True Crime Story(75)

Then I remembered what I’d been trying to tell her before, how Anderson’s picture hadn’t been inside the tin when Zoe went missing. She asked me what it meant and I shrugged, like, “Fuck knows,” then patted her on the arm and left. Like I say, that was my last night living there. I wanted to say goodbye, y’know, mark the occasion, but she had enough shit on her plate without mine as well.

KIMBERLY NOLAN:

I didn’t know what to think. Did the picture mean someone was trying to help and point us in the right direction? Or did it mean Anderson was being framed? Maybe it meant nothing? I wasn’t afraid of the reconstruction anymore. I just didn’t see what good it would do. I’d lost my sister. I’d lost Alex. None of the appeals so far had gotten through to anyone, so I decided to do something that might actually answer a question rather than raise new ones. Anderson’s address got posted online, so I went there the next morning and knocked on the door.

I was still dressed as Zoe, and when he opened up, I knew he knew me. Knew Zoe, I mean. He must have been about to leave for work, because he was wearing a suit, holding a satchel. His mouth fell open, then he looked over my shoulder and pulled me inside. For a few seconds, he just stared at me, holding me by both arms. I was afraid he’d see I wasn’t her, so I kissed him, let his hands move on me. He kissed my neck, and I pulled him into me as tight as he could go, just pushing up against him.

He said something like, “Are you still into it?”

I looked back at him and said, “Yes.” Then we broke apart and he led me upstairs to the bedroom. I remember following him, watching my hand in his like it was an out-of-body experience. I wasn’t sure if Zoe knew this house or not, and I didn’t want to give anything away, so I kept my eyes low. Once we were on the bed, everything was easier. He wasn’t looking for reasons to stop or slow down, and I kept on pushing, because I didn’t want him to stop or slow down either. Between kisses, he said he was relieved to see me. He asked me where I’d been. He said everyone was looking for me, so I whispered into his ear that he was the lucky one, he’d found me. I resisted everything he said, shushed him like it was all boring so he wouldn’t work out who I was and why I was there. And I kept on kissing him because I was afraid of him looking into my eyes. His hands kept going to my neck, but I had to keep them moving, because I didn’t want him to touch my wig. I just whispered that he should be quiet, said I’d straighten it all out. I’d just needed some time to think. Anderson said they knew about the money, said they’d asked about him, about it. I put my fingers on his lips and said the money was fine. There was a second where we broke apart, where he just stared at me, starting to squint, so I nodded at the bathroom, told him to go in while I undressed.

As soon as he left the room, I got up, head spinning, and walked down the stairs, past all these pictures of him with his wife and kid, then right out the front door. I was sick in his geraniums, then realized I’d left the wig inside, upstairs on the bed. I thought that was all the explanation I really owed him and left.

I think I was in and out in less than five minutes, and I left feeling like I do now. Sure of some things, unsure of others. I’m sure there was something going on between him and Zoe, sure he was moving money around, like his wife said afterward. I’m sure he was a scumbag. But at the same time, in my heart of hearts, I can’t say I feel like he had anything to do with her disappearance. He wasn’t surprised to see me at his door, he wasn’t surprised to see Zoe alive. He didn’t look at me like I was a mystery solved or someone who’d come back from the dead. He looked at me like his side piece had come back to her rightful place after some kind of argument. Michael Anderson was the same thing to me as I’m sure he was to Zoe—a disappointment, a dead end.

PROFESSOR MICHAEL ANDERSON:

I’m speechless. [Laughs] I’m actually speechless. Needless to say, none of that actually happened. None of that could have happened, because I didn’t know Zoe Nolan. If a young woman resembling her had actually arrived at my front door, I’d have called the police. And where’s my wife supposed to be in all this? Breastfeeding our baby in the spare room?

ALICE ELLIS:

I moved out in mid-January of that year. I’d say I was breastfeeding our baby somewhere around Cornwall, as Michael well knows. From what you’ve said, I’d be inclined to believe Kim. How else would she know about the pictures on the staircase? The en suite in our bedroom? Michael’s fucking geraniums? As much of a cliché as he could be, though, I never saw him as a killer. He certainly wasn’t violent. He did things that were easy. He screwed young girls who didn’t know any better, then lost interest when it got complicated.

And I was with him the night Zoe Nolan went missing. Not for every second, and he came to bed a good hour after I did, but he couldn’t possibly have gone to Owens Park and back in that time. Couldn’t possibly have disposed of a body. I want the world to know precisely what kind of person he is. And that means I can’t sit here and blame him for things I know he didn’t do.

KIMBERLY NOLAN:

I knew I had to do something for Zoe, something meaningful, and I did. The reconstruction was just a performance, somewhere my dad could live out his dreams of being a man of action, show the world he was in charge when actually he was falling apart. After confronting Anderson and taking my Zoe wig off, I felt a lot lighter. I left all those horrible voices from my head where they belonged, in a puddle of sick in some geraniums.