Page 94 of The Perfect Divorce

I take a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, as though I’m having a hard time digesting this information. But really, it’s a sigh of relief.

“Stacy reported that another woman in the basement with her was Carissa Brooks,” Hudson explains.

My expression is a mix of sadness and shock. I add in a lip quiver. “Was? What do you mean ‘was’? Is she okay?”

They exchange another look. “We can’t locate her at this time,” he says.

And they never will, I think to myself as I conjure up more tears, pushing them out as fast as I can produce them.

“We found blood in the basement where Stacy reported Carissa was chained up, as well as on the stairs and first level of the house. It looks like there was a struggle. Forensics is comparing it to the blood found at the salon to see if it’s a match.”

It’ll be a match. I don’t need to wait for forensics on that.

“We talked previously about Carissa Brooks and the legal work you did for her in relation to a protective order she had against her ex, George Carrigan,” Hudson says.

I simply nod.

“I know you were sure it had to have been George who was involved in her disappearance, and we were too. But given the circumstances, that’s changed. Do you have any idea what kind of relationship Bob and Carissa had?”

“As far as I know, they were friendly. He was a client of hers.” Appearing saddened, I shake my head. “I’m the reason they were even introduced in the first place. If I hadn’t accepted her as a foundation client, Bob would have never met her and maybe she’d be...” I trail off, overcome with contemplation and anguish.

“You can’t blame yourself for that.” Olson delivers a sympathetic look.

“How can I not?”

“So, Bob became a client of Carissa’s after you represented her?” Hudson asks, trying to steer the conversation back to the facts.

“Yeah, I thought he switched salons to help her out and to keep a close eye on her, given her situation—or at least that’s how he framed it.”

“This is a difficult question to ask, but do you think Carissa and Bob might have been having an affair?” Sheriff Hudson pulls his chin in.

I force more tears out because that seems cry-worthy, the thought of my husband cheating on me with more than one woman. “I don’t know,” I say. “Months ago, I would have said no, but now...”

I do know, actually, and the answerisno.

“Do you think Carissa is okay?” I add.

“Given the amount of blood found at the salon and in the abandoned house, it doesn’t look good—I mean, if they’re a match. But we are hopeful we’ll find her regardless,” Hudson says.

I lower my head and sniffle. “I hope so too.”

They won’t find her though. She’s long gone. Carissa came to me seven weeks ago, asking for my help. She had heard her ex was up for early release, and she knew he’d come around again. The protective order she had against him was almost up. I told her we could get it extended, but she said it wasn’t enough. She said he would kill her this time, and a stupid piece of paper wasn’t going to stop him. She said the only way he’d ever let her go was if she were dead, and she basically felt like she already was. She said she couldn’t live this way anymore, always in fear, looking over her shoulder every other second, scared of what was around every corner. She begged for my help, begged me to help her escape, to get away from him for good. And I agreed, as long as she did exactly as she was told. If she did, she’d be free of him forever.

I gave her the supplies to start drawing her own blood and told her how to properly store it. One pint every ten days so she’d collect nearly five pints, enough for the police to determine she was dead without a body. I told her what vitamins to take to lessen her blood loss symptoms: iron, B12, folic acid, and a few others. She’d be weak during this process, disoriented too—but she’d live, and she’d finally be free of her ex for good.

I didn’t tell Bob what I was doing, and when I found out he had cheated on me, I was glad I hadn’t told him. Because he’d now be an unknowing participant in freeing Carissa. I informed her of the slight change of plans nearly four weeks ago. I picked the day she would disappear. Conveniently, it fell on a day Bob had his standing appointment, every third Sunday like clockwork. I instructed her to accidentally nick the last customer. She asked why. I told her not to ask any questions and to speak to no one about any of this because there was a reason for everything. Unbeknownst to her, my reason was just to set up Bob. I’m sure she must have thought he was in on it too since he was my husband.

After her last customer left for the day, I told her to dye and cut her hair, get rid of all evidence of her new hairstyle, and remove her piercings. Then she was to stage the salon to make it look like it had been ransacked. Three of the five pints of blood she drew from her own body were to be spread throughout the salon—a pool near a tipped-over chair, smears and droplets here and there, and then a trail leading to the back of the salon. I’ve seen many crime scenes throughout my work as a lawyer, so I knew exactly how to make one look real, and I made sure Carissa knew it too.

While she was taking care of the physical evidence that was needed for this plan to work, I was setting her up with a new identity—because once it all went down, she couldn’t be Carissa anymore. There was a car waiting for her in the back of the lot, keys tucked in the visor, and a bag sitting on the passenger seat filled with extra clothes, cash, a wig, and a baseball cap to help her travel in disguise, at least until she was out of the state. Then, inside a purse were her new documents: passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, a credit card opened in her new name, and a plane ticket leaving the next morning out of Atlanta, headed for Ecuador. All she had to do was drive.

“There was another thing,” Hudson says, squinting. “Stacy stated Carissa told her she had overheard Bob—or at least someone that sounded like him—when she was first abducted. Allegedly, he was talking about you, about how he wasn’t going to let you get away with it and that he’d take you down first. Do you have any idea what he would mean by that? Specifically, the part about getting away with it?”

It’s strange having someone recite the words I said back to me and attribute them to someone else. Carissa was never in that basement. I was. I fed Stacy everything I needed her to know, and everything I needed her to relay to the police when they inevitably found her. It was easy to slip in and out of that basement. I’d go to work and take one of the foundation’s many vehicles out to Stacy. If I couldn’t find a way to visit her during the day, I’d do so late at night but not before taking Bob’s stupid tracker off my vehicle. Then, upon arrival, I’d throw on a pair of men’s steel-toed work boots, stomp around above her, and toss down a sandwich and a bottle of water—both of which were drugged with scopolamine, or as the kids call it, “Devil’s Breath.” The drugs could have a very long-lasting effect, depending on the dosage, so I’d stop back when I knew they were wearing off, and I’d slip in through the cellar door at the far end of the basement, hidden in a storage room. Another drink and sandwich would be delivered, and then, I’d position myself twenty or so feet from Stacy, waiting for her to wake up. Whenever Stacy didn’t hear Carissa, she just assumed Carissa was passed out. Stacy was easy to manipulate because she was drugged nearly the entire time.

Even the night I made it seem like Bob killed Carissa was easier than I thought it’d be. On that evening, it was just me up there, causing a ruckus. Screaming and flailing, breaking and smashing things, crying out for Stacy’s help. Then I slid on those work boots and dragged a sleeping bag full of bricks out of that house. It was all very convincing. I made sure to use the rest of Carissa’s blood to stage the scene before I fake killed her. There was a puddle where she was chained up, more on the mattress, then droplets up the staircase and throughout the house with smears and splatters on the floors and walls.

“Sarah,” Hudson says.

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