Page 52

FIFTY-ONE

SARAH MORGAN

TEN HOURS AND SIX MINUTES LATER

They just told me my husband is dead. My face is frozen, mouth partially open, eyes wide. Hudson and Olson are seated at the kitchen table, directly across from me. They said it was better if I was sitting before they delivered the news. It’s hard to make my face sad for Bob. That asshole was going to kill me—well, hired someone to kill me. If his plan had worked out, he’d be the one sitting here receiving the news from two uniforms. Had he truly learned nothing from me? Too many loose ends, and the only person you can count on is yourself. But then again, Bob doesn’t know that, and now, he never will. He’ll never know that I’m still alive, and he’ll never know that he was the one responsible for his own brother’s death. I kind of wish he had learned those things before his untimely death. I bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing again.

“Sarah,” Sheriff Hudson says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blink, making it look like I’m in shock, still reeling from the news. But now it’s time to turn on the waterworks. Not too heavy though, as we were going through a divorce, but just enough to show that I cared for him as my husband and as the father of my child. My eyes instantly develop a sheen. A few tears escape, running down my cheeks. My face crumples, not all the way, just enough. And my lip quivers. That’s the hardest part to get right. It appears like it’s involuntary, a reaction to deep grief—but with practice comes perfection.

Chief Deputy Olson folds her lips in and looks down at her hands. I know it’s working because she feels awkward to be witnessing this grief. She doesn’t know what to do or what to say. Hudson takes a deep breath, slowly exhaling through his nose. It’s working on him too.

“How?” I ask. My voice cracks on the single word.

“We’re not exactly sure yet. But we found his body in the basement of an abandoned farmhouse just outside of town. He had been shot twice,” Hudson explains.

“By who?”

The two of them exchange a look.

“There was a woman chained to a pole in that basement. She shot Bob, and she claims he kidnapped her and another woman,” he says.

My hands fly to my mouth, and I shake my head slightly in mock disbelief. “No, that... that can’t be true.”

“We’re still verifying her story, but we do have a few questions for you, if that’s okay?” Olson asks.

I nod, removing my hands from my mouth. The tears keep falling intermittently. “Of course. Of course. Anything to help.”

She pulls a Kleenex from her pocket, extending it to me. I take it and thank her, dabbing lightly at my eyes. Don’t want to dab all the tears away though. They’re like camouflage for how I’m really feeling. She retrieves a pad of paper and a pen from the front pocket of her shirt. Flipping it open, Olson presses the tip against the empty page, ready to write down all the lies I’m about to tell.

“Was Bob living here with you?”

“Not for the past month. We’re in, I mean, we were in the middle of a separation.” I force my lip to quiver again.

“The woman we found chained up in the basement was Stacy Howard,” Hudson says. “You remember who she is?”

I nod and push out more tears. “I can’t believe it,” I lie.

I can believe it because I’m the one who put her there. In truth, I really had nothing to do with Bob sleeping with Stacy, as much as he wanted to blame that on me. He fell into her web of deceit and blackmail all on his own. But that mistake landed them both in my web, and there can be only one queen. Stacy’s lucky she wasn’t a casualty in this war.

“I know it’s difficult to wrap your head around,” Olson says, attempting to comfort me. “Sometimes you think you know a person, but you never really know everything.”

She’s right about that.

“Is Stacy sure Bob did this?” I ask. “He couldn’t have. I mean, he had his flaws, but this is something else entirely. I just... I can’t believe it. Is she really sure?” I’m piling it on a bit thick.

This question is more for me than them. I was careful. Extremely careful, ensuring she never saw me, not even a glimpse. After Stacy was unconscious from that chloroform-soaked rag I shoved into her face and that Propofol injection I jabbed in her arm, I hauled her out to the abandoned farmhouse. This was much earlier in the day. I returned to Stacy’s place on my way home from work and texted her roommate from her phone, which I had left there. I said she was going to meet up with Bob. This made the time of her disappearance Monday evening rather than Monday afternoon, when she really went missing. Then, I sent a few texts to a contact labeled Bob Miller , a number I had stored in her phone that connected to a burner. Even if they ask her about those texts, her memory is so fuzzy she won’t remember whether or not she actually sent them.

“She is,” Hudson says.

I take a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, as though I’m having a hard time digesting this information. But really, it’s a sigh of relief.

“Stacy reported that another woman in the basement with her was Carissa Brooks,” Hudson explains.

My expression is a mix of sadness and shock. I add in a lip quiver. “Was? What do you mean ‘was’? Is she okay?”

They exchange another look. “We can’t locate her at this time,” he says.

And they never will, I think to myself as I conjure up more tears, pushing them out as fast as I can produce them.

“We found blood in the basement where Stacy reported Carissa was chained up, as well as on the stairs and first level of the house. It looks like there was a struggle. Forensics is comparing it to the blood found at the salon to see if it’s a match.”

It’ll be a match. I don’t need to wait for forensics on that.

“We talked previously about Carissa Brooks and the legal work you did for her in relation to a protective order she had against her ex, George Carrigan,” Hudson says.

I simply nod.

“I know you were sure it had to have been George who was involved in her disappearance, and we were too. But given the circumstances, that’s changed. Do you have any idea what kind of relationship Bob and Carissa had?”

“As far as I know, they were friendly. He was a client of hers.” Appearing saddened, I shake my head. “I’m the reason they were even introduced in the first place. If I hadn’t accepted her as a foundation client, Bob would have never met her and maybe she’d be...” I trail off, overcome with contemplation and anguish.

“You can’t blame yourself for that.” Olson delivers a sympathetic look.

“How can I not?”

“So, Bob became a client of Carissa’s after you represented her?” Hudson asks, trying to steer the conversation back to the facts.

“Yeah, I thought he switched salons to help her out and to keep a close eye on her, given her situation—or at least that’s how he framed it.”

“This is a difficult question to ask, but do you think Carissa and Bob might have been having an affair?” Sheriff Hudson pulls his chin in.

I force more tears out because that seems cry-worthy, the thought of my husband cheating on me with more than one woman. “I don’t know,” I say. “Months ago, I would have said no, but now...”

I do know, actually, and the answer is no.

“Do you think Carissa is okay?” I add.

“Given the amount of blood found at the salon and in the abandoned house, it doesn’t look good—I mean, if they’re a match. But we are hopeful we’ll find her regardless,” Hudson says.

I lower my head and sniffle. “I hope so too.”

They won’t find her though. She’s long gone. Carissa came to me seven weeks ago, asking for my help. She had heard her ex was up for early release, and she knew he’d come around again. The protective order she had against him was almost up. I told her we could get it extended, but she said it wasn’t enough. She said he would kill her this time, and a stupid piece of paper wasn’t going to stop him. She said the only way he’d ever let her go was if she were dead, and she basically felt like she already was. She said she couldn’t live this way anymore, always in fear, looking over her shoulder every other second, scared of what was around every corner. She begged for my help, begged me to help her escape, to get away from him for good. And I agreed, as long as she did exactly as she was told. If she did, she’d be free of him forever.

I gave her the supplies to start drawing her own blood and told her how to properly store it. One pint every ten days so she’d collect nearly five pints, enough for the police to determine she was dead without a body. I told her what vitamins to take to lessen her blood loss symptoms: iron, B12, folic acid, and a few others. She’d be weak during this process, disoriented too—but she’d live, and she’d finally be free of her ex for good.

I didn’t tell Bob what I was doing, and when I found out he had cheated on me, I was glad I hadn’t told him. Because he’d now be an unknowing participant in freeing Carissa. I informed her of the slight change of plans nearly four weeks ago. I picked the day she would disappear. Conveniently, it fell on a day Bob had his standing appointment, every third Sunday like clockwork. I instructed her to accidentally nick the last customer. She asked why. I told her not to ask any questions and to speak to no one about any of this because there was a reason for everything. Unbeknownst to her, my reason was just to set up Bob. I’m sure she must have thought he was in on it too since he was my husband.

After her last customer left for the day, I told her to dye and cut her hair, get rid of all evidence of her new hairstyle, and remove her piercings. Then she was to stage the salon to make it look like it had been ransacked. Three of the five pints of blood she drew from her own body were to be spread throughout the salon—a pool near a tipped-over chair, smears and droplets here and there, and then a trail leading to the back of the salon. I’ve seen many crime scenes throughout my work as a lawyer, so I knew exactly how to make one look real, and I made sure Carissa knew it too.

While she was taking care of the physical evidence that was needed for this plan to work, I was setting her up with a new identity—because once it all went down, she couldn’t be Carissa anymore. There was a car waiting for her in the back of the lot, keys tucked in the visor, and a bag sitting on the passenger seat filled with extra clothes, cash, a wig, and a baseball cap to help her travel in disguise, at least until she was out of the state. Then, inside a purse were her new documents: passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, a credit card opened in her new name, and a plane ticket leaving the next morning out of Atlanta, headed for Ecuador. All she had to do was drive.

“There was another thing,” Hudson says, squinting. “Stacy stated Carissa told her she had overheard Bob—or at least someone that sounded like him—when she was first abducted. Allegedly, he was talking about you, about how he wasn’t going to let you get away with it and that he’d take you down first. Do you have any idea what he would mean by that? Specifically, the part about getting away with it?”

It’s strange having someone recite the words I said back to me and attribute them to someone else. Carissa was never in that basement. I was. I fed Stacy everything I needed her to know, and everything I needed her to relay to the police when they inevitably found her. It was easy to slip in and out of that basement. I’d go to work and take one of the foundation’s many vehicles out to Stacy. If I couldn’t find a way to visit her during the day, I’d do so late at night but not before taking Bob’s stupid tracker off my vehicle. Then, upon arrival, I’d throw on a pair of men’s steel-toed work boots, stomp around above her, and toss down a sandwich and a bottle of water—both of which were drugged with scopolamine, or as the kids call it, “Devil’s Breath.” The drugs could have a very long-lasting effect, depending on the dosage, so I’d stop back when I knew they were wearing off, and I’d slip in through the cellar door at the far end of the basement, hidden in a storage room. Another drink and sandwich would be delivered, and then, I’d position myself twenty or so feet from Stacy, waiting for her to wake up. Whenever Stacy didn’t hear Carissa, she just assumed Carissa was passed out. Stacy was easy to manipulate because she was drugged nearly the entire time.

Even the night I made it seem like Bob killed Carissa was easier than I thought it’d be. On that evening, it was just me up there, causing a ruckus. Screaming and flailing, breaking and smashing things, crying out for Stacy’s help. Then I slid on those work boots and dragged a sleeping bag full of bricks out of that house. It was all very convincing. I made sure to use the rest of Carissa’s blood to stage the scene before I fake killed her. There was a puddle where she was chained up, more on the mattress, then droplets up the staircase and throughout the house with smears and splatters on the floors and walls.

“Sarah,” Hudson says.

“Bob didn’t take the news of our separation well,” I say, lowering my head and shaking it slightly, giving myself time to create more tears to go along with these lies. I lift my head and stare back at the sheriff.

“He changed for the worse after I filed for divorce, becoming abusive and rather unhinged. I had never seen him act like that. He even threatened my life... more than once, and I was terrified for my own safety and for my daughter’s, so I filed a protective order against him—well, my divorce attorney did. Bob went even more ballistic after he found out. So, no, I don’t know exactly what he meant by that, because he had become a person I didn’t even recognize anymore. All I do know is he was dead set on getting full custody of Summer,” I say, planting the seed, waiting for it to grow in their heads.

Olson raises a brow. “Do you think Bob would try to frame you for a crime in order to get full custody?”

There it is... the seed, cultivating in her mind. Thank you, Chief Deputy Olson, for nurturing it, giving it the sustenance it needs to grow.

“I would hope not, but I really don’t know.”

I can’t come on too strong with that theory of mine because it’s theirs now, or at least they think it is. Such clever cops.

There are a few beats of silence before Hudson rises from his chair. I’ve given them enough. Now, they’ve got to make sure all these pieces fit together into a narrative they can sell to the public, the media, and the justice system. I know it all will go together perfectly, and it will tell an unbelievable story everyone will eventually come to believe. After all, truth is stranger than fiction, or at least that’s what people will say when they hear it.

“Well, we’ll get out of your hair now, Sarah. I’m very sorry for your loss,” Hudson says with a nod. “We’ll be in touch with any further questions.”

Olson pockets her notepad and gets to her feet too, echoing the sheriff’s sentiment.

“Thanks,” I say, standing from my chair.

“Also,” Hudson adds, “we’ll be executing a search warrant for Bob’s apartment in the city as well as his office at the firm, and hopefully, that will help us better understand everything.”

I say, “Okay,” and walk them to the front door.

That’s good police work. They’ll find the knife I stashed in Bob’s safe, hidden in the wall, behind a piece of gaudy artwork. It’ll have Kelly’s blood on the blade and Bob’s fingerprints on the handle. I remember the night I gave it to him. He held it in his hands, admiring the blood-streaked blade. Then I asked him to get rid of it and told him to get a rag so he could wipe down the handle. He left the room, and I switched them out—replacing the real murder weapon with one covered in pig’s blood. I knew he would keep it. I could see it in his eyes. He loved me, but he was terrified of me too, and rightfully so. Bob needed something that could protect himself in the future, just in case he ever ended up on my bad side. It was a test, and he failed it miserably.

“Please let me know if I can be of any help,” I say as they step onto the porch.

“We will, and again, I’m very sorry.” Sheriff Hudson nods and the two of them head to their vehicle.

Closing the door, I smile so wide, it feels like my top lip has split. There will be more questions. More inquiries. An array of theories as to what really happened. Some will even speculate that I had something to do with it. But all the evidence will point to Bob and only Bob. Tears spring to my eyes... but this time, they’re real.