“So, give me the whole Dylan Perry story. From birth to right now.”
I’ve prepared for the question, just in case it came up, going so far as actually writing down my fake biography. I’d also double-checked my data through Google, to confirm she couldn’t disprove any of what I might tell her. At least not without some serious background checking.
In my alternate life, I’m a farm boy—born in Wyoming, because I assume she’s never been there—but the son of intellectuals. Reared in Kansas because that’s where my made-up father taught English at the university. I almost screw up by making an off-the-cuff joke about Manhattan, Kansas, before realizing that I’d told Ella I live in Brooklyn, not Manhattan, but I cover it well enough. I give myself a fancy pedigree—Duke undergrad and Johns Hopkins for medical school—although it’s less impressive than my actual Ivy League education. I’d already told her about Doctors Without Borders when we met at Lava, but now I gild that lily by saying how rewarding my work has been, even amid the horrors I’ve seen.
After reciting my too-good-to-be-true biography, I feign interest in Ella’s life and I hear all about how she chose to go to law school rather than pursue a career in music. This leads to the inevitable question of what she was doing performing at Lava under an alias, at which time she gives me the sad story that Charlotte had mentioned before. How her mother wanted her to pursue her talent in music but, after she died, Ella chose the safer path of law school to please her father. The one part that Ella adds that Charlotte never told me is how Ella’s choices had left her with so much regret.
Dinner finally arrives, during which we finish the bottle of wine. After, Ella suggests we watch a movie. She scrolls through the Netflix selections and asks if some Reese Witherspoon flick is okay. I couldn’t care less what we watch, so I tell her it sounds great.
Once the movie is queued up, she snuggles beside me.
“I don’t want to be a downer, but I still feel a little guilty,” she says. “I’m really enjoying myself with you and my sister is . . .”
This is my opportunity. If I approach it right, I’ll be able to get Ella to open up to me.
“You need to take care of yourself too,” I say. “You know, like what they say before the plane takes off. Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.”
I wait to see whether she’ll go for the bait I’m dangling. She doesn’t at first, and I’m left petting her hair as the credits roll.
Just when I think that this is going to be a waste of my time, she breaks the silence. And when she does, it’s music to my ears.
“Because I used to be a prosecutor, I know the police lieutenant who’s running the case,” she finally says. “His name is Gabriel Velasquez. He keeps me up-to-date. They were initially focused on Charlotte’s boyfriend. Zach’s a real asshole and initially refused to cooperate. But he’s cooperating now and he passed a polygraph. There was another guy that Charlotte was seeing, named Josh. He cooperated from the very start, but his polygraph was what they call ‘inconclusive.’ So I guess the state of play is that Zach’s not a suspect but Josh still is. I’ve told the police that I don’t think Josh did it, though. He just doesn’t seem the type.”
There’s so much in this download, I don’t know where to begin. First, they’ve been polygraphing suspects. Second, McDouche has apparently been cleared, but this other guy Charlotte was screwing—the guy whose name she called out on the night I killed her—flunked the poly. And third, if Ella’s ruling this second guy out, does she believe it’s someone else?
I need to press further. “You say that like you have a suspect in mind,” I say, hoping I’m not being too obvious.
She begins to cry. It’s soft, and she’s trying to hold it back, but I can see that I’ve touched a nerve. It’s good for me, the vulnerability. So I pull her closer to me.
“It’s okay,” I say softly.
“There’s another guy she was seeing,” she says.
This cuts way too close to home. I try to maintain a calm exterior, but inside I’m in a full-fledged panic. I need her to tell me what she knows about this other guy. I’m formulating how to coax the information out of her without making her suspicious, but then she just comes out with it.
“It’s my former college boyfriend. How messed up is that, right? I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, but we recently reconnected and he told me that he also knew Charlotte. And I think—more than just think, actually—I’m pretty sure that he’s the guy who killed . . . or whatever . . . Charlotte.”
It’s not me. That’s all I hear. She has a prime suspect and he’s not me.
I watch her expression change. Her grief has receded, and she’s taken on a different cast. Angry. Defiant, maybe.
“You know, before this, I never considered myself a vengeful person,” she says. “I mean, I was a prosecutor for a lot of years, but I was never one of the ones who relished the idea that these guys—and I prosecuted mainly men who were sexual predators—would be on the other end of that equation in prison. I just considered it a tragedy all the way around. But now . . . all I want is for Paul, this guy I once thought I was in love with, to suffer for what he did to Charlotte. Not just to die, but to suffer.”
I swallow hard. I need to make sure that never happens.
35.
Ella’s phone rings a few minutes later. She’d resumed her position cradled under my arm, but when it rings, I can actually feel her clench up beside me. It’s not just that she’s startled, though. I know what she fears on the other end of the line. Truth be told, it’s what I fear too.
“Hello,” she says tentatively.
The way the blood drains from her face confirms that our mutual concern has been realized. Charlotte’s body has been found.
The conversation is short. Less than two minutes. When she puts down the phone, her eyes are unfocused, almost as if she’s been hypnotized.
“Ella, are you okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. I ask again.
“Ella, was that about your sister?”
“The police . . . ,” she starts slowly and then stops. After a deep breath, she provides the information I’ve been waiting for. “They found Charlotte. She’s dead.”
Ella falls into my arms. Her face is buried deep into my chest, and I can feel her convulse. As she sobs, I’m reduced to patting her on the back, an effort to provide some comfort for what I’ve taken from her.
After a moment, she pries herself off me. Sitting up but breathing heavily, she looks at me quizzically, like she can’t quite place how she knows me.
“I . . . I need to go to the police station,” she says.