Ellie interrupted on occasion to voice aloud the questions raging in her head.
Didnt you notice your daughter had an eating disorder? Why would you ask that? Shes naturally thin. Right, despite that chubby adolescent picture on the mantel.
Did it dawn on you your daughter might have reasons to feel lost? Have you heard anything Ive been saying to you, Detective? Have you been listening to yourself?
I assume this note is in your daughters handwriting? Handwriting can be imitated. You must have learned that on CSI.
And though she pontificated about her daughter and their family for well more than an hour, Katherine Whitmire never once mentioned the fact that her sixteen-year-old bulimic daughter died in her bathtub from a slit wrist, leaving behind a suicide note propped against her overstuffed down pillows.
Sometimes it was easier to deny undeniable facts than to acknowledge a painful truth. Ellie knew that better than anyone.
S he took a deep breath of fresh air once they left the townhouse, as if freshly oxygenated blood could wash away her unwanted thoughts, imagining what it had been like to grow up with Bill and Katherine Whitmire for parents.
Some house, huh? Rogan had been spared all but a few sentences of the conversation with Katherine and was still looking up with envy at the four-story abode.
Her dads Bill Whitmire. The music producer. She rattled off a handful of the projects hed backed.
You and that loud white-boy music. Give me Prince any day. I wanna be your lovah!
Hurry it up, will you? She looked at her watch as she continued her march to the car. Ive got that hearing scheduled. Told you Id make it in time, but only if you drop me by the courthouse straight from here.
I thought you said when we got the callout your testimony wasnt that important. You said the DA could get by without you if necessary.
Well, I dont see anything here that counts as necessity. You said yourself no one reported anything out of the ordinary here over the weekend.
Weve still got uniforms canvassing the neighborhood, Rogan said.
They havent found any witnesses, and theyre not going to.
You know whats going to happen if we blow this off, right?
Katherine Whitmire will huff and puff and blow our house down?
Seriously, Hatcher, what is up with you? Weve worked cases before that we knew werent going anywhere. We dont usually walk away.
He was right, of course. How many hours did they waste a year on gang shootings where there was no such thing as a witness? But those cases were different.
Its just pathetic, Rogan. Some people have kids just to satisfy their own fucking egos. That girl was sixteen years old and was expected to be all grown up because her parents were too cool and too impatient to have children in their lives. On the pill for two years already. Obviously bulimic, and her mom doesnt even notice. Apparently hanging out with street kids just to get some attention from her parents.
Shit, youre confusing me. Now youre saying were missing something?
No, Rogan, none of thats suspicious. Its totally, completely, one hundred percent predictable, and it all adds up to a reason why shed kill herself. This girl slit her wrist as a final cry for help, and her mother refuses to see it. You do what you want, but Im going to the courthouse.
Theyd wait for the medical examiners report. An autopsy. Forensic findings. Science. It would all sound more official and indisputable than the experienced instincts of cops and EMTs. But there was no doubt in Ellies mind that by the end of the week, Katherine Whitmire would be informed with all finality: her daughter killed herself. Maybe then shed look in the goddamn mirror and start facing the truth.
Chapter Five
Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor
Forgiveness
Forgiveness. Such a simple word, but one of the hardest things to find within oneself and give to others.
I have heard people say that it is impossible to heal without forgiving those who have hurt you. But it is not my place to forgive the man who raped me. Shouldnt he be the one who is expected to look into himself to understand why he did what he did? Shouldnt he be the one who has to ask himself how he could take from me everything he stole-not just the physical act, but the trust, my power, my agency, my sense of self?
Maybe he should be the one who has to try to forgive himself. That is not for me to do.
One of the things he stole from me was my mother. I remained silent for so long-allowing that man to come to my room night after night-because of my fears for her. My loyalty to her. My utter dedication.
She had always been my only parent. Dad left before he could make any kind of impression that stayed with me. My mother was alone for long and frequent periods. Not completely alone. She had me. But alone as a woman. Now a man she had learned to love-whom she had brought into our home-was coming to me at night and threatening to kill us both if I said anything.
But I never blamed her for his presence in my life. She couldnt know, I told myself. He put on such a kind face for others. How could she possibly suspect he carried a monster inside of him?
No, it wasnt the abuse that took away my mother. Ironically, it was my absolute, unquestioned faith in her that eventually trumped the fear he had instilled in me. I waited until he was working late at night. It was just the two girls at home together, like the old days. We ate those silly finger sandwiches we used to make when I was younger. They were chicken salad on cut Wonder Bread, but for some reason the dainty size and funny name brought me so much joy. (Who would eat a finger sandwich? I used to squeal.)
As the hours passed, I started to feel the darkness of his imminent return. Girls night would soon end. Hed hug my mother and say how happy he was to be home. As she fell into sleep, hed say he was still restless. Im going to read downstairs. I dont want the light to bug you, honey.
It had happened often enough that I could picture him entering my room. I was even beginning to note certain patterns. If he was drunk, he was clumsier. It usually hurt less, but took longer. If he was tired, hed be in a rush to make it happen. Choking me with his belt seemed to help him go faster. Id also learned by now that my period wouldnt stop him. He would leave me there on a bloodied sheet, admonishing me to clean up the mess before morning.
So I told her.
I still remember the expression on her face as she raised that stupid Wonder Bread stick to her mouth. She halted midway and returned it to the fancy platter wed taken out for the occasion, a gift Id received from the neighbors for my confirmation.
Maybe you had a dream.
Mom, I think I know the difference between reality and a nightmare. And its not just one time.
What are we going to do?
I can tell the police. Maybe they can protect us.
Thats not what I meant. What are we going to do with you?
Mom Im not sure what punctuation to include after that single word but I can still hear my own voice in my head. Part observation. Part scream. Part question. Period, exclamation point, question mark?
And then shed picked up the platter and dumped the remaining sandwiches in the trash. I had no idea you hated me so much. Making up these kinds of lies. I forgive you, but dont ever tell these stories again.
She forgave me.
You might think I hate my mother. I dont. I never did. I simply lost her along with everything else I lost because of that man. And without making excuses for her failures as a mother, I choose now to blame him, not her. I choose to believe that, just as he broke me, he broke her. We were both his victims.
I also choose to believe that, even though it is too late to tell her, my mother knows I have forgiven her.
Forgiveness. Such a simple word.
The reader looked around to make sure no one was watching. After the last time, more caution was necessary now. Todays screen was the public computer at a crowded luxury gym on Broadway. The distracted employees at the front desk hadnt stopped the few people who had breezed by on cell phones with a quick wave of acknowledgment, a gesture that was easy enough to mimic. In a worst-case scenario, a cover story about forgotten running shoes would provide a nonmemorable escape.
Time to type a comment to reward the most recent posting.
Did it ever dawn on you that your mom hated you for driving away your father and making her a single mother? Did it ever dawn on you that your desperation to have a father figure is what drew that man to your bed? He should have choked you harder. He should have made you bleed more. Keep writing. Im reading. And Im coming for you.
Five minutes after the comment appeared online, a phone call would be made to Buffalo, New York. Im calling about a prisoner named Jimmy Grisco. James Martin Grisco.
That phone call would change everything.
Chapter Six
Katherine Whitmire bolted the door after the last of the strangers finally left.
The house was quiet. It felt strange to be surrounded by silence in this house.
The Whitmires were a family that liked living with noise. Bill-on those rare occasions when he was there-was always listening to newly recorded tracks or blasting through demos in search of undiscovered talent. The kids had inherited his constant need for sound.
With Julia, it was usually music, but lately shed developed a penchant for old-fashioned suspense movies. Billy, on the other hand, was a 24/7 news junkie, flipping incessantly between CNN, MSNBC, and Fox, the latter bringing him to frequent bouts of shouting at the television. Then, of course, there was the yelling between the townhouse floors. Despite Katherines efforts to persuade her family members to use the room-to-room intercom system, the rest of the Whitmires insisted on communicating with one another through screams: Did you erase my shows off the TiVo again? Is anyone else hungry? Im calling in for sushi!.. Julia, get down here. Tell me what you think of this tape How many times do I have to tell you not to call it tape anymore, Dad?
Now the house was silent in a way she could not remember since those first months, back when she was overseeing the renovation. It was quiet like this during that short period when the construction was finally done and the painters had removed their ladders and tarps but the movers had not yet arrived.