Now
Wednesday, August 18
Woodstock, New York
Charlotte Williams.
The name I’d seen only yesterday on her driver’s license.
My mom called me Charlotte Anne. I hated it, obviously. When I left home, it made sense to go by Willa.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Haywood?”
George knew Willa. Willa knew George. And Willa knew men for one reason and one reason only . . .
When women leave, they leave a big gaping hole.
It’s not a crime to fill that hole, Mary.
My heart ached, the betrayal searing, hot and raw. I had left a Mary-shaped hole in George’s life, and Willa had crawled right into it, hadn’t she?
Then more thoughts came, spinning out, rolling apart, like a ball of yarn unraveling, the web of lies turning to nothing more than string. The way George had backed off, had almost . . . lost interest . . . in me, beginning in mid-June, right around when Willa stopped answering my texts. The way Morales had asked me if there were any women in his life, the way I’d figured maybe there actually was someone, someone angry, maybe, or jealous. Someone whose own relationship with George had gone south.
Then I could almost taste the memory, acidic and dry as a chilled glass of white wine. Willa sitting opposite me Sunday night, only a few days before, the Woodstock air August-balmy. She had asked about George, almost immediately, whether he was up here with me, whether I’d slept with him. I’d believed her pathetic excuse—that I seemed upset and she figured it had to have something to do with my ex—but looking back, it was ridiculous, far-fetched. George had been on her radar, top of mind. Had she been jealous? George was a good-looking man. He was smooth and suave, and he had all the money in the world. Could Willa actually have wanted him . . . for herself?
Another thought hit me—the way she’d asked, almost earnestly, whether I’d mentioned to George that I’d seen her. Why?
“Is there something you want to share with me, Mrs. Haywood?” Morales asked, breaking my train of thought.
I looked up, caught the detective’s eyes, the beige tones of the interview room, the screech of the chair legs against cheap tile as I adjusted in my seat. It was suddenly like looking at an entirely different world.
Only moments ago, I had been so sure. It had been Henry. A fight over jewelry. About how to treat Cassandra. A turned deadbolt, the thought leading me straight to my brother-in-law.
What if Willa had turned the deadbolt herself, made it out to look like someone had been in the rental when they hadn’t? Point me, and all my suspicions, toward someone—anyone—who wasn’t her?
“Mrs. Haywood,” Morales said again, her voice firm, annoyed. “Whatever is going on, I have to insist that you be more forthcoming.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I felt it then, tears on the edges of my eyes, making my vision swim. I brushed them aside with the back of my hand, finally looked at the detective. “I know her,” I said. “Charlotte Williams.”
“Okay,” Morales said, carefully. “How?”
“We met at a playground in Brooklyn,” I said. “Back in—” I racked my brain. “Back in April. We both had—” I cleared my throat. “We were both taking care of kids around the same age, and we became friends—pretty quickly, I guess.” I opened my mouth, ready to let the rest of it spill out. She wouldn’t talk to me for months and then I found her up here, using a different name, with a different family, and she’s a liar and a con artist and she could have killed George, for all I know.
I hesitated, my shoulders seizing up, my heart pounding fiercely.
Could she really have killed him?
And why would she? For money, for love?
It didn’t matter, did it? It was the perfect murder, wasn’t it? After all, who’s going to suspect you when no one even knows about your relationship?
It flashed at me then, in all its horror, her words when she’d asked if George had ever gotten physical with me.
I’ll kill the man, I swear, and no one would suspect little old me.
I’m the sort of person who would do anything for my friends.
And her words, too, only a few nights ago, as I’d stormed off from the wine bar.
Help me out, Mary. You won’t regret it.
What if this was some sort of perverted way to keep our friendship intact? Maybe some part of her cared about me—even a tiny bit—and she’d thought she was doing me a favor, thought Henry or someone else would go down for it if it came to that. After all, she hadn’t shared that text with the police yet. Something had to be holding her back.
Willa hadn’t known that George and I had spoken, that he’d been ready to give that jewelry back to me, that he’d promised me he wanted to change . . .
Willa had perhaps taken my drunken words far more seriously than I ever meant them.
“What is it, Mrs. Haywood?” Morales prompted.
I couldn’t give up Willa, not until I knew her motivation. Not until I had something. Some sort of proof that she was involved. Because as much as she claimed to be a ride-or-die friend, I knew that she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have ghosted me if she was. I had no doubt that if suspicion did fall on her, she’d use that text to protect herself. And if she did, the police would stop digging. Their case would be airtight.
I forced out a lie—of omission, if nothing else. “She and I kind of lost touch, but I ran into her up here, and we reconnected. She’s the one who picked me up after my interview on Monday, took me home. I’m actually staying with her right now, because I got so freaked out by what happened with the lock on the door.”
Morales cocked her head to the side. “So you two are friends? Did she meet Mr. Haywood through you?”
“Possibly,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Would she have had any reason to contact him, as far as you know?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Mrs. Haywood. I’m sorry, but a moment ago you seemed absolutely in shock and now you’re acting like this isn’t a big deal.”
“I am . . . surprised,” I said. “But I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
Morales stared at me. She knew I was lying, that much was clear. But she didn’t know why. And I had to keep it that way. “I suppose I could ask her. Why she called George.”
The detective sat up straighter. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
I straightened, too, feeling, for the first time, like maybe I had some sort of leg to stand on. “Why?”
Morales cleared her throat. “We don’t know that any of these people are aware that we have the phone records. Giving her, giving anyone, a heads-up—it isn’t wise. We’ll be reaching out to everyone on the call list in the next couple of days. We just have to clear up a few outstanding questions first. It’s best that when I speak to her, I can get an answer that hasn’t been rehearsed.”
“Okay. Can I go, then?” I asked, shifting in my seat, drawing on all the courage I could possibly find. “I don’t have anything more for you. And you obviously don’t have a case against me right now, as much as you’re trying to make me think you do.”
Morales eyed me, then nodded.
“This isn’t over, Mrs. Haywood. Don’t think these stories of yours have put you in the clear.”
“I know,” I said. I turned on my heel, walked out of the room, my heart beating fiercely the whole time.
This wasn’t over. No one knew that more than me.
It wouldn’t be over until I got something more out of Willa.
Until I found out exactly what she’d done.