Charlie, Presumed Dead

“My hair? We were together all this past week. And that pocketknife—no. Lena gave that to me to use once, on a boat, when we were in danger. Then I gave it back. I didn’t—”

 

“I’m going to tell you one more time,” Dr. Paulson says. “Be quiet.” I take a long, shuddering breath. My head is spinning; I hadn’t even known Lena still had the pocketknife. Someone must have found it on her person and used it to hurt her. Part of me, the part that still hopes she is alive, is floored. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this frightened and alone until now. It’s some internal gut feeling I can’t ignore. Instinct is telling me she’s alive.

 

“A young woman approached the Bangkok police this morning, claiming to have evidence pertaining to the murder. She identified herself as the girlfriend of Charlie Price. I’m here to talk to you about that.” Dr. Paulson pauses as if to gauge my reaction.

 

“No,” I whisper. My body is charged with adrenaline. “No. That’s not possible. I’m—I was Charlie’s girlfriend. And Lena, Lena was his girlfriend too.” Another girlfriend? Is it possible that there was a third? But why wouldn’t there be? Still, for her to implicate me . . .

 

“That is exactly what this girl said you would say,” Dr. Paulson commented. “Tell me the truth, Aubrey. How do you know Charlie Price?”

 

“I was his girlfriend,” I repeat. My head feels light, airy. I think back, trying to remember anything that might make her believe me, but my mind’s gone blank.

 

“This woman claimed that Charlie had a distinguishing physical feature that a person who was . . . intimate with him might know about. Can you tell me what it was?”

 

I think hard. I scour my brain in an effort to remember a mole, a constellation of freckles, a birthmark, anything that might apply, but I come up empty. “I never had sex with Charlie,” I tell her, my voice trembling. She raises her eyebrows.

 

“You never saw Charlie in a state of undress,” she says, like she doesn’t quite believe me. I shake my head. “And how long were you together?”

 

“A year,” I say. “But we only saw each other occasionally. It was long distance.” Dr. Paulson sighs and pushes away her notepad, balancing her pen on its tip with one forefinger.

 

“Aubrey,” she says, and this time her voice is a shade gentler. “I’m on your side. It could actually help your case, if what this girl is saying is true.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“She’s accusing you of aggravated stalking,” Dr. Paulson continues. “She’s saying you met Charlie once and created a false relationship in your head. That you wrote him letters, called him. That he asked you to stop but you didn’t. That one time, you found out his hotel information and met him there uninvited. That you were very jealous of his other girlfriends.”

 

“I was one of his girlfriends,” I say. Dr. Paulson raises her eyebrows.

 

“Can anyone verify that?” she asks. “His parents? A friend?”

 

“I . . . never met his parents,” I say feebly. “But he met mine! Mine can verify.”

 

“Your parents aren’t credible character witnesses,” she tells me. “They’re not going to persuade any judge. But you’re missing the point, Aubrey. There’s already a case stacked against you. This girl’s statement—it’s very compelling. We’ve spoken with Charlie Price’s sister, and he’s corroborated Charlie’s complaints about the inappropriate nature of your behavior toward him. We’ve also uncovered evidence that you were in the United Kingdom at the time of Mr. Price’s disappearance.”

 

“What? I wasn’t. I was home in Chicago,” I insist. Dr. Paulson’s eyes narrow.

 

“Your emails would indicate otherwise.” She produces a printed-out copy of a flight confirmation: British Airways. “There are also several messages from Charlie to you that imply you were harassing him. In them, he asks repeatedly that you leave him alone.”

 

“I wasn’t . . .” I trail off, barely able to breathe. Then I know. “Charlie could hack,” I say desperately. “He broke into my emails. That flight confirmation is fake!” Dr. Paulson narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s irritated. Angry, even. I push on, my words tumbling faster and faster from my mouth.

 

“He had a friend, Adam,” I remember suddenly. My body fills with relief. Adam will tell them the truth. He’ll exonerate me. He’ll show them this is all a huge lie. “We saw Adam when we celebrated my last birthday. And . . . I think I talked to him the weekend Charlie disappeared.” I realize the second it’s out of my mouth that this sounds incriminating, but I can’t stop myself. I’m sweating, nervous.

 

“Adam Ruffino,” Dr. Paulson says. It’s a statement, not a question; and the look on her face worries me, but I plunge ahead, hearing my voice grow more and more tense.