was never given a chance. No reflection Charlotte saw in his eyes could ever be trusted, because he knew only the one Charlotte who had been revealed to him. Bob Sullivan, and only Bob Sullivan, knew them both.
Charlotte and Bob met during the day in the small pool house at the very edge of the Kramers’ yard. There was a dirt road that was used by the pool company and mostly concealed by trees. Even in the winter, it was possible for Bob to park and not be seen from the road. The yard was fenced. They had been very careful. They both had a lot to lose.
Jenny sat on the bed that night her mother made rosemary chicken, unable to stand herself for one more minute. She heard her mother leave to pick up Lucas. She heard them come home. She tried to wait for her parents to go to bed, but they had another one of their “talks” that would not end. She went to the stash of pills she had collected from the bathrooms of her friends’ parents, and took a small white one. Those were always Xanax or lorazepam or Valium. She didn’t know them by these terms, but I recognized them from the description she gave, both of their physical appearance and the effect they had on her when she took them. Twenty minutes later, she was asleep.
The next morning she went to school on the bus. Her mother waved good-bye. She went to homeroom and Chemistry and History. At lunch, she started to walk home.
I have said that Bob Sullivan was running for the state legislature. This is why his wife, Fran, hired the investigator to follow him and collect evidence. I have found that people know when something is not right. Even if the intimacy has already disappeared from the marriage, the other changes are simply too difficult to conceal. Happiness, in particular, does not like to hide in the shadows. In Bob’s case, it was simply that his wife knew him too well.
That afternoon, after Jenny had walked home, Charlotte met Bob in the pool house. It was not a large structure—a twelve-by-twelve changing area with an attached bathroom. There was a sofa and tile floor, sliding doors with shades, and some shelves for towels and sunscreen and various pool things. And a small, sound-activated recording device installed by Fran Sullivan’s investigator.
This is what it recorded:
[door closing, shades rattling, female voice laughing playfully]
“Shhh, come here, gorgeous.”
[kissing sounds, heavy breathing]
“How much time do you have?”
“Half an hour, so take off your clothes and get on the floor.”
[more laughter, sighs, sound of clothing being removed]
“You want my mouth today, don’t you? You want me to lick you?”
“Yes.”
[female sighs, male moans]
“If you were my wife, I would eat you for dinner every night.”
[female sighs, arousal]
“Wait, stop….” [female voice, worried]
“What?” [male voice, alarmed]
“The bathroom door … It’s closed, but under the door … I think the light’s on.” [female voice, whispering]
[rustling, then silence]
[loud female scream]
“Oh dear Lord! Dear Lord!” [male voice, terrified]
[female screams]
“Help her! My baby! My baby girl!”
“Is she alive? Oh shit! Shit!”
“Grab a towel! Wrap her wrists, tight!”
“My baby!”
“Wrap them! Pull! Tight! Oh dear Lord! There’s so much blood—”
“I feel a pulse! Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me! Hand me those towels! Oh dear Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord!”
“Jenny!” [desperate female voice]
“Call 911! Jenny! Jenny, wake up!” [male voice]
“Where’s my phone!” [female voice, shuffling]
“On the floor! Go!” [male voice]
[footsteps, shuffling, female voice speaking to 911, giving address, hysterical]
“You have to go! Right now! Go!” [female voice]
“No! I can’t! Dear Lord!”
Charlotte had trouble speaking about that afternoon. But, one morning, after I had found my way around the barricade, she gathered herself and managed to convey the following:
Bob was a hero when we found Jenny bleeding in that bathroom. I told him to leave after I called for help, but he refused. He didn’t care. In that moment, I saw a man no one else sees. He may be greedy and whatever else people say, but he risked everything to save my child. He ripped a towel in half, slid it around her wrist. He told me to grab an end and pull. The towel was thick, and it was hard to get it tight. He screamed at me, “Pull!” and I did and finally it was tight and he made a knot. We did the same to the other wrist. God, we were both covered in blood. Soaked in it. My feet were slipping on the floor. When we had done both wrists, I called 911. I told him to leave but he refused. I cradled her head in my lap. I started to cry, not like before with the screaming cries, but just tears, you know? Bob was crying as well. He looked from my face to Jenny’s face, back and forth like he didn’t know which one was causing him more pain. He stroked Jenny’s face and then he looked at me and stayed looking. He said, “You listen to me! She is going to make it! Do you hear me? She will!” We heard the sirens coming. I yelled at him again to leave. I begged him. He kept saying “No!” but finally he understood. I didn’t care about his career or his wife or his reputation. All I cared about at that moment was Jenny and my family. He could not be there when the police arrived. He cried harder as he stood up, stepping around the blood. “I love you,” he said. And then he left.
Jenny did survive. And that is where I come in.
My name is Dr. Alan Forrester. I am a psychiatrist. In case you are unaware of the various credentials that exist among mental health professionals, I am the kind that went to medical school. I am a medical doctor, an M.D., graduated from Johns Hopkins University summa cum laude. I completed my residency at the New York–Presbyterian University Hospital of Columbia and Cornell. In my twenty-two years of practice, I have received numerous awards and distinctions, but I find no sanctuary in paper certificates, the kind you have undoubtedly seen hanging on the walls of your own doctors’ offices. Cream stock, Latin words written in calligraphy. Fine wooden frames. They remind me of the trophies my son used to collect after each sports season. Cheap and reflective of nothing more than the need to secure future enrollments. Nothing attracts customers like the promise of an award. They are advertisements, and those who display them publicly are nothing more than human billboards.
Mine is a profession of constant challenges. Whatever has been
