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  “At least that’s over,” Aunt A said, collapsing into a chair beside Ellen. “It feels obscene to finally be in the same room as your mother again, and for it to be like this.”

  Fresh tears stabbed my eyes, evidence that I wasn’t as spent as I thought. I wiped them away, turning my head as I did so, and glimpsed a figure hovering in the doorway. I gasped involuntarily.

  “Of all the nerve,” Aunt A hissed.

  Melanie Cave wore a maroon dress, dark enough to almost resemble black but far too red for propriety’s sake. She had faded considerably in the last ten years. Once trim with youthful, unlined skin, she had grown paunchy in her midsection and her face sagged. She was still poised, still elegant, but she was no longer the siren she had once been.

  The three of us sat frozen like proverbial deer in headlights as Melanie made her way across the empty room, the twenty feet from the door to our chairs seeming to take an eternity. She came to a stop directly in front of Aunt A and leaned down to reach for her hands, her neckline gaping to flash an expanse of sun-spotted cleavage.

  “Amelia,” she said, her voice raspier than it sounded on the podcast. “I’m—”

  “Get out,” Aunt A growled, her eyes flashing steel.

  Melanie’s painted lips parted, ready to say more, but then her gaze landed on me. Drawing herself erect, she said coolly, “It’s been a long time.”

  I was conflicted. In some ways, Aunt A was right: Melanie Cave was the one responsible for our misery. She was the one who had been having an affair with our father, the one who had done such an abysmal job of raising her child that he resorted to murder, the one who had contacted Poppy Parnell and turned our tragedy into a pop culture commodity. I wanted to spit in her face, insist that it hasn’t been long enough. But part of me knew that Melanie Cave was a victim in this, too, either an unhappy woman whose son did the unthinkable, or if Poppy Parnell was right, a woman whose son was unjustly jailed for life. It wasn’t necessarily her fault that she wanted to free him. She was his mother, after all.

  But my mother was lying in a coffin in the front of the room, and someone had to be responsible.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Mrs. Cave,” Ellen said.

  Ignoring Ellen, Melanie held my eyes unflinchingly. “It’s time to tell the truth.”

  I blinked, startled.

  “Mrs. Cave,” Ellen repeated firmly. “Don’t make me have you removed.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Melanie spit with sudden savageness, whirling on Ellen. “My son is wasting away in prison while this bitch”—she emphasized her words by throwing a pointed finger at me—“runs around without a care in the world.”

  I began to protest, to tell Melanie that she had it all wrong, but she wasn’t done.

  “All I’m asking,” she continued, her volume rising, “is that she tell the truth! She needs to stop lying and admit that she didn’t see my son that night. She didn’t see anything.” Melanie snapped her attention back to me, her finger once more wavering in my face. “You didn’t see anything.”

  “All right,” Ellen said, rising. “That’s enough. Keep your witchy fingers with their half-rate manicures to yourself.”

  “He’s spent twelve years in prison,” she continued. “The best years of his life! And still you circle the wagons and refuse to talk.” Melanie leaned down to me, her face close enough that I could see a vein throbbing in her temple, could smell the cloying floral of her skin cream. “Your father was at least an honorable man, which is more than I can say for the rest of you.”

  I was too shocked at the mention of my father to say anything.

  “I was a better match for him than your crazy mother, and he knew it. Is that why you lied about seeing Warren? To take away my son and punish me? You cold, vindictive bitch.”

  Finally, I found my voice and hissed, “I’m not Lanie, you dried-up old hag.”

  Melanie narrowed her mascara-laden eyes at me distrustfully. “Then you tell ‘your sister’ that I want to talk to her.”

  “Stop,” Aunt A interrupted loudly. “I won’t let you harass my nieces. You’ve done too much harm already.”

  “I’ve done too much harm?” Melanie scoffed. She backed out of the room, pointing a finger at me. “I’m watching you, Lanie. You know what you need to do. Tell the truth.”

  “ ‘I’m watching you’?” Ellen repeated mockingly as the door shut behind Melanie. “Was that supposed to be a threat? Does she think we’re afraid of her?”

  I laughed along with Ellen, but a chill ran down my spine.

  • • •

  Aunt A’s friends were waiting for us on the front porch, bearing trays of cheese and crackers and bottles of wine. Aunt A, whose upper lip had been admirably stiff all day, dissolved into tears when she saw this, and her friends swarmed around her, making sympathetic noises and enfolding her in their arms. I waited until Aunt A came up for air, and then told her I was headed upstairs to rest. I shut the door to my old bedroom and pulled the curtains, blocking out the fading daylight. In the darkness, I stretched out on the bed and checked my phone. Over the course of the day, I had accumulated four missed calls from Caleb and six unread text messages.

  Caleb’s voice was warm and sticky when he answered the phone, and I dearly wished I were home with him, spooned underneath his arms, listening to his musty breathing.

  “Oh, babe, I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”

  “I shouldn’t have been. Just this bloody jet lag. You’d think I’d learn to conquer it one of these days. But I’ll be all right. How about you, love? How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better,” I admitted, my throat catching. “Today was the visitation. It was . . . hard.”

  I ached to say more, to obey Melanie Cave’s (albeit misdirected) edict to tell the truth. I wanted to explain the painful twisting of my organs I had felt when I saw my mother’s body, the nearly inconceivable heartache I experienced when I realized any pipe dreams I had nurtured about reconnecting with my mother were gone, the particular exquisite agony of discovering my twin sister had married and had a child with the first man I had ever loved, and the crushing guilt I felt about abandoning Aunt A. But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. There was a minefield of lies between us, and the only safe thing to do was to say nothing at all.

  “God, Jo, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I’m so sorry. How is Ellen holding up?”

  “You know. As expected. This is hard on everyone.”

  “I wish I was there. I should be there.”

  “Honey, no,” I said sharply, hearing the wheels starting to turn in his head. Without seeing him, I knew Caleb was sitting up in bed, reaching for his laptop, about to start pricing flights to Illinois. “You can’t even stay awake right now. What good are you going to be here?”

  “I could take a caffeine pill. I should be there. You need me.”

  It’s time to tell the truth, my mind screamed.

  But my mouth, unable to find words for the truth, continued to lie. “I need to be here for Ellen. This is harder on her than it is on me, and I really need to focus on her. I wouldn’t be able to give her my full attention if you were here.”

  “That’s awfully noble, but don’t you think I might be helpful?”

  “Please just trust me on this. This is something I need to handle alone.”

  “If you say so,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “But I’m thinking about you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. All right, look, I should probably get going. A bunch of Aunt A’s friends are downstairs, and I think there are wineglasses to refill.”

  I froze, terrified I would be caught in an untruth, but Caleb must have assumed that Aunt A’s friends were there to mourn her, not get her drunk, and he just made a sympathetic noise.

  “Of course, of course. You do what you need to do. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Excerpt from transcript of Reconsidered: The Chuck Buhrman Murder, Episode 3: “The (Un)Usua
l Suspects,” September 21, 2015

  And then there’s Melanie Cave. She’s been a favorite suspect of armchair detectives right from the beginning. In broad strokes, their theory is this: On October 19, 2002, Melanie’s husband, Andrew, learned she was having an affair and told her he wanted to end the marriage. She tried repeatedly to contact her lover, but he rebuffed all advances. She grew angrier and angrier until late that night, she walked next door and shot him.

  To corroborate this theory, they point to Andrew Cave’s statements that he had left town that day because he learned about the affair. According to these statements, the argument between them was intense. I sought confirmation on this fact from Warren, but, as he does whenever I mention marital discord between his parents, he clammed up.

  They also point to the voicemails. On the day in question, Melanie called Chuck no less than twelve times. On half of those occasions, she left voicemails. The first five voicemails are Melanie simply asking Chuck to call her, notable only because the last three were all left within one fifteen-minute span.

  But the sixth . . . well, listen to it yourself.

  MELANIE,

  You arrogant son of a bitch. Call me back. Call me back

  ON VOICEMAIL:

  immediately. This is all your fault, and you will answer for it.

  “You will answer for it” sounds like a threat, especially knowing that Chuck Buhrman died not long after those words were uttered. In addition, many point to Melanie’s tone of voice, describing it as “chilling.” I have to admit, I was startled the first time I heard the voicemail. It sounded nothing like the pleasant woman I’ve gotten to know over these last months.

  POPPY:

  Melanie, tell me what’s going on in that last voicemail. You have to admit, you don’t sound particularly friendly.

  MELANIE:

  That’s no surprise! I wasn’t feeling friendly; I was very upset. Andrew had confronted me about the relationship with Chuck, and I told him the truth. I thought my marriage was over. I needed to talk to someone, and Chuck was the only one who would understand. I just wanted to talk. If I knew that would be the last time he heard my voice . . . well, I would’ve said something different.

  Not everyone buys Melanie’s explanation. In fact, one of her former classmates, Patsy Bloomfield, is so convinced of Melanie’s guilt she self-published a book about the case called The She-Devil Next Door. I purchased an electronic copy from Patsy’s website, where she also shares pictures of her grandchildren and sells throw pillows with cross-stitched adages like “The early bird catches the worm,” and as soon as I read it, I knew I needed to talk to Patsy. She agreed to sit down with me for an interview.

  POPPY:

  In your book, you state Melanie was responsible for Chuck Buhrman’s murder. How did you come to that conclusion?

  PATSY:

  I consider myself a little prescient. When I heard Melanie’s next-door neighbor had been murdered, I instantly knew Melanie had been involved with him. And she had! I also had a very strong feeling that she was in some way responsible for his death.

  POPPY:

  I understand you are an Elm Park native as well. Did you know Melanie Cave?

  PATSY:

  I’ve known Melanie since we were both in diapers. We grew up on the same street, and were in the same class every year since kindergarten. The first slumber party I ever attended was at Melanie’s house. She was Melanie Richards back then, you know, and this was long before she grew breasts and learned to shake her behind to get what she wanted. I remember her mother made us ice cream sundaes with whipped cream and maraschino cherries on them. I thought I’d died and gone to hog heaven. Her mother was always such a nice woman.

  POPPY:

  Can we go back to something you just said? “Shake her behind to get what she wanted”? What did you mean by that?

  PATSY:

  Just what it sounds like. Melanie has always been too pretty for her own good. She learned early on she could use her looks to get anything she wanted.

  POPPY:

  Is that one of the “personality defects” that you reference in your book?

  PATSY:

  Women like her—women who use their looks to get what they want—never learn to take other people’s feelings into account. To Melanie, all that matters is male attention. Let me tell you about our senior prom. Melanie went through four dates before the dance even took place, and then she couldn’t stop herself from dancing with the date of just about every girl in the room. She was prom queen, you know, so she thought it was her God-given right.

  POPPY:

  Did she dance with your date?

  PATSY:

  She did more than that. But that’s my point: Melanie has always just taken what she wanted, especially where men are concerned.

  POPPY:

  It seems like a long leap from date-stealing to murder, don’t you think?

  PATSY:

  Every killer has to start somewhere. My point is that Melanie has never cared about anyone but herself. She never believed that consequences applied to her, and I have no trouble believing she lashed out when she didn’t get exactly what she wanted for the first time in her charmed life.

  POPPY:

  Your book doesn’t address Lanie Buhrman’s testimony. If Melanie shot Chuck, why would Lanie say she saw Warren do it?

  PATSY:

  Maybe she did. Maybe Melanie convinced her son to do her dirty work, and he was the one to pull the trigger. Then again, I’ve been listening to your podcast. Lanie Buhrman is hardly trustworthy.

  chapter 9

  It was past midnight when I disconnected the earbuds from my phone. Melanie Cave. My stomach turned when I remembered how close I had been to her that afternoon, close enough to see the powder collecting in the lines around her eyes and smell peppermint on her breath. She had looked me directly in the eye and demanded the truth, but had she been honest herself? It seemed a bold move to bring on an investigative reporter if she was guilty, but then again, maybe it was a brilliant bluff. It made more sense than any of the other alternate suspects Poppy had floated, or that I had heard suggested back then—it even made more sense than Warren Cave. Melanie had motive—she had wanted our father, and he had (seemingly) used her. Could “You didn’t see anything” have been a threat rather than a plea?

  Wide-awake, I began searching the internet for reactions to the episode, desperate to know what other people thought about Melanie Cave. One post on Reddit in particular caught my eye.

  I think I saw Melanie Cave the night of Chuck Buhrman’s murder (self.reconsideredpodcast)

  submitted 1 day ago by conspiracytheroress

  I grew up on Cyan Court. In 2002, I was only seven, but I have this distinct memory of seeing a woman running through the trees the night Chuck Buhrman was killed. When I told my parents, they said that I must have been dreaming, but I’m sure of what I saw. I didn’t see a face or anything, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it must have been Melanie Cave, running to hide the murder weapon. I wish I still lived in Elm Park. I’d go looking for it.

  armchairdetective38 197 points 1 day ago

  How much of this memory came about after listening to episode 3? We know what time Melanie Cave called 911. She couldn’t have been running through the neighborhood.

  conspiracytheroress 54 points 1 day ago

  But we’re just assuming that she called 911 immediately. Maybe hiding the weapon didn’t take long, and then she ran home and called 911. How much do we really know about the timeline?

  notmyrealname 158 points 1 day ago

  You should call Poppy Parnell.

  realitycheck99 200 points 1 day ago

  You should call the police.

  armchairdetective38 87 points 1 day ago

  IF what you say is true.

  deathbydefamation 91 points 1 day ago

  so what’s your theory? that melanie cave killed chuck buhrman? or that she hid the gun for warren? d
on’t forget, lanie buhrman SAW warren cave

  spinner65 200 points 1 day ago

  AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHA you’re kidding right? Lanie Buhrman is a lying liar who lies.

  conspiracytheroress 32 points 1 day ago

  Maybe she got confused.

  I caught my breath. I could see how Lanie might have mistaken Melanie for her son. She might have camouflaged herself in his heavy metal T-shirts and black clothing, or maybe Lanie had only seen someone running into the Cave house and thought it was Warren. My stomach soured as I seriously considered for the first time that there might be some validity to Poppy Parnell’s theory.

  Suddenly, I remembered one afternoon the spring before our father died. It was one of our mother’s good days: we had just finished a lesson on biology that had involved planting seedlings in cups. Our mother had spilled soil all over herself, and she had gone upstairs to clean up while Lanie and I wiped down the worktable. There had been a knock on the door, and I, eager as always to avoid housekeeping, hurried to answer it. I found Melanie Cave on our porch, her usually careful hair mussed and her eyes red from crying.

  “Is your mother here?” she asked.

  “She’s not available,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”

  Melanie opened her coral-tinted mouth, and then shut it. Her green eyes watered.

  “Mrs. Cave?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

  “What are you doing here?” Lanie’s voice came from behind, suddenly cold.

  Melanie hesitated, and then said, “Peaches got away.” It took me a moment to understand she was talking about their cat. She gestured with her hands, indicating something the approximate size and shape of a football. “She’s about this big, white with tan spots. Have you seen her?”