After Anna(92)

Maggie had made him her priority since Noah’s arrest, trying to keep the house running as normally as possible, drilling him with his target words, and getting him to his appointments with his speech pathologist, as well as weekly sessions with a child psychologist, to help him cope. He’d wanted to visit Noah in jail, and his therapist thought it would be better if Kathy took him, which was fine with Maggie. She’d kept him home during the trial, with Kathy babysitting the time Maggie had gone to court. He was going back to school next week and was upstairs reading with Wreck-It Ralph.

Maggie missed Anna so badly, feeling the loss of everything her daughter could have been, could have had, and could have grown up to be. She agonized over the fact that not only was Anna dead, but Noah had killed her. Still, sometimes at night, alone in bed, Maggie admitted to herself that there was a tiny part of her that just couldn’t believe Noah had done it. It just didn’t seem like something he could do, despite his conviction and the evidence against him. And he’d said he hadn’t done it, in court. She’d read it in the newspaper. She knew that Caleb had some doubts, too, though his therapist and Kathy thought that was denial.

Maggie didn’t know if she loved Noah anymore. She loved the Noah she used to know, but she didn’t know if he was real or fantasy. She’d been working part-time doing billing for a law firm, and one of the lawyers had helped her prepare divorce papers, which she had yet to file.

Suddenly her phone rang, and the screen lit up with a number from an area code she remembered. Congreve’s. Maggie knew it wasn’t James because she had emailed him about Anna’s death. He had emailed back, saying that he would deal with the trust and the estate, since Anna had been killed before Florian’s will had even been probated. By the terms of Anna’s will, her money went to a variety of charitable causes, which would take months to distribute.

The phone rang again, and Maggie answered it, out of curiosity. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, is this Maggie Ippoliti?’ a woman asked, her voice vaguely familiar.

‘Yes, who’s calling?’

‘This is Ellen Salvich from the Graham Center at Congreve Academy. We met last year. I was Anna’s therapist.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Maggie felt guilty she’d never contacted Ellen. She’d been too embarrassed and ashamed. She hadn’t known how to explain. I’m sorry, but my husband killed my daughter, whom I told you I would take wonderful care of.

‘I just saw in the newspaper, online, what happened –’

‘I’m so sorry, I should have called you.’

‘I was away until recently. I took a leave from school. My father was in hospice in Scottsdale and he passed last week. I’m just now getting back.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Maggie felt an instant kinship with anybody who had lost anybody.

‘Thank you. Are you in a position to talk? It’s important, and you might find it shocking.’

‘Yes, go ahead,’ Maggie said, though nothing could shock her anymore.

‘When I came home, I saw a newspaper story online about your husband’s conviction for murder. They have his picture, next to Anna’s. Anna’s name is under the caption. I’m looking at it right now.’

‘Yes.’ Maggie sighed, pained. ‘He was convicted of her murder. I really should’ve called you, I thought about it so many times.’

‘No, that’s not why I’m calling. This picture in the newspaper, which says Anna Desroches in the caption, is not a picture of Anna Desroches. This is not the Anna I knew and treated. She looks like Anna, but it’s not Anna.’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘I’m texting you the photo that’s in the newspaper, which reads Anna Desroches.’ Ellen finished the sentence, and Maggie’s text alert chimed.

‘Hold on a sec, okay?’ Maggie put Ellen on speaker, then scrolled to her texts. On her phone screen was a photo of Anna, slightly pixelated. Just looking at it hurt Maggie’s heart. ‘Yes, that’s Anna.’

‘No, it’s not. That’s my point. The girl identified as Anna Desroches in the newspaper is not the girl that I know as Anna Desroches. Or that we know as Anna Desroches at Congreve. As I say, she looks similar, but it’s not Anna.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Maggie couldn’t understand what she was being told.

‘Hang on, I’m texting you a photo of my patient, your daughter Anna Desroches. It’s a picture I took of us together, on her birthday last March.’

‘Okay,’ Maggie said slowly, and in the next moment, her text alert chimed again and a photo popped onto her phone screen. It showed Ellen, grinning with her arm around a young girl with blue eyes, a big smile, and dimples. The girl looked a lot like Anna, that is, the Anna that Maggie had known as her daughter.

‘Maggie, are you there? Are you okay? I warned you, it’s shocking.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Maggie said, repeating herself. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the photo. ‘Are you saying this is Anna, in this photo with you?’

‘Yes, exactly.’ Ellen’s tone turned adamant, even urgent. ‘This is your daughter, Anna Ippoliti Desroches, with me. It’s a selfie. As I said, we took the picture last March on her seventeenth birthday.’