She thinks she knows. It came back the night of the kidnapping, after she slapped Cora. She lost time. She doesn’t know what happened.
It’s almost a relief now, realizing that she did it. Better that Cora be killed quickly by her own mother, in her own bedroom, with the familiar lambs looking on, than that she be taken by some monster and molested, tortured, terrified.
Anne should call her own mother. Her mother would know what to do. But Anne doesn’t want to call her mother. Her mother will try to cover it up, pretend it never happened. Like Marco. They’re all trying to cover up what she’s done.
She doesn’t want that anymore. She must tell the police. And she must do it now, before anyone tries to stop her. She wants everything out in the open. She can’t stand a minute more of the secrecy, the lies. She needs to know where her baby is, her final resting place. She needs to hold her one last time.
She glances out her bedroom window at the street. She doesn’t see any reporters out there now. She dresses quickly and calls a cab to bring her to the police station.
It seems to take a long time, but finally the cab arrives. She gets into the cab quickly and settles herself in the backseat, feeling strange but determined. She needs this to end. She will tell them what happened. She killed Cora. Marco must have arranged to have her taken away and then urged them to offer ransom money afterward, to mislead the police. But now Marco will have to stop protecting her. He will have to stop lying to her. He will have to tell them where he put Cora’s body, and then she will know. She must know where her baby is. She can’t stand not knowing.
She can’t trust anyone to tell the truth unless she goes first.
When she arrives at the police station, the officer behind the front desk looks at her with obvious concern.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” Anne says quickly. “I want to see Detective Rasbach.” Her voice sounds strange to her own ears.
“He’s not here. It’s Sunday,” the officer says. “I’ll see if I can get him on the phone.” She has a brief conversation on the phone, puts it down, and says, “He’s on his way. He’ll be here in about half an hour.”
Anne waits impatiently, her mind in turmoil.
When Rasbach appears less than half an hour later, he is casually dressed, in khaki trousers and a summer shirt. He looks very different; Anne is used to him in a suit. She finds it disorienting.
“Anne,” he says, looking at her closely with those eyes that miss nothing. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you,” Anne says quickly.
“Where is your lawyer?” Rasbach asks. “I was informed that you would no longer talk to us without your lawyer present.”
“I don’t want my lawyer,” Anne insists.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should call him. I can wait.”
Her lawyer will just stop her from saying what she needs to say. “No! I’m sure. I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t want one—and don’t call my husband.”
“All right, then,” Rasbach says, and turns to lead her down the long hall.
Anne follows him to one of the interview rooms. She starts to talk before he’s even sat down. He tells her to wait.
“For the record,” Rasbach says to her, “please state your name, the date, and the fact that you’ve been advised to call your lawyer but have declined.”
When Anne has done so, they begin.
“Why are you here today?” the detective asks her.
“I have come to confess.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Detective Rasbach observes Anne carefully. She is clearly agitated, wringing her hands. Her pupils look dilated, her face pale. He is unsure whether to proceed. She has waived her right to counsel, on videotape, but he is not confident of her mental state, whether she is capable of properly making that decision. Still, he wants to hear what she has to say. They can always disallow the confession anyway—they probably will—but he has to hear it. He wants to know.
“I killed her,” Anne says. She is distressed, but she seems rational, not out of her mind. She knows who she is, where she is, and what she’s doing.
“Tell me what happened, Anne,” he says, sitting across from her at the table.
“I went over to check on her at eleven,” Anne says. “I tried to feed her with the bottle, because I’d been drinking. But she was very fussy, she wanted the breast. She wouldn’t take the bottle.” She stops talking, stares at the wall over Rasbach’s shoulder, as if seeing it all again as a film played on a screen behind him.
“Go on,” the detective says.
“So I thought fuck it, and I put her on my breast. I felt bad about it, but she wouldn’t take the bottle and she was hungry. She was crying and crying and wouldn’t stop. She’s never had trouble taking the bottle before—she’s never refused it. How was I to know she would refuse the bottle the one night I have a few glasses of wine?”
Rasbach waits for her to continue. He doesn’t want to speak and interrupt the flow of her thoughts. She seems to be almost in a kind of trance, still staring at the wall behind him.
“I didn’t know what else to do. So I nursed her.” She drags her eyes from the wall and looks at him. “I lied before, when I said that I remembered changing her out of the pink onesie. I don’t remember. I just told you that because I assumed that’s what I did, but I don’t actually remember any of it.”
“What do you remember?” Rasbach says.
“I remember nursing her, and she suckled for a bit, but she didn’t have a good feed, and then she started fussing again.” Anne’s eyes slide to that imaginary screen again. “I held her and walked around with her a bit, singing to her, but she just cried louder. I was crying, too.” She looks at him. “I slapped her.” Now Anne bursts into tears. “After that I don’t remember. She was wearing the pink onesie when I slapped her, I remember that, but I don’t remember anything after that. I must have changed her and changed her outfit. Maybe I dropped her or shook her, I don’t know. Maybe I held a pillow over her face, to stop her from crying, like you said, but she must have died somehow.” She begins sobbing hysterically. “And when I went over at midnight, she was in her crib, but I didn’t pick her up. I don’t know if she was breathing then.”
Rasbach lets her cry. Finally he says, “Anne, if you don’t remember, why do you think you killed Cora?”
“Because she’s gone! Because I don’t remember. Sometimes, when I’m under stress, my mind splits off, disconnects from reality. Then I realize that I’m missing some time, that I’ve done something I don’t remember. It’s happened before.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You know all about it. You spoke to Janice Foegle.”
“I want to hear your version. Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t want to.” She takes several tissues from the box and wipes her eyes.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Rasbach leans back in his chair and says, “Anne, I don’t think you killed Cora.”
“Yes you do. You said so before.” She is twisting the tissues in her hands.
“I don’t think so anymore. If I put this idea in your head, I’m truly sorry.”
“I must have killed her. And Marco had someone take her away to protect me. So I wouldn’t know what I’d done.”
“Then where is she now?”