I reach for a tissue to dab my eyes, but my heart is hammering. “Okay.”
“When is the last time you saw Glenn Melcher?”
“Three years ago.”
“More specific, please.”
“August, three years ago.”
“Have you had any contact with him since that time?”
“No.”
“Please describe your relationship.”
“He’s my brother-in-law. I haven’t seen him for three years.”
“And prior to that period?”
I don’t want to say it out loud in this room to this man. It will be documented. A matter of record. My hands clench the edge of the table, but then I remember everyone will see this and I force them down into my lap. “Prior to that period, we … dated.”
“You were romantically involved?”
“Yes.”
“What brought your relationship to an end?”
“He left.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.” I don’t want to say anything else. I know all of this can be used against me.
“Did anything unusual happen in the week preceding the last time you and Glenn saw each other?”
Ava happened. Ava always happened. Under the edge of the table my hands are clenching again, my nails digging into my palms. “My sister published a book dedicated to him.”
“What was their relationship at the time?”
“Nothing. They weren’t dating. They had broken up.” At least that’s what I had believed. And then she reached out and took him back.
“That must have been upsetting.”
I shrug. He’s looking for a reaction, and I can feel it building inside me. The same fury that throws chairs and flips tables. If I had anything in my hand, I would hurl it at the camera. Instead, all this anger is vented on myself. My nails have drawn blood, and I twist my fingers against each other.
“How long after that did they get married?”
I will not move a muscle of my face. I will keep my voice soft and even. “A couple months.” Three. Three months.
“Did you read her book?”
“No.” My answer must be more forceful that I intended, because he raises an eyebrow and that squinty eye on the other side almost closes. “No,” I say more gently. “I don’t really care for thrillers.” At this I remember the copy of Bloody Heart, Wild Woods in my shoulder bag, and my face grows hot again. Do I look guilty or like a bitchy younger sister?
“How would you describe your relationship with Ava?”
“Distant.”
“Because of Glenn?”
I’ve been holding my breath, and a huge sigh finally breaks forth. “God, no. Glenn was just a symptom.”
Detective Davies tilts his head to one side, as if his skeptical eye is heavier than the other. “Then why?”
“We don’t have much in common.”
“Would you say you have an adversarial relationship with her?”
“No, not necessarily.” Did my parents tell him that? Did Glenn?
He slides a few sheets of paper across the table to me. At a glance, I see the hateful emails. “Did you write these?”
This is just a test. “No. Like I told the other detective, I haven’t used that email address in years. I don’t even remember the last time I emailed Ava. Maybe never.” And then I can’t help myself. I ask, “Did you show these to my parents?” Did he show them to Glenn?
He purses his lips and shakes his head. What does that mean? I can’t tell if he believes me or not. He folds the papers in half, and I am suddenly sure he knows more than he is telling me. He taps them with a finger and asks, “Do you know anything about Ava’s disappearance? Or about her movements and activities over the last few days?”
“No. My sister and I haven’t spoken in over three years.”
“Any other contact?”
“No.” I put all the sincerity I can muster into the words. “No calls, no emails, no postcards, nothing. I haven’t seen, spoken, or heard from her in all that time.”
“But you didn’t have a bad relationship?”
I push my chair away from the table and cross my arms.
“We didn’t have a relationship at all.”
CHAPTER
9
AVA
AS THE STRANGE woman and her dog herd me through the woods, I keep my head down, enduring rather than marking time as it passes—an hour or two, maybe more. Then one by one, gray and white-flecked stones appear in the thin grass and mossy earth. A few steps farther and the forest floor gives way to gravel with the occasional scrubby plant poking through it. I am so tired I could fall asleep on those sharp-edged stones, but I look up.
We are approaching a wood cabin, not the kind where hunters rough it or a cunning little cabin for dwarves, but instead the luxe contemporary kind Oprah would use for a weekend away. The rich brown beams of the walls are glossy and the windows are spotless. I can almost feel the soft thickness of the beds and the soapy heat of a shower.
I veer toward this sanctuary, but the woman gives me a hard rap on my hip. “Not yet. Stay to the left.”
At the side of the house stands a small shed, metal like a shipping container, and I can’t help it. My feet stop moving. It’s smaller than the back of the van. I will not be confined, helpless, in another box.
Behind me, Zeus growls again, low and steady.
“I can’t.” My scratchy voice sounds weak.
“You will.” The woman gives me another solid poke with the goad, but my muscles are locked and frozen.
This isn’t a child’s playhouse, a cute plastic cabin with little windows or even a rickety pile of sticks that might let some light in through the cracks. This metal box with a padlock on the door might serve as an innocuous place to dump lawn equipment, but to my eyes it’s an oversized coffin, a little too big to bury.
I don’t have enough strength to argue with myself, to explain that the poking stick could become an electrified bolt of pain, that the growling dog could bite and rip. I am deeply, viscerally opposed to going in that shed. My body is delivering an unequivocal refusal that my mind cannot override.
The shock of the cattle prod steals all thought and breath. The world is bright, harsh pain. Then it is gone and my muscles spasm. I stagger forward, shaking on limbs I can barely control, until I’m right in front of the shed.
I balk again, turning to scramble away, but Zeus’s jaws clamp around my arm. His teeth don’t break the skin, but his grip is inexorable, unyielding.
The woman steps over me and unlocks the padlock. She swings the metal door open. “Fass,” she says, and he gives me a firm shake. “He will release you and you will go through the door.” Her voice is calm. “If you do not, I will have him attack. Do you understand?”
She keeps looking at me until I nod; then she says, “Aus.”
Zeus does release my arm, slick and bruised. Shaking, I wipe it off. “What do you want?” I ask.
“You’re wasting time.” She wants me to go into the shed. That is the only thing she wants right now.
So I stumble over the threshold.
The door closes behind me, and there is total darkness. When I close my eyes, I can picture the afterimage of the interior—empty, metal, small—and stretching out my hands, I can touch each of the four walls without moving my feet.