it away. Guess it’s still good.

  I stare at her, lying there oblivious. Do I think she’s guilty? I hardly think of that when I’m writing. Now I’m just telling a story. Ashlyn’s redemption, as promised. If I let my mind wander from book-path, it goes to Katherine. It wonders if every time Dex was on a business trip, or late coming home, or distracted, there was actually something else causing it. Someone else. And right now, that’s feeling pretty damn real.

  I’ll focus on the questions I can—fictionally at least—resolve. Like, how could Ashlyn exist without leaving a trace while that Dayton cop Rogowicz looked for her? And if she and her stepfather flew a Cessna to Boston, what was she doing in Terminal B? That’s only for commercial flights.

  She’ll have some answers when she wakes up, no doubt. I could probably concoct some on my own, but it’s supposed to be as told to. And that’s my journalistic cover.

  I also need to ask sleeping beauty about Barker Holt. If Tom Bryant wasn’t Tasha’s father—just saying—and it was actually Barker Holt, that might make Ashlyn a more sympathetic character. A young woman who thought she was in love, and found herself—I’ll think of a better way of putting that—pregnant. Maybe the guy wouldn’t marry her? And left her? Or maybe, and this would be better, he wanted to marry her, and all the plans were underway, and then he got killed, and she was never the same. That’s plausible. And it’s essentially what she told Joe Riss.

  At least, he said she did.

  That means I need the details on Barker Holt’s accident. If there was an accident. I know there was a Barker Holt. Though, again, only according to Joe.

  Where is Joe?

  There are two people who may have answers. Maybe it’s time to pay them a visit.

  And since Ashlyn wants to sleep? Perfect timing. Before I can second-guess myself, I write a note to Ashlyn, saying: Cemetery. Back soon. I half-cringe, hoping that’s not blasphemous. I tuck the note under her pizza plate, grab my car keys and a plastic bottle of water, and go.

  As I push the ignition, I get a twinge of unease about leaving Ashlyn alone in my house. But, hey. What harm can she do? Swipe a few more Ambien?

  I back out of the dr
iveway. Accelerate on autopilot, lost in thought. I check the rearview as I reverse into the empty street, and—what? A silver car speeds toward me. At me?

  He’s going too fast. Too fast. Too fast! I slam on the brakes. The wheels lock. My car jolts to a stop. My seat belt straps me in place. The silver car zooms by. I bang the car into park, half into the street, put my hand to my chest and close my eyes, struggling to reset, feeling my heart hammering off the charts. If I hadn’t looked out the rearview at just that moment, if I’d accelerated out the driveway a fraction of a second earlier—I felt that car go by. Its velocity. Its intent. It happened so fast, it stopped time. There’s somehow a void, a silent space where the nothing happened. A silver car.

  I twist in my seat, heart still in flames, but my brain demanding get a license number! But it was going too fast, it’ll be long gone.

  I’m wrong. Instead the silver convertible slows, and top down, veers into the Rayburns’ driveway, still idling while their automatic garage door opens. In the front seat is Liz and Ezra’s nutcase drag-racing son, what’s his name. Derek. Stupid guy almost killed me.

  The car disappears into the white garage, a segmented door rolls into place. I almost laugh, but it’s not quite funny yet. A silver car. Like the one that “followed” Katherine. “All the way,” she’d told me. Well, yeah. The guy lives across the street. Another mystery successfully solved. Stupid Derek. Katherine will be relieved. Like I care about how she feels.

  But I—some kind of shrill noise begins, echoing and reverberating and taking up all the space in my head. I feel the blood drain from my face. Every bit of heat in my body is replaced with cold. The trees outside blur into a mass of green, and all I hear is the noise, the noise, louder and louder and louder. I clench the steering wheel, smash my foot on the brake. Hold it down, force it down, hard as I can, hard as I can. I hear sirens and more sirens, see swirling red lights and flashing blue lights and shattering glass and people yelling and screams and screams and screams.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  When I open my eyes, the dashboard clock shows me less than a minute has passed. No sirens, ambulances, no screams. No exploded airbags. The windshield is clear and pristine. No stabbing shards of glass cover my hair and clothing and my bleeding arms and face. Dex is not moaning. Sophie is not motionless. The sun highlights my willow tree. A blazing scarlet cardinal lands in the nearest branch, followed by his wrenny mate. They trill to each other, pretty pretty pretty.

  I lift my foot from the brake. Unwrap my fingers from the steering wheel. The buzz in my head softens, subsides, vanishes. I’m behind the wheel. Motionless, but moving through time. And safe. I’m safe. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

  A flash of something outside my window. A knock on the—unbroken—glass. What the—? I recoil, spooked. Heart in my throat.

  Ashlyn.

  “You okay?” She’s holding a beer in her hand, a can. Bare feet. “Why’re you just sitting here half in the street? Want me to come with you to the cemetery?”

  “Cemetery” was an awkward lie, especially now, but I have to stick with it.

  “Oh, no thanks. And I’m fine,” I say. That might even be true. I gather my strength, what there is, and try for a brave smile. “Just thinking. Guess I spaced.” I take a swig from my water bottle, then flutter my fingers. “I’ve got errands to run, too. See you soon.”

  I ease onto the now-deserted street, shaky but determined. I have to do this. I will not let the past ruin my life. In the rearview I see Ashlyn saunter back into the house, close the door behind her.

  Looking out the windshield now, road clear and neighborhood quiet, I rebalance on my tightrope. Nothing happened. I’m fine, it’s all fine, it’s over.

  Still. That was so damn close. The doomed Hennessey family, the newspaper stories would report, all tragically destined to die in car crashes. Two separate ones. Not today, though. Not today.

  I accelerate, gently, then make myself more confident. Reclaiming normal.

  I did it. I made it through that moment. And came out the other end. Plus, I know it was only the Rayburn kid. I’m safe. He’s an idiot. And my life goes on.

  I brake, gradually, as I approach a STOP sign. My brain is working again. And it reminds me, gently, that what just happened doesn’t mean the Rayburn kid’s silver car was the one “following” Katherine.

  Katherine again. The book was her idea. Ashlyn staying with me was her idea. Maybe Katherine even confessed her “relationship” with Dex—ah—to Ashlyn that night at her house. Maybe she sent Ashlyn to find out if I know about her and Dex. On the other hand, if Ashlyn wrote those words on the photo and Katherine is innocent, that ruse makes Katherine a victim, too.

  Or. Maybe Ashlyn was as surprised as I was. Maybe the signature is real. It’s impossibly confusing.

  There’s no other traffic, so I stay at the STOP sign, thinking this through. Talk about confusing. I’m increasingly aware that even writing this book as fiction, I can’t come up with a way to manipulate the actual evidence enough to plausibly explain that Tasha’s killer was not Ashlyn.

  Because who else could it be? I can’t use the “bad guys” Ashlyn says she’s afraid of, presuming they’re even real. She insists that story—her truth—would put her in danger. And me in danger, too.

  My main suspects were Valerie and Luke. But they don’t exist. I’ve tried storylines blaming Ron Chevalier. Tom Bryant, of course. I’d even considered a jealous or abused or betrayed or deranged Georgia. But nothing makes “Ashlyn didn’t do it” have the feel of real.

  Who can I finger as the bad guy? I look both ways, take my foot off the brake. Then put it back. Stop.

  Wait. Okay. I know who else might have killed Tasha. My brain revs through the entire plot. Yes. It could work. And it’s so obvious, it’s right out of a Lifetime movie.

  Barker Holt. Right? He kills Tasha, because of … something. And then gets killed. By—I have no idea. Or! He kills himself. Yes. Out of remorse? That could be.

  I keep my foot on the brake, thinking. Fingers tapping on the steering wheel. It’s all about the timing.

  Joe Riss told me that Ashlyn told him that Barker Holt died before Tasha was born. But when I talked to Ashlyn about it, she admitted she’d made part of the story up. I assumed that was because—disgustingly—stepfather Tom was actually Tasha’s father. But maybe that’s the lie she told me.

  It makes more sense that Barker Holt really was Tasha’s father, and she lied to Joe about the “before Tasha was born” part. What if Barker Holt is still alive? Could it be that Ashlyn doesn’t know that?

  A car pulls up behind me—not silver—and beep-beeps to get me to move along. I wave, all good. I don’t even flinch. I truly am fine. But I’m so hot on this Barker Holt solution that I almost make a U-turn to go home and run it by Ashlyn.

  If it’s true that Barker Holt killed Tasha, I can’t use that in the book.

  Talk about confusing. The truth is the only thing I’m not allowed to write.

  At the entrance to the Mass Pike, I slow for the yield sign. Do I change plans? No. I have a mission.

  I accelerate onto the eight-lane highway, soon hitting seventy, though other cars are passing me. It feels so different to be out of the house. Free. Even with wacky Boston drivers, even seeing the scruffy billboards and the bleak graffitied backs of cinder block buildings. The real world. I’ve been out of it for so long. Fearful for so long. I roll down all the windows, letting in the day. No darkness. The Rayburn kid is a moron. I’m fine.

  My plan is to go to the cop shop, see Detectives Overbey and Hilliard, crossing fingers they’re there, and ask for Ashlyn’s phone. It’s all a ploy, and I could have called and made an appointment, but that’d give them time to cook up some story about where the phone is and why Ashlyn can’t have it. Obviously they won’t release it to me, but now I want to talk to the cops all the more, and I figure that could be a good way to start.

  Bryce Overbey told me he still thinks
Ashlyn is guilty. So he and Koletta Hilliard must know something I don’t. Maybe, in the privacy of their office, they’ll tell me.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  In the lofty-ceilinged lobby of the police headquarters, I show the uniformed receptionist the business card Overbey gave me. It seems the equivalent of saying the secret word. It’s almost unsettling how quickly the cadet ushers me into the chaotically file-stacked detectives’ office on the third floor, an open-plan room with desks regimentally spaced behind a double-wide glass door. The door pings as it opens, pings as it closes behind me. There’s only one person in the room. Place smells like coffee, which almost makes me laugh.

  Then I actually do laugh, although I think I hid it. It was like seeing a movie star in real life. Koletta Hilliard, all business in a navy twill blazer, black jeans, and a tight bun, gets up from her desk, second from the front, smiling. Holds out her hand.

  “Detective Hilliard,” she says. “So you’re Mercer Hennessey. Bryce said if you ever called or showed up, you were top priority. He’s out. I’m his partner. What can I do for you? Coffee? Have a seat.” She gestures at the glass pot on a warming stand, then at a padded swivel chair.

  “Sure, just milk,” I say. “Thanks. And you know, I watched you at the trial. On TV.”

  Offering coffee means she wants to talk. Accepting it means I get to stay longer. As she putters with the coffee stuff, I watch her, fascinated. I envision her hiding in the Bryant’s kitchen, waiting to pounce on Ashlyn. She’s the one who took the refrigerator duct tape to be analyzed. Sent the clothing to the pollen analyst. She’s the one who vowed to call every police department in Ohio until she found the place with a missing little girl.

  I begin to feel—embarrassed. Kind of humble. Dilettante-writer me convinced myself I could crack this tragic case. Hilliard tried it in real life. She’s the one who took the stand in Courtroom 306 and said “only Ashlyn.” She must still believe it.