Wednesday, August 18
Woodstock, New York
The waiting was agonizing. Wanting to know if the police apprehended Willa. If she would really pay for all she’d done. To me, to George, to all of us.
Once an officer had confiscated my bag, taking it away to process the evidence, I was led back to the station and deposited in an empty room, this one with a beat-up sofa and a Keurig coffee maker in the corner. Asked to give a formal statement from the same baby-faced officer who’d taken my words about discovering George’s body.
Then my evidence-free bag was returned to me, and I was left alone, one hour turning to two. I had my phone on me this time, but I almost wished I didn’t. The news of George Haywood’s death had finally hit the media, and my device was filling up quickly with texts from people I hadn’t really talked to in years. Friends I’d grown apart from after meeting George, like Sasha. The editor and NYU professor who I’d bailed on, and the one who’d assigned the Forbes piece, too. Acquaintances I’d never been close to in the first place. Kind words, condolences, from people who wanted to help me but couldn’t. Calls from Rachel and my mom. And texts from them, too. Rachel asking how I was holding up and if there were any updates about the investigation. I did write back, letting her know that there was a primary suspect now and I would call to update her later, but beyond that, I ignored every missive. I tapped into Facebook for a brief moment, but the deluge of notifications was so great that I disabled the account immediately—and Instagram, too—then put my phone away and promised myself I wouldn’t look at it again.
I had three cups of shitty coffee, each one seeming to make the thoughts spin faster: What if Willa got away, yet again? What if she was still out there, waiting to strike at someone else?
What if all the evidence I’d given them wasn’t enough to clear my name, and the Haywoods would still fight to take Alex from me just because they could?
Finally, the door opened. Morales smiled.
“Mrs. Haywood,” she said. “Thank you for your patience.”
“Did you get her?” I asked. “Did you get Charlotte?”
“We did,” she said, turning to the Keurig, making herself a cup, too. “Luckily, Officer Carson was already with her, at the home where you were staying, when we made the call.”
I thought of the cop car I’d seen as I’d driven away from Willa, the one I’d almost wanted to stop.
“But how did you know she was with me?” I asked.
Morales cocked her head to the side and took a sip of coffee. The look on her face showed she was in it for the caffeine, not the flavor. “We’ve had an unmarked car on you.”
“Oh,” I said. So I hadn’t been crazy, after all. The thought was, if anything, a relief.
Morales leaned against the edge of the table. “I’m glad you came to me when you did. If Carson had simply interviewed her and left, who knows what would have happened.”
I felt a tiny bit of space open up in my chest. “Did you find the jewelry?” I asked.
“We were not able to locate it at the scene. You’re sure you saw it?”
“Absolutely. It was in a black velvet bag. It was Cassandra’s jewelry, without a doubt.” Then I winced. “Will it be enough, without it? Since you have the bloody diaper?”
“We hope so,” Morales said. “The chain of custody of the evidence has been entirely corrupted, of course. But still, it’s something. Especially combined with the fibers found at the scene. But there’s more, too. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but skin particles were found beneath Mr. Haywood’s nails. We believe it will be a match for Ms. Williams’s DNA. We’re rushing a comparison as we speak.”
Morales finished her cup and immediately set the Keurig up with another pod.
“Some other loose ends. We’re still working our way through Mr. Haywood’s call log. One of the deputies finally got in touch with someone from Wright Holdings—that was the one name you didn’t recognize. Guy says he was a friend from Mr. Haywood’s climbing gym, calling to plan their next workout. Does that ring any bells?”
“That sounds right. I didn’t know anyone he worked out with personally, but he went at least once a week. George loved that gym.”
“Great,” Morales said. “The more dotted i’s and crossed t’s, the better.”
“And what about the graffiti?” I asked. “Do you think—I mean, is it possible—that Willa broke into the other properties, too?”
“We’re in the process of figuring that out, believe me,” Morales said. “Ruth Haywood doesn’t have access to the security camera footage. They were fairly crude home setups that deleted after twenty-four hours, but it’s possible the tech company has more in their database. Of course, anything to do with tech is a process. We’re still waiting to hear back from them. It’s entirely possible that the crimes are unrelated, and that Ms. Williams did the graffiti that morning simply to point the investigation in another direction.”
Morales hesitated, then crossed her arms.
“Can I speak frankly, Mrs. Haywood?”
My heart beat fast again, but I nodded.
“One of the most damning marks against you, when you were our key suspect, was just how much you’d been holding back from us. We didn’t know about the bitter custody battle until Ruth Haywood informed us. Same regarding the altercation outside your rental.”
I felt myself redden.
“Here’s the thing. The evidence is stacking up against Ms. Williams, but it’s not going to look good for you—or for the state’s investigation, to be honest—if we’re hit with surprises we were not aware of, especially if the prosecution does not know about them and it’s something the defense uncovers at trial. If we are clued into something, our prosecutors can work to keep it out of public record, but not if it’s not in the file we pass to the state. Now, is there anything like that, anything at all, that might be relevant here?”
I bit my lip, trying to stay calm, but I couldn’t. It was too much.
“There is, isn’t there? Something Ms. Williams has on you, perhaps?”
“How did you know?”
Morales laughed. “I’ve been in this line of work a long time. And I saw the pure shock on your face when you saw her name on your husband’s call log, followed by an absolute refusal to open up. I know there’s something, and I would feel much better about wrapping up this investigation if I knew what that something was.”
I’d thought I could hold back my secret words, the shameful things I’d said, but of course I couldn’t. Of course Willa and her lawyers would trot out that text the second they got the chance.
I had to get ahead of it. Just like Morales said.
“I never meant it,” I said. “Not really.”
“Meant what?” Morales asked.
“I was drunk,” I said. “It was all the way back in June. We had gone out for margaritas. George had been threatening to take Alex away from me completely, hadn’t treated me well leading up to the separation, and she started it, really. She made this joke, like if he ever physically hurt me, she’d kill him.” I shut my eyes, shaking my head. “Late that night, I texted her. I said that sometimes I wished he were dead. That things would be easier. That I’d be free, that I wouldn’t have to worry about losing Alex.”
Tears came then, and I lifted my hands to my face, let the sobs shake my body. “But I never would have acted on it. I never would have killed him. It was a stupid, drunken thought. He was my son’s father. Nothing changes that. Nothing.”
Finally, I let myself steal a glance up.
Morales’s expression was kind, and she reached into her pocket, pulled out a travel pack of tissues. Gratefully, I took one.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my face down. “I was too afraid to tell you. Too afraid that if I pointed you in her direction without evidence, that she’d tell you about the text, and my fate would be sealed.”
“I understand,” Morales said. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
I finished blotting my eyes, crumpled the tissue in my hand.
“And off the record,” Morales said, her lips pressed into a firm, thin line. “If someone had threatened to take one of my kids, I probably would have said the same thing.”