I GOT DR. LAURIE Ambrose on the phone. She sounded anxious and breathy when she picked up. There was an improbable goose honk in the background.
I’d just spent an odd half hour chatting with Clemmy, the Dog Man, as I’d come to think of him. He was the one who had found the body by the tracks. Hannah-Claire had phoned him a week before her death. He confirmed to me that she had come to see him, hoping he might know more about the body than the police let out. Maybe she hoped he’d taken a secret souvenir, some kind of token she could use to prove or disprove her parentage. It was grisly to think about; had she been hoping for something like a finger bone with some marrow still inside? Eugh. I wrinkled my nose. The man denied knowing anything, and assured me that he’d told Hannah-Claire the same. We both had to repeat ourselves several times, because of all the barking on his end. Clearly the dog he’d been walking in 1992 wouldn’t still be alive, but it would seem that in his old age he’d acquired several rambunctious replacements.
When Laurie Ambrose picked up my call, I was looking forward to some peace and quiet. But, bloody geese. I couldn’t wait for Stephanie to wake up with her customary wail and join the fun.
“Dr. Ambrose, I’m Detective Inspector Chloe Frohmann. We met briefly at Our Lady and the English Martyrs.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The Catholic church.” It’s the most prominent one in Cambridge, at arguably the worst junction in Cambridge, and a landmark on its own, no full name necessary.
“Oh, yes. Yes. I remember you.” She sounded icy. Admittedly, I had possibly been insufficiently serious back then in the church car park. All right, I’d been giddy to be on the job again. I resolved to treat her more carefully.
“Dr. Ambrose, we’re very worried about what was done to Ms. Finney and Ms. Williams. I understand from Detective Sergeant Spencer that you were their therapist? Were they in some kind of family therapy together?”
“I can’t talk to you.”
“As I understand it, Dr. Ambrose, in the case of criminal activity and for the sake of Ms. Williams’ safety, you can talk to us. You should.” I’d looked up the rules. They’re guidelines at best, not like what priests in the confessional get.
“It’s precisely because of Ms. Williams’ privacy that I won’t. It’s up to her if she wishes me to share what we discussed in our sessions. If she doesn’t wish it, then neither do I.”
She was going to be a tough one. I pulled my feet down off the couch where I’d been sprawled and sat up straight. “Is that what Ms. Williams asked? You discussed this with her?”
Hesitation. Then, “I’m not going to tell you anything we’ve discussed.”
“Dr. Ambrose . . .”
“Inspector, the guidelines make it clear that it’s up to my good judgement to decide what to tell police, if anything. I’ve exercised my judgement, and I’m tired.”
I imagined “judgement” to be a pet golden retriever, ready to flop after a vigorous walk. “Of course, Dr. Ambrose. I apologise.”
She rang off before I could give it another go from a different angle, but it turned out that my first try had been enough.
At eleven o’clock that night, Dan and I were in that deep blackout between baby feedings. My phone buzzed, making the side table vibrate, and I tried to snatch it up before it woke Stephanie in the crib in the next room. Parenthood had made us near-superstitious; any sound that we could perceive, no matter how distant from the baby, could wake her. She was the princess; my phone had become the pea.
“Damn!” I said, louder than the phone itself, which I’d knocked onto the floor. I finally retrieved it, saw the number, and called Dr. Ambrose back.
“Inspector?” she said. Her voice was a sharp yelp, as if I’d stepped on her tail. On her judgement’s tail, I added.
“Yes, is something wrong?”
“It’s the news. I saw something in the news.”
Shit, shit, shit. I padded my slippered feet into the lounge and closed the door. I opened my laptop. Was Anna dead? Had someone finished the job?
“Inspector? Are you there?”
“I am. Sorry, I’m waking up.” Connecting to Wi-Fi. New browser tab. “What news?” I asked. Then I saw it.
Our reinvestigation of the Annalise Wood case had gone public. “New DNA evidence.” No mention of Charlie specifically, thank God. No details except Morris’s name (he won’t like that). Shit. Not as bad as another death, obviously, but this was our other nightmare: the press taking the story out of our hands.
“Inspector?”
“Yes, sorry. What about the news story you saw?” I was wondering if it was Marnie or Rosalie who’d leaked it. Or someone else? Not Cathy or Charlie, surely . . .
“I said it’s about Annalise Wood.” She must have said the name as I’d read it in the headline and I’d thought I was just hearing it in my head.
“What about her?” I asked, playing ignorant.
“Both Anna—Sandra—Williams and Hannah-Claire Finney had come to me, separately, about Annalise Wood.”
She told me everything. The words tumbled out of her, chasing each other. There was no holding back.
“When Anna—Sandra—when she threatened me, I was only thinking about Blake, but then later I started thinking about Anna again. What exactly was she afraid of? What power did she think I had? Did I—do I—have some power here? Well, I’d better because when she sees that in the news she’s going to think that I had something to do with it and she’s going to call Sergeant Spencer and tell him that Blake . . .” She sobbed like, well, like Stephanie when she’s so upset from hunger that she’s not able to swallow and it just gets worse and worse.
“Dr. Ambrose, you did the right thing to tell me. I’ll talk to DS Spencer.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Listen, I’m going to want to see the transcripts.”
“I know.”
“Can you get them to me?”
“I can, but . . . I think I’ve found what she was worried about. I think I found it.”
It turned out that after Hannah-Claire emailed Dr. Ambrose goodbye, quit her job, and moved in with Henry, she’d continued to email, but this time from her personal email address instead of the university one she’d used at the museum. Unlike that email, these new ones had all gone into Dr. Ambrose’s spam folder.
“I was using my phone, not my laptop. On my laptop, I have all these folders but on my phone it’s just easier to search. I searched by her name, not her email address, to find her goodbye note, and up popped all of these extra emails. I’d never seen them before. Never. I wish I had . . .”
She forwarded them to me. We stayed on the phone while I read them.
From: Hannah-Claire Finney
To: Laurie Ambrose
Dear Dr. Ambrose,
I know I’m not supposed to write to you. You didn’t answer me before, when I said goodbye, and that’s fine. But I’ve quit my job at the Fitzwilliam, and without a University association I’m not allowed to make a proper appointment. Besides, the time we did meet I did all of the talking, didn’t I :-) So here I am again, talking, and I can imagine you approving. That is what I imagined, you know. Maybe you thought I was ridiculous and romantic and stupid. Maybe you weren’t even listening. But I imagined that you understood me, and that was comforting.
I quit my job because I’ve moved in with Henry(!!!), and the commute is too far. It’s not because I can’t cope. I could have coped, but now I don’t have to. Maybe that’s a lie, but that’s what I choose to think about the situation. I could have kept on at my job and the panic attacks were slowing down anyway.
I’m going to meet the rest of his family at Christmas, which is a relief because I don’t want to spend it with the remnants of mine. I had hoped that my cousins would be more like sisters once I closed the physical distance between us, but that is really, really not the case. Sadie is an island. She shows up for milestone events as required but is otherwise a work machine, and she lives in York. Sandra (who insists on being called Anna, which is why I push so hard at my double-name, so we don’t get mixed up) asked me for help. I thought we were friends as well as family, so I let her move into my apartment near the Fitz. She’s at a bit of a loose end. She should finish her degree, but you can’t tell her anything.
So I get to start life with a new family at Christmas. I’m pleased about that. I’ve been praying. I don’t usually tell people that, but I’m imagining that you think that it’s good of me instead of thinking that it’s deluded. I pray that I’ll fit in with his family and that we’ll make a beautiful home together. He’s made room for me in his place, but it’s not the same as starting from scratch somewhere that’s fresh for both of us. I’ve brought up that idea but he’s not able to consider it at the moment, with the way that work is. I didn’t bring a lot with me when I moved to this country, anyway.
The most important thing is that there’s room for ****me**** in his home. I feel like he really wants me here. That feels good.
From: Hannah-Claire Finney
To: Laurie Ambrose
Dear Dr. Ambrose,
I’m frustrated, and I don’t want to say it to Henry, because he’s distracted with a big client and is on the edge right now. If they shut down, that’s a big loss for us.
I’ve tried making friends with the neighbours, but hardly anyone else is home during the day. I haven’t had any luck finding a good job fit out here, so I’ve started writing a book. It’s a children’s book. It’s based on still-life paintings, or, as my young student said, the “still alives,” like the Dutch paintings at the Fitzwilliam. Except they don’t keep still like they should. That’s the joke. They’re not still; they’re just “life.” I mean it to be like those museum movies where things come alive at night, but unlike dinosaur bones and Egyptian mummies, which make for exciting adventures, the flowers and fruit just end up wasting themselves. They have adventures (well, as much adventure as sentient objects can get up to), but as they do, petals fall off and apples brown. They’re all withered by morning and when they jump back into position they don’t look right, they can’t really go back to how they were, no matter how hard they try. It’s not a cheery book.
This morning I got the bill for the storage place I’m using back home. It’s past due, because it had to cross the ocean, and then it had to get forwarded from my Cambridge apartment. I need to phone them once it’s morning there, to make sure they don’t get rid of everything. I hear that some places do that: you miss one payment, and they take those big metal clippers to your lock. So I’m waiting for it to be nine a.m. over there, and I’m looking up how to phone Canada from England, and I’m actually considering letting them take it all. Why not? When am I ever going to want it? Everything about my parents that matters is what we did together. I remember that. It’s not in the storage facility.
The only thing I would have to worry about are the papers with account numbers and things like that. Someone could use those for identity theft. But then what would it matter? I took my paperwork out. They’re dead. They won’t care.
And, see, part of the reason I think I won’t call the storage place is because maybe all of that *should* be thrown out. Maybe it’s time. Do you think it’s time? And even if you were in the room you wouldn’t answer me; you’d ask me if ***I*** think it’s time. Well, I do. I do.
Remember I told you that my cousin told me that I’m not really adopted from my parents’ daughter? (Ha, that’s a sentence not many people get to write!!) That I’m really the daughter of a **completely different** dead teenager?? And you’re probably wondering why I believed it, and you probably think I’m like those people who are so ready to believe that they’re the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette. But it’s not just vanity. It’s not just gullibility. Those records showed me that I can’t be Jenny’s child. The blood type isn’t right. So those records can just go fuck themselves. Maybe they’ll make some kind of bonfire. It’ll be so warm I’ll feel it from here.
That’s why I had to ask Anna. That’s why I trusted her answer. Because I know there is an answer other than the one I’ve been told my whole life.
I haven’t told Henry. I haven’t wanted to be a bother. There’s nothing he can do about it, anyway. **I’m** going to do something. I’m reading the books about Annalise, and I’m trying to track down someone who worked on the autopsy. Maybe Annalise Wood did have a baby. It would make sense. It would explain why we moved so far away, and stayed so far away. And there’s France.
My cousin made me swear I wouldn’t ask Aunt Cathy and Uncle Charlie about it. She said that she tried to ask them about Annalise once and that they went ballistic and it ruined Christmas. According to the books, Annalise went to France the year before she died. That would have been the only time to have a baby. I don’t mean in France; I mean while she was supposed to be in France. So it could be real. It doesn’t have to be untrue just because my cousin is awful.
She really is awful. I don’t like her. But what if my birth mother isn’t Annalise? Somebody has to be. What if the last lead I have left is a lie too?
Henry’s home. I’m hitting send. He doesn’t like when I “waste time on the computer all day.”
From: Hannah-Claire Finney
To: Laurie Ambrose
I feel embarrassed about the last message I sent you. I was blue. Isn’t that a lovely word for an ugly thing? I was BLUE. I can’t believe I told you about those silly ideas I sketched and called them a “children’s book.” Maybe for VERY DEPRESSED CHILDREN, ha ha. Anyway, I’m feeling much better. I am no longer blue. Today I am . . . yellow, I think!
Henry has a grandmother who won’t want us to share a room at Christmas (reminds me of Aunt Cathy’s obnoxious lawyer husband but NEVER MIND!) because we’re not married, so we’ve decided to elope!! We could have played French farce the whole time, sneaking about in dark hallways to visit each other, but this is much more romantic <3 <3 <3 Besides, this will placate my uncle too. Anna told me he doesn’t approve that I’ve moved in with Henry. I wish she wouldn’t tell me these things. I would like my illusions, please!!
I’m getting married today!! That’s what I wanted to tell you.
From: Hannah-Claire Finney
To: Laurie Ambrose
Being married is lovely, Dr. Ambrose. Have you done it? You should. I feel different now. I’m seriously considering changing my name. The problem is the rhyme: Hannah-Claire Ware. Ugh. But I want this, I want him and me to be a little family together. I think I’ll surprise him with the name-change for Christmas.
By the way, I did call the storage place. My things are fine. I had prepaid the whole first year, which means they gave me some leeway for the transition to monthly bills. Now I’ve put it on automatic payments with my bank here, though I’ll have to watch that too because I’m not adding new money now that I’m not working. Henry and I still have to work out money things. We talked about adding me to his accounts, so I’ll have to remember to move my bills over.
But the reason I called the place is that I forgot about the photo. I’d brought my parents’ albums with me, of course. That’s the kind of stuff you’d pull out of a fire. But there was one picture I’d left behind. It was with the medical records and blood type and all of that stuff that I had no desire to deal with when I found it. It was of me as a baby. The reason it wasn’t in the albums, I suppose, is because in it my mother was holding me. You can’t see her face, just her neck and a young, skinny arm. Obviously a teenager. That it was filed away should have told me as clear as the blood type that I wasn’t their daughter’s. If I had been, this photo would have been framed. I realized I needed that photo, Dr. Ambrose.
The other day I went to my (MY!!) apartment to get some things I’d left behind (there are a lot of things Henry already had), and Anna had added her things in there. Which, of course she had, of course she had; she’s living there. Clothes in the closet, obviously, and food in the fridge, but also her own framed photos, and teddy bears; personal things. They felt invasive.
And I suddenly felt embarrassed about the things I’d left on the shelves. I’ve saved some children’s books from when I was little, which is normal; lots of people do that. They’re in storage back home. But I’d also bought a new one, which was in the apartment, in fact now out on the coffee table, which means Anna has read it. It’s a board book—the kind that babies can chew on—called Tall or Small. It’s about how things get defined by what they’re compared to. If your siblings are stupid, for example, you may get to be “the smart one,” but that doesn’t mean you’re actually smart, necessarily. Or if your siblings happen to be geniuses, you may be “the stupid one” even if you’re quite clever. (The book doesn’t use that example. That would be cruel. That example is mine.) Anyway, I came across it while buying a gift for a friend, and I bought it for myself, because I realized that I’m like that. I don’t feel like I have an inherent identity that transcends situation; instead, I feel defined by what I’m compared to, and by what I’m next to. I feel like my relationships make me “a loved person” or “not a loved person” and therefore “a loveable person” or “not a loveable person.” I’m deserving or pathetic depending on what the people around me do, not on what I do, which is an untethered feeling, Dr. Ambrose. It’s something I can’t control. I feel lucky to have Henry, but what if I didn’t? What if I were the exact same person but without him; would I, the very same I, therefore be awful instead of wonderful? It makes me feel afraid of him stopping loving me, which makes me needy and maybe manipulative, which I don’t want to be. All of that is wrapped up in that little book, and I saw it out and I felt like Anna now knew all of that about me.
I suddenly hated her sitting on my couch. I suddenly hated her fingers on my keyboard. And I realized that I really need to get it all out, all of my stuff, or give it to her officially, and just live my life moving forward. I think you would approve of that, Dr. Ambrose. It sounds like something a professional would call a breakthrough.
It’s made me realize that I don’t need to “make nice” just because they’re all the family I have left. I have Henry now, and his family, and his doting mother and judgemental grandmother and his sister who sells candles. That has given me courage.
I’m going to take back that baby book, Tall or Small, to throw it away. I just don’t want Anna to have access to that part of me. And there are some things about her and our family that her belongings have given me access to as well. There are some things that need dealing with.
We’re going to talk some things through tonight, me and my family.
I’ll write again if I fuck everything up.
Must go! I need to tidy before Henry gets back. He still isn’t used to this being “our” home. I think I’ll ask again about us getting a new place together. Maybe that can be his Christmas present to me.
“The last one is from the day Hannah-Claire died,” Laurie said.
“You’re her doctor. What do you think it means?”
“I was only her therapist for one hour! One hour! That doesn’t make me ‘her doctor.’”
I backed off. “All right. I’ll have a go. Sounds like she was rather up-and-down. Emotional. Someone in a state like that might take risks, or make a statement.”
“She said she was going to talk things through with her family. She was with someone from her family. The way she used that word makes it clear that she meant her old family, not the new one.”
“Yes, and after that conversation she could have been even more upset, and done something dramatic. I’m not saying that I think she did, but if you’re trying to prove that she was murdered rather than suicidal or drunk-and-clumsy, we’re going to need more. As for Henry, look, she loves him, but it comes off as a bit desperate, in my opinion. He seems . . . tightly wound, at least from the way she reacts to his imminent arrivals.”
“So you agree with the sergeant, Henry did it?”
“She was in the middle of Cambridge near her old flat, her old job, her old life. Maybe Henry didn’t like that.”
“Maybe,” Laurie hesitantly acknowledged. “But, Inspector, Anna was scared by me having these emails. I’m sure of it. Hannah-Claire says in them that she had left lots of things in her flat, including her ‘keyboard.’ If she’d left her desktop computer, and Anna had been using it, she could have found these in the sent folder. If she deleted them from there, the only copies left would be the ones in my spam folder. Anna had to have assumed I’d received and read them. There’s something in here that she doesn’t want us to know.”
I nodded, pacing. This was what it had come to: our attempt to solve what happened to Annalise was going nowhere, and now the press knew it—but we were going to figure out what had happened to Hannah-Claire. “The obvious thing would be that Anna was hiding her own meeting with Hannah-Claire. But you say that Blake gives her an alibi?” For the duration of this conversation, I’d decided to take Blake’s claims at his word.
“Yes. Hannah-Claire was there, Blake said, but she left alive. Anna must be protecting someone, someone in their family.”
The dates clicked into place. That was the afternoon I’d been at the office of Rigg and Loft, and Rosalie had answered a phone call from Cathy’s niece. It had been a confirmation of the niece meeting Cathy later that day.
That had been Hannah-Claire, and Anna must be protecting her mother.