Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (33 page)

Yes, I did.

“Where are your pills? Did you take them today? Well, take more. Double the dose. Because, Elle, we need you to have a breakthrough, and we need it now. You’ve got to remember what happened the night Charlie died. Because if you can just remember where you were, what you saw, who the real killer is, all these charges will go away.”

Wait—who the real killer was?

Susan faced me, smelling of Burberry. She spoke slowly, eyes misty. “Elle. I believe you saw Charlie’s murder. That seeing him killed was your trauma, the source of your amnesia. We need your brain to unlock what it knows. And this whole nightmare will end.”

I tried once more to remember Charlie’s murder. And once more couldn’t. All I could envision were jail cells and bars. “I’ll try.”

“Of course you will.” She looked disappointed. Or maybe sad. She took a breath, straightened. “Look—I don’t want to sound negative, because I don’t feel that way. But, whatever happens, Elle, remember, I’m with you all the way. You are not—and you never will be—in this thing alone.”

Whatever resentment I felt instantly vaporized. Ashamed of myself, I hugged her, thanked her. Realized how completely she believed in me. How she’d never dream that, even now, I was hiding something from her. Damn. I should have told her about Sherry McBride right away. Now it was too late. The window of opportunity had passed. I’d committed to secrecy, to hiding inconvenient truths. Just like Charlie. I was no better than he was.

She offered to drive me to the bank to arrange bail money, and we went to the car. But on the way, I changed my mind. Bail
money could wait, and I had a few hours before my appointment with Dr. Schroeder.

Before I went to jail, there was somewhere else I needed to go.

I told her not to wait. I’d walk or get a cab home. For a while, Susan refused to leave, but I insisted. Told her I appreciated her devotion to me, but for now, I needed solitude. So, reluctantly, promising to see me later and go with me to the bank in the morning, she pulled away, leaving me alone at the gate of the cemetery.

The quiet felt like an embrace. I stood at the entrance, absorbing it. Admiring the brilliant red-and-yellow foliage of the trees. Releasing the tensions of the morning. And, surrounded by graves, I began to walk.

I remembered exactly where Charlie was. It had only been a few days since I’d left him there. I followed the hilly path, crossing the oldest part of the grounds, passing crowded, often crooked headstones weathered by time, the carvings fading, almost illegible, covering bones of lives forgotten. Came to a newer section where monuments were more elaborate, more evenly spaced. Ornate obelisks, carved columns towered overhead. Heavy mausoleum doors marked rocky slopes of hills. The only sounds were my footsteps, rustling leaves, and occasionally the chirping of birds, and I kept walking, aware that, for as far as I could see ahead and to either side, I was the only person still breathing. I walked between, around, and over bodies, throngs of them, stepped directly above their bones. A cool breeze tickled my neck, maybe the protest of a soul I’d disturbed. Maybe just a breeze. I passed through a sea of sculpture and stillness until I came to the newest section, where graves were marked with uniformly tasteful granite slabs that lay at their heads like stone pillows. Some were dotted with flowers
or flags, photos or mementos, but there was one so new that it still lay bare without a slab to mark it, the grass above it newly sodded. No flag. No name. No flowers. No mementos.

The grass was thick and moist, flittered in the breeze. I let myself sink down on it, stretched out right on top of Charlie. And began to sob.

I couldn’t sense him.

“Charlie?” I wiped my face. Listened for his voice. Heard nothing. I closed my eyes, tried to feel his touch. Felt nothing. Just damp grass on cool, indifferent ground. Another breeze, a cloud covering the sun. A chill, hinting of winter.

All around me were headstones. I lay among them, aware of Charlie’s body beneath me, and wept. “What happened?” I whispered into the ground. “How did this happen to us?”

I listened. Heard nothing. Of course I heard nothing. I’d told him to leave me alone. “Go wherever dead people go,” I’d demanded. “And don’t come back.” For once, maybe Charlie had listened.

Or the pills were helping. Making me hallucinate less. Either way, Charlie was gone.

I let my head sink onto the grass. Closed my eyes, willing those same pills to help me find my memory. To replay what happened the day of the murder. I saw Charlie in the study. The knife in his back. Opened my eyes.

Why couldn’t I see what happened before that? I tried. Went back to the morning, the day at school, Benjy’s birthday party. Coming home. Writing the note about birthday snacks. And then—nothing. Until I was at Jeremy’s with Becky.

And Charlie was dead. Lying in the earth, beside the plot of ground where someday I would lie, inside the casket I’d picked out, encased in concrete to keep him dry. I ached for his hug. His scent. His quick wit. His surprises. Despite everything, I still
loved him. But how? Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was just habit. Or an illusion.

An illusion. I thought of Joel. Heard him talking about illusion at dinner. Oh God. Why was I thinking of Joel while I was lying over Charlie’s body? In fact, why was I thinking of either of them—I was going to go to jail in a day and a half. I saw myself locked in a windowless cell, much like a coffin. Unable to see the sky. To feel the breeze or hear the rustle of autumn leaves. Oh God. I’d go crazy there. All because of Charlie. I sat up, angry.

“And what about Sherry McBride?” I demanded. “Did you have an affair with her?”

Silence. Charlie wasn’t even defending himself anymore. I’d banished him. I wanted him to answer. To swear,
You were the love of my life.

He didn’t. I couldn’t conjure him up. But I talked to him anyway.

“Did you get her involved with that kiddie porn? Is that why someone killed her?”

I wondered if he knew she was dead. If she’d come after him, stalking him through heaven or hell.

I wanted him to talk to me, but wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say. What would have helped? Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. Hearing nothing, I stayed there, lying down, sitting up, thinking, remembering, wondering, worrying, talking, regretting, crying. Even laughing. Almost forgiving him. Definitely missing him. But finding out nothing new about who’d murdered him.

When I finally checked the time, it was half past one. Almost time for Dr. Schroeder. I didn’t know how to say goodbye. So I whispered that he should save my place. Then I stood, brushed myself off, straightened my clothes, called a cab, and retraced my steps to the cemetery gate.

Dr. Schroeder understood the time constraints, and, assuring me that I should relax, began to hypnotize me.

“Sit heavily in the chair.” He droned in monotone. “Let your body sink into the cushions and relax.”

I tried to listen, but images and voices kept interrupting him: Sherry McBride lying bludgeoned and bloody. Charlie slumping, knifed in the back. Children posing for sex photos. Stiles warning that I had forty-eight hours to surrender at the Roundhouse. Susan insisting, “We need you to have a breakthrough, and we need it now.”

The interruptions didn’t help. They distracted and pressured me. I told myself to ignore them. To follow the doctor’s suggestions and relax my body parts. So far, my toes and feet were cooperating, but my mind wouldn’t. It bounced from image to image. The taxi ride from the cemetery, blue tape on the seat, the smell of cigarette ashes and sweat. The awareness of Sherry McBride lying in her apartment, waiting to be discovered. The ringtone of my phone. Becky’s cries.

“Oh God, Elle. This can’t be true. Susan told me not to tell you that she told me, but I can’t help it. They’re actually going to arrest you? You? While that maniac McBride walks around free, killing hamsters?”

Stop thinking, I scolded myself. Empty your mind of thoughts. Let your muscles relax. Your ankles. Your calves. Your knees.

But I was back in the cab again. Hearing my phone again. Answering it.

“I had a wonderful time last night.” Joel sounded untroubled. Cheerful.

“So did I.” Dear God. My voice was weak. A whimper.

“Why don’t we have another, even more wonderful time tonight?”

He was asking me out. Fabulous. I’d met a sexy, eligible, irresistible man just in time to be locked up for murder. I thought
about bail, that I needed to arrange the money. Must have hesitated too long, messed up the conversational rhythm. Joel had gone on without me.

“How about La Buca. Eight o’clock?”

And so we had another dinner date. And Sherry McBride would soon be in rigor mortis—might be already. Who would find her? And why couldn’t I remember the hours around Charlie’s murder? What was my mind hiding from me? I had to stop thinking. Had to focus on my session with Dr. Schroeder.

And on my thighs—I had to relax my thighs. My hips. Had to let the tension out.

But was I crazy? What was I doing, accepting a date? Visiting the cemetery? Even sitting in this beige toneless room, trying to get hypnotized? I should be packing, getting on a plane, taking off for—what countries wouldn’t extradite me back to the U.S.? I didn’t know. Should be finding out, Googling the question on the way to the airport.

My eyes were teary again. Dr. Schroeder was telling me that all my troubles were lifting away, lightening my weight. That my back was relaxing, feeling lighter. And my shoulders. And my arms. That nothing could hurt me. I was going to a happy place, where there were no worries. Where it was safe. Where I would be without fear, without grief, without pain.

I was completely relaxed, mentally transporting myself to my father’s study, sitting in his big leather easy chair. Surrounded by his books and papers. His musky scent. Safe and protected from all harm.

But I couldn’t sustain the illusion. Somewhere down the hall a memory surfaced. Charlie was yelling. Odd, because he almost never yelled. Even when we fought. When he was angry, he kept his voice maddeningly calm and controlled, as if he were a mature rational adult and I a premenstrual, chemically imbalanced hysteric. But now, Charlie’s voice was raised. Furious.