“Not long ago,” Detective Johnson said, “the body of a young woman was discovered in New Jersey, in the forest just north of Oakland. You might have heard about it on the news?”
I suddenly felt a little sick to my stomach because I couldn’t imagine how that grisly discovery could have anything to do with me, but obviously it did, or they wouldn’t be sitting in my living room.
“I did hear about that,” I replied. “It’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Detective Johnson replied. “We’ve identified the victim as Melanie Brown. Does that name ring a bell for you?”
They both studied my expression intently.
“Should it?” I asked. “I mean . . . no. Who was she?”
The detectives shared a look, and then Russo answered my question with candor. “Until last week, Melanie Brown was considered a missing person. She disappeared in 1986. She was a student at Columbia, aged twenty-four at the time.” They continued to watch me, as if they expected me to suddenly remember something, but nothing about that sounded familiar to me.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about her.”
Detective Russo regarded me with laser-like focus. “What about your late husband? Dean Robinson. Did he ever mention her?”
I drew back. “No, never. Why?” They couldn’t possibly think that Dean had anything to do with this. “When did you say she went missing?”
“October fourteenth, 1986.”
Again, I shook my head. “We had just started dating around that time.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re here. As it turns out, Melanie was one of your husband’s clients at the Wentworth Wellness Clinic.”
“I see.” I sat back and pondered this. “I’m afraid he never shared anything with me about his clients. He was very conscious about confidentiality issues. Have you talked to Dr. Caroline Weaver? She owned the practice—and still does, I believe. She might know something. Or maybe she still has Melanie’s file.”
“We’ve already spoken to her,” Detective Johnson told me, “which is why we’re here. Dr. Weaver couldn’t locate Ms. Brown’s file. It went missing, and she didn’t know why. So now we need to rule out the possibility that your husband might have had something to do with her disappearance or death.”
I laughed dismissively. “No. That’s not possible. Dean would never do anything like that.”
The two detectives glanced at each other, as if they were considering how much information to share with me. Then Detective Johnson spoke with candor.
“Your husband was questioned in 1986, shortly after Ms. Brown disappeared. At the time, it was just a missing person case, but now that we have a body, it’s been ruled a homicide, and we’re going back over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Can you tell us why your husband quit his job at the clinic and moved to Miami with you shortly after Ms. Brown went missing?”
I blinked a few times. “We moved to Miami to get married, and he quit his job because he wasn’t happy in his work. He’d always dreamed of being a pilot ever since he was a boy, so I was supportive of that, and I encouraged him. It was my idea, actually, for him to quit and move to Miami with me. I’m the one who suggested it.”
They stared at me for a moment, so I felt compelled to explain myself further. “I was having some issues with my family. With my father, specifically. He was a bit controlling, so I wanted to leave New York. I suggested a fresh start for both of us.”
“So it was your idea,” Detective Russo repeated, seeming surprised.
“Yes.” I paused and felt a flicker of unease. “Should I be calling my lawyer?”
He held up a hand. “No, that’s not necessary. We’re just gathering information, and we appreciate your help. I don’t suppose your husband—”
“My late husband,” I said, correcting him. “I’ve remarried.”
“Of course. Apologies.” He cleared his throat and continued. “I don’t suppose Dean left any papers behind that you might have kept?”
“Are you looking for the patient file?” I asked.
“Yes, or anything else that might be of help to us. Even if it seems irrelevant, it might tell us something.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t keep any of his work-related papers, and I would certainly remember a patient file, because after his plane went missing, I went through all of his things very carefully. There was never anything like that. And I’ve since shredded most of it that wasn’t a personal keepsake. I’m sorry.”
Detective Johnson nodded. “All right then. So . . . is there anything else you can think of that might shed light on this?”
“I don’t think so, except to say that I’m sure you’re wasting your time on Dean because he would never be involved in anything like that. He was a kind, loving person.”
Both detectives stared at me fixedly.
“Okay,” Russo said. “One last thing. Did you keep anything at all that belonged to him? A personal memento? Something like a hairbrush or an article of clothing?”
“Why would you need that?”
“For DNA testing,” he explained.
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
They both shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “The autopsy showed that Ms. Brown was pregnant at the time of her death.”
The floor seemed to give way under my feet. I remained quiet for a few seconds, trying to digest the implications of what this man was asking for—and suggesting.
“We could get a warrant,” he informed me, “if you’re not willing to—”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I want to help in any way I can, and I’m sure that DNA testing will rule Dean out as a suspect, because there’s no way he could have been . . .” I stopped myself, because my pulse was accelerating, and I decided it would be best not to say anything more. “I just need to think about what I might have. I kept a box of some things. Would a pair of gloves work?”
Detective Johnson sat back. “Yes. That would be perfect. Could you get that for us?”
“Yes.” I stood up. “Just give me a moment. The box is upstairs.”
The back door opened, and Rose walked into the kitchen. “Mom! Where’s the carrot?”
I turned to the detectives. “They’re building a snowman out back. It’s for his nose. Could you wait one second?”
“Certainly. Take your time.”
I picked up the hat and scarf from the bench and returned to the kitchen, where the carrot was sitting on the counter. “Here you go,” I said to Rose as I handed everything over.
“Thanks, Mom.” She went outside again, and I was relieved that she hadn’t seen the two strange men in our living room. I wasn’t sure how I would explain what they were doing there.
I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom, where I kept a small cedar chest on the top shelf at the back corner of my closet. I needed a chair to reach it, and when I pulled it down, it was covered in dust. I hadn’t touched it since Gabriel and I moved into the house shortly after we were married. At that time, when I packed up my apartment, I forced myself to part with most of the mementos from my marriage to Dean, keeping only what would fit in this cedar box.