The Perfect Wife(22)

“No,” you say miserably. “You don’t understand. I don’t believe I’m a robot. I am a robot.”

Looking at his kindly, concerned face, you realize there’s only one way to convince him. You reach up behind your neck. You’ve touched the seam there many times, but you’ve never been brave enough to pull it all the way open, the way Tim did. Even the thought makes you feel ill.

“What are you doing?” Tanner says uneasily. “Abbie? Jesus Christ!”

You feel the same sucking sensation, the same coldness, as before, and then Detective Tanner has recoiled away from you, knocking over a chair in his astonishment.





17


Twenty minutes later the atmosphere is very different. The medical officer has given you a brief inspection and announced that you are far beyond her area of expertise. The IT officer, ditto. And now there are three people sitting across a table from you. Detective Tanner, a man in a gray suit who introduced himself as the deputy chief of investigations, and a female detective sergeant.

“But why?” the deputy chief wants to know. “What was the purpose of building you?”

You shrug. “Emotional support.”

“Or to fool people into thinking that the real Abbie had returned alive and well?” Tanner suggests.

His comment is directed to the deputy chief, not you, but you shake your head firmly. “Of course not.”

“If the people who found her had put it on Twitter instead of calling us, who knows what story might have gone around,” Tanner says, still to the deputy chief. “He’s toying with us. Trying to make it look like we got it all wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” you say, puzzled. “Wrong about what?”

The deputy chief looks at you. “You have no knowledge of that?”

“Knowledge of what?”

“That four years ago, Tim Scott was put on trial for the murder of his wife, Abigail.”

You stare at him, stunned. A long moment passes. You can’t believe it—surely Tim would never have kept something as important as this from you. But then—clunk!—you feel it, a cascade of images tumbling into your mind. Newspaper reports, video feeds, tweets and blogs and snatched paparazzi images. Tim, gaunt and unshaven, being led toward some courtroom doors—

“Should I have a lawyer?” you say faintly.

The deputy chief looks at Tanner, who shrugs. “Legally speaking, we believe she’s computer equipment. She certainly has no rights.”

“Well, I’m not saying anything else,” you tell them defiantly. “Not until my husband gets here.”

Tanner leans forward. “You call him your husband. But he isn’t, is he? You’re not married to him. You can’t be—you’re a machine. Before you feel sorry for him, feel sorry for her. For Abbie. And if you know anything that can help us solve her disappearance, even at this late stage, tell us. For her sake.”

Disappearance. The word, with all its ramifications, echoes around your head.

The silence is broken by a knock on the interview room door. Tanner sighs in frustration. “Enter.”

A policewoman comes in and whispers something in his ear. “Tim Scott’s here,” he says reluctantly. “With a lawyer. We’re going to have to let her go.”

Relieved, you get to your feet. “I’ll walk you out,” he adds.

At the door he stands back to let you go before him. As you pass, he suddenly leans forward, blocking your way with his arm, forcing you to stop. Speaking in a low voice, so only you can hear, he says, “I spent twelve months putting together a case against Tim Scott. You tell him from me, I’m not going to give up just because he’s built himself a Barbie doll.”





18


“I understand now why you didn’t want me going out. But you might have told me the reason.”

Finally, you’re back at Dolores Street together, and alone. Tim grimaces. “I know. I’m sorry, Abbie. It wasn’t that I expected you to stay cooped up here forever. I just didn’t know how to tell you. These past two weeks have been such a special time for me. A second honeymoon, almost. And I suppose I was worried you might react the way everyone else did, back then. I thought if I could just reestablish the connection between us first…and then somehow it was easier to keep putting it off.”

“I understand,” you say, although understanding isn’t the same as forgiving him, not quite. “But Tim, what happened? You have to tell me now. The police used the word murder but they also talked about my disappearance.” You hesitate. “And what made them think you could have had something to do with it?”

He nods decisively. “You’re right. Let’s talk.”



* * *



—

It was a surfing accident, he says. He stresses the word accident.

“There’d been a storm—high winds and rain. You were at the beach house on your own, working on a new project. I stayed here in the city, with Danny. The whole point was to give you some time alone, to let you rediscover your spark.”

Even now, five years later, you can tell how difficult this is for him. He stares into space, his eyes unseeing. Fixed on memories that are still almost too much to bear.