Chapter 23
NOW
“A lot of people know your story, Elsie,” Libby says, placing her mug on the coaster I provided. “At least they think they do. But this is your chance to set the record straight. With so many stories about you out in the zeitgeist, where do you even start?”
I sit back in my chair and whistle. I haven’t the foggiest idea.
“Well,” I say, eventually, “I suppose I’d start at the beginning. With Kitty. Theories abounded about her cause of death. I’ve read it all. Out of all the deaths, that one has the most theories.”
Adeem glances at his notes. “According to Wikipedia, her cause of death was inconclusive.”
“Actually, according to her death certificate, she died of polio when she was twelve months old. But, depending on where you look, you’ll find I smothered her with a stuffed toy in her crib, I tortured her by breaking every bone in her legs, or tossed her out the window of my second-floor bedroom … ”
“There were lots of theories about your mother’s death too,” Libby continues. “Although it was officially ruled a suicide.”
“Obviously everyone thinks I pushed her. Which I suppose I’d understand if she’d screamed. But if you do your research you’ll find the statistics are low on people going silently over a ledge after being pushed.”
“Is there anything public opinion has got right?”
I consider this. “Some of the details of the final murder have been pretty close.”
Libby looks down at the papers in front of her. “The court records stated that ‘your attack was vicious and unyielding and proved intent beyond reasonable doubt.’ ” She looks up. “So … that description … captured it, did it?”
I cast my mind back—to my grimacing face, the grotesque blood spatter, the dull thud of pummeled meat as I bashed and bashed and bashed.
“If anything,” I admit, “they downplayed that part a bit.”
I’m impressed to find that Libby and Adeem don’t seem too repulsed. I suppose one can’t be squeamish if one hosts a crime show.
“We’ll talk about that in more detail later,” Libby says, “but first I want to talk about Daphne.”
I feel something heavy land upon my chest.
“Public opinion has had some pretty strong opinions about Daphne,” Adeem says carefully. “How do you feel about that?”
I don’t know what to say. “How do I feel?” I say finally. Shrug. “I don’t know. Sad, I guess.”
“Why do you feel sad, Elsie?” Libby asks.
“Because,” I say, “they couldn’t have got her more wrong. She wasn’t the person who brought me down. She was the only person who stood beside me. The one who gave everything and asked for nothing in return. She was the person who saved me.”
I feel myself getting choked up with emotion. Adeem and Libby lower their eyes.
“The truth is, if I could have picked one part of my story for people to get right, it would have been Daphne.”
Late in the afternoon, Adeem steps out into the courtyard to take a call and Libby and I have a few quiet moments together.
“Is he talking to a girl, do you think?” I ask.
Libby nods. “He’ll be talking to his wife.”
“Wife?” I exclaim. “He’s barely old enough to drive.”
“Tell me about it,” Libby says.
According to Libby, Adeem and Meera have been married for six months, during which time Adeem has disappeared from all social circles to place himself at her beck and call.
“Henpecked,” I say.
She nods. “It’s sweet, really. Also very amusing.”
Meera, Libby says, is lovely, but also—how can she put it delicately?—high maintenance.
“Do you … have a husband, Libby?”
“God, no,” she says. “I have a boyfriend, but if he called half as much as Meera, I’d take out a restraining order.”
“Good girl,” I say.
“What about you, Elsie? Did you ever marry?”
I open my mouth, just as Adeem comes in the back door.
“Sorry, that was the wife.” Adeem puffs out his chest, appearing pleased with the way that sounds.
“How is it,” I ask him, “that you are married, when you’ve barely escaped the womb?”
He deflates. “I’m twenty-three.”
I raise my eyebrows. He doesn’t respond, so I expect I made my point.
“Anyway,” Libby says, “now that you’ve excavated yourself from under Meera’s thumb, shall we continue the interview?”
“It’s called devotion, Libby,” he says, sinking back into his chair. “Though, I’ll admit, I never knew you could be so terrified of the person you love.”
“Lucky man,” I tell him. “In my experience, love has always been synonymous with terror.”