God, how loaded that question really is.
“The girl who I told you about, the victim who came forward? She’s been murdered, and we’re pretty sure the woman who did it killed Mel, too. That it wasn’t Ruck after all.”
“Awomankilled Mel?” he says.
“It’s a harrowing story, related in part to a relationship we never knew Mel had. I can tell you much more later, but I need to get ready to make a statement at police headquarters.”
And I do want to tell him, every detail I’ve learned. And my own complicity in part of it.
“Sure, sure, of course,” he says. “And please tell me if there’s anything I can do. It’s awful being so far away and not being able to help you, Bree. But I’m thinking of you every minute.”
Hearing those words in his deep, husky voice is like a balm, one I’ve come to rely on so heavily. Yes, I’ve held back about Mel and the true impact of her death on my life—but Bas, so good at always reading me, surely has a sense of the woman I am. From nearly the moment we met,there’s been a deep, steadfast connection between the two of us, forged in part because of a shared view of the world and similar sensibilities. Maybe the sex will never be as crazily intense as it was during the early years with Logan, but it’s good and it’s passionate, and on the flip side, there’s tenderness and tranquility, things I craved since Mel’s death.
“Thank you, Bas. That means so much.”
As soon as I’ve hung up, I go online and switch my flight to Sunday night. I’m going home for sure, though for how long, I don’t know. Because after speaking with Bas, I realize I have to tell him the truth about Logan, that keeping it hidden would simply pile onto my betrayal. And there’s a more than decent chance that once I admit my transgression, he’ll insist I move out.
Before closing my laptop, I scan my emails to see if Chip has sent the correct link to the archives, and sure enough, he has. I click on it. A page opens with the words “Melanie Chase, Selected Writings” on top.
There are about a dozen haikus, one short story, and a scene from a play she must have been working on. I haven’t much time, but I race through them anyway, thrilled to have them in my possession and at the same time wondering what Handler didn’t want me to see.
The play scene seems really compelling, but it’s about two college girls questioning their faith. The short story is one Mel won a prize for in high school, and from what I can tell, she just did some major editing on it after she went to Carter. Perhaps the haikus include a reference to Alison, but at a glance, they all seem to be nature-oriented—reflections about wind and trees and puddles left by the rain, one simply about a snail slithering up a window.
Though most are indeed new to me, there are two that Logan and I discovered on Mel’s desk in Cartersville, including the one I led myself to believe was about me. Maybe this was the one Handler didn’t want me finding. Funny that he was afraid I’d put two and two together simply based on the wordsreturning to birch, and yet, that’s exactly how some of my questions began to form.
My phone rings, making me start. Maybe Maya, I think, who’s probably heard the news. But the screen says “Unknown Caller.”
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Bree.”
The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Lisa Perry.”
“Who?”
“LisaPerry. Logan’s partner.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, completely caught off guard. “How can I help you?”
“I thought you should know that I’m not stupid, Bree.”
Oh God, has Logan told her, or has she simply guessed?
“I never said you were, Lisa.”
“You must think it, though. But I can tell exactly what’s going on between you and Logan.”
I cringe. She’s clearly fishing, and I have to hand it to her: she’s more skilled than I was at reading her man.
“Lisa, if you have an issue with Logan, you should discuss it with him.”
“But you’re the one he’s fucking, so I need to be speaking to you, too.”
“Goodbye.”
