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  “I’m so sorry, love,” he said softly. “I know your aunt was like a mother to you.”

  I stiffened at the reminder of my lies. Unaware, Caleb continued whispering comforting words in my ear. I didn’t deserve having this wonderful man console me when I had lied to him about my tragedy—the immediate one and the many others that made up my life—and I pushed him away.

  I yanked my suitcase from underneath the bed and flung open the closet. Shaking off Caleb’s attempts to help, I seized every article of black clothing within reach and threw them haphazardly into the suitcase. It didn’t matter what I wore. I wasn’t going home to impress anyone. I hoped I wouldn’t even see anyone, especially—

  I cringed, wondering if she was still in Elm Park, if he was. Ellen, a committed gossip, certainly knew, but she knew better than to breathe either of their names to me. I had made it abundantly clear that I wanted both of them erased from my life.

  “Yes, thank you,” I heard Caleb say clearly in the hallway. “I need to book travel from JFK to Chicago O’Hare, please . . . Today, if at all possible . . . Yes, I know I can do this online, but I need the bereavement fare.”

  Caleb’s nurturing spirit was what had first attracted me to him. We had met in Zanzibar, where he was working with underprivileged schoolchildren. I had been bumming around the idyllic island, ignoring not only the local Muslim sensibilities by drinking too much and wearing too little but also the very same children Caleb was trying to help. We had crossed paths in the night market when one of his students had approached me to practice her English. Caleb’s patience and kindness captivated me immediately; what he saw in me, I never understood.

  I peered around the corner to see him in our small hallway. He stood there in only his pajama bottoms, the phone hooked under his stubbled chin, a pencil in one hand and our grocery list, flipped over to make room for flight information, in the other. He was nodding and jotting notes even though his eyes were half closed and crusted over with sleep. In that moment, I would have given anything to stay with him, in this comfortable, happy life we’d constructed for ourselves, for just a bit longer. Just a few more afternoons spent drinking coffee beside him on the couch, tag-teaming the New York Times crossword puzzle; racing him to Prospect Park, dodging baby carriages and dogs the whole way; cooking curries together in the small kitchen, bumping elbows as we chopped onions and measured out spices; all the little things that made life worth living.

  “Yes, I need two tickets. The first passenger is Jo Borden. B-o-r-d-e-n. The second passenger is Caleb Perlman. P-e-r-l-m-a-n.”

  “No!” I objected suddenly. “Just one! Just me. Just one.”

  Caleb politely informed the airline representative he would call back and then turned to me with a befuddled expression. “What are you talking about? Don’t you want me to come to the funeral with you?”

  Of course I wanted Caleb to come with me. More than that, I needed him to come with me. There were very few people in my life on whom I thought I could rely, and Caleb was far and away the most solid of this small group. He kept me grounded, steady, and largely sane. If anyone could protect me from being drawn into the madness that was my family, it would be him.

  But, of course, it was my family that was the problem. I could still remember the sticky, moonless night that Caleb and I spent perched on a retaining wall overlooking the Indian Ocean, smoking cigarettes and talking until dawn. The whole thing had felt so cinematic that when he asked about my family, I not only trotted out my rehearsed lie about dead parents but I embellished it by killing them off in a car accident, borrowing details like the country road and the drunk driver from the deaths of my mother’s parents. He had looked appropriately sorry for asking, and I had nodded bravely and offered a half-truth about being raised by my aunt. I thought it a lie I would live with for a week at most, but I remained enmeshed in it five years later.

  “Caleb, honey, I want you to come. I do.” My voice quivered with emotion on that I do; I needed him to understand how much I really needed him. “But I can’t drag you to Illinois. You just got home. You need to rest, and I’m sure you have a ton of work waiting for you in the office.”

  “None of that matters. You matter. I want to take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Caleb sighed, his face softening. “I know, babe. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

  My aching heart warmed. Sometimes I worried Caleb had a savior complex, and that he mistook a desire to save me for love. I was buoyed to hear him cite one of my more redeemable qualities as a basis for his love, and I could not help but press for more. “Really?”

  Caleb smiled and smoothed back my ruined hair. “Really. You’re a very capable woman, Jo. You traveled the world on your own for years. I don’t know anyone else who could have done that, and I know a lot of travelers. Most people get burned out or can’t figure out a way to make money, but you kept yourself going for five years. I admire that kind of independence.”

  “Thank you,” I said, squeezing back a fresh round of tears. “But, Caleb, really, this is something I can handle on my own.”

  Caleb scratched his chin with the eraser end of the pencil. “How about this: you go to Illinois alone today, and see how you’re feeling. I’ll come whenever you need me. Just say the word, and I’ll be there. Okay?”

  I nodded in feigned agreement, fully intending to be back on the East Coast before Caleb got near a plane. Then I kissed him, trembling with the thought this might be one of the last times our lips met. Holding his face in my hands, I stared into his soft gray eyes, wondering if he could ever understand. If I came clean, if I got out ahead of things, could there be a chance to salvage our relationship? The truth sat on the tip of my tongue, but before I could open my mouth and release it, I swallowed it again.

  From the Elm Park Courier, published September 22, 2015

  Erin Ann Blake Buhrman, 49, passed away on September 20, 2015. The daughter of Patrick and Abigail Blake, Erin was born in Elm Park, Illinois, on February 8, 1966. On August 2, 1986, Erin married Charles “Chuck” Buhrman. Erin was preceded in death by her husband, her parents, and her brother, Dennis. She is survived by her daughters, Josephine and Madeline, and her sister, Amelia. A visitation will be held on Wednesday, September 23, at 2:00 p.m. at Wilhelm Funeral Home in Elm Park. A short funeral service and burial will take place on Friday, September 25, at 11:00 a.m. at Elm Park Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, the family suggests donations be made to the National Center for Suicide Prevention.

  chapter 4

  Two hours later, I called Ellen from Gate 25 at JFK, a stack of celebrity gossip magazines on my lap and a Red Eye from Starbucks in my hand.

  “Tell me you’re coming home,” she said in lieu of hello.

  “My flight boards in twenty minutes.”

  “Thank God. I have my mother on the other line, and she’s been crying for the last thirty minutes. I need reinforcements. When do you get in?”

  “Just after two. Are you going to pick me up, or should I rent a car?”

  “I’ll pick you up. Have a safe flight.”

  “Wait, Ellen.” I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself to ask my next question. “What about Lanie?”

  “Josie, I have to go.”

  “Don’t avoid the question. Will Lanie be there?”

  “Josie, my mother is in tears on the other line. I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ellen disconnected the call without another word.

  • • •

  My flight was delayed by more than two hours, during which time I jumped at least seven times thinking I had overheard my father’s name. Only once did that turn out to be the case. Agitated by the delay and my increasingly unmanageable paranoia, I tried to distract myself with Facebook.

  It was a ruse that worked for only a moment. Mentions of the podcast lurked among the usual barrage of cheerful announcements (engagements, babies, culinary successes) like snakes in the gr
ass. One link in particular caught my eye: Why Exactly Poppy Parnell Is Investigating That Chuck Buhrman Murder: An Interview with the Reconsidered Host.

  Yes, I thought. Why exactly is Poppy Parnell investigating this murder? Even though I knew I would regret it, I clicked through.

  Why Exactly Poppy Parnell Is Investigating That Chuck Buhrman Murder: An Interview with the Reconsidered Host

  by Eric Ashworth

  Everyone is listening to Reconsidered: The Chuck Buhrman Murder, right? If you’re not, stop whatever you’re doing and go download it. Right now. I’ll wait.

  Everyone with me now? Good.

  The serial podcast, hosted by blogger-cum-journalist Poppy Parnell and funded by the communications giant Werner Entertainment Company, promises to reconsider the 2002 murder of midwestern professor Chuck Buhrman in weekly, hour-long installments. The twist is that these podcasts haven’t been prerecorded, or even outlined. Parnell is investigating the case right now and is generating the podcasts in real time. A true-crime junkie’s wet dream, this format allows listeners to be intimately involved in the investigation. Parnell even welcomes armchair detectives to tweet leads and theories to her.

  Even more intriguing than the revolutionary format is the subject matter. The case doesn’t fit the mold for this type of investigative journalism. The murder of Chuck Buhrman is not a cold case. It’s not even unsolved.

  That’s right: the local police maintain that they got their guy. Within hours of the murder, a suspect—Warren Cave, the then seventeen-year-old neighbor—was arrested. Eyewitness testimony helped convict him, and he was sentenced to life in prison.

  It sounds like an open-and-shut case with not much to reconsider. In the first few minutes of the podcast, Parnell invites us to question whether Cave actually pulled the trigger. But why should we?

  Some elementary Googling turned up a small niche of online conspiracy theorists that have been espousing Cave’s innocence since the early ’00s. But you can find support for just about anything on the internet, and these are largely the kind of people who create websites in neon green fonts on black backgrounds and casually mention that 9-11 was an inside job. How—and why—did Parnell choose this case? And how did she get Werner Entertainment to back her?

  Even though she’s neck-deep in her investigation, Poppy Parnell, the brains (and beauty) behind Reconsidered, graciously granted me an interview so I could ask her just that.

  Q: First, Poppy, let me get this out of the way: I’m completely obsessed with Reconsidered. I’ve listened to each episode at least three times and I’ve been taking notes. I think I speak for most of us when I say that I had never heard of the Buhrman case until your podcast began. How did you get interested in it?

  A: My mother, actually. She met Melanie Cave at a gardening conference in Iowa last year, where they bonded over their shared love of heritage roses and hatred of aphids. When Melanie heard about my old blog and that I’m an investigative journalist, she asked my mother for my contact information. And here we are.

  Q: Ah, yes. Your roots as a humble blogger. Tell us about it. It was a true-crime blog, right?

  A: Yes, that’s right. From 2008 through 2013, I ran a blog called From the Unsolved Archives where I catalogued unsolved murders and kidnappings. It’s no secret that websites run by true-crime enthusiasts can get mired down with conspiracy theories, and I worked really hard to keep my blog firmly out of tin-foil-hat territory. I kept things strictly to the facts—while refusing to blindly adhere to the conventional interpretation of those facts. I’m really proud of the work I did there, and of course the blog laid the groundwork for my transition into an investigative reporter.

  Q: Let’s get back to the Buhrman murder. You want us to believe that Warren is innocent. But there was an eyewitness!

  A: Let me set the record straight: I take no position on Warren’s guilt or innocence. I assume I will eventually—but there’s a whole lot of investigating I have to do before I reach that point. For now, I just want my listeners to question the dominant narrative. The alleged eyewitness is an excellent example. Lanie Buhrman notably changed her story at least once on the night of the murder, so why should we believe her?

  Q: You think she’s lying?

  A: Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she was, as Melanie puts it, “confused.”

  Q: Don’t all mothers of accused murderers think their children are innocent? I mean, Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother probably thought he was innocent, too.

  A: I only have a passing familiarity with Dahmer’s case, so I can’t really speak to that. In general, though, I’d agree: most mothers probably believe—or at least want to believe—that their sons are incapable of gunning down the neighbors. When Melanie first contacted me, I’d assumed it was a case of maternal delusion. It wasn’t long, however, before I got the sense that she was onto something. There’s more to this case than meets the eye.

  Q: Like what? Give us some examples.

  A: Listen to the podcast! I don’t hold anything back.

  Q: All right, that’s fair. How did this project turn into the podcast?

  A: In the past, I’ve worked for Werner Entertainment Company as a consultant on some of their crime programs. I was having lunch with someone I met in that capacity, and I happened to mention my research. I had always envisioned the final product as an article, but my friend got really excited about it, and, before I knew it, the podcast was born.

  And aren’t we all glad to have it? The next installment of Reconsidered will be available for download tomorrow. Until then, I’ll be stalking Parnell’s Twitter account for additional clues. Leave your conspiracy theories in the comments, where they belong.

  The article was dated yesterday, meaning that a new episode was now available for download. Seemingly of their own volition, my fingers navigated to the Reconsidered website and clicked the Download Now button before I came to my senses. I regretted listening to the first two episodes; I hated the seeds of doubt that she had planted in my mind. Warren Cave is guilty, I reminded myself sternly. Do not listen to that podcast.

  Instead, I clicked back to the article and began skimming the comments before deciding that was an even worse idea. Emboldened by anonymity, the commenters had disgusting, hateful things to say about my mother, about my sister, things that far exceeded anything I had ever thought about them, and my anger toward both was legitimate and intense.

  Setting my phone to airplane mode, I told myself that I had been right not to involve Caleb in this mess. He could never understand my complicated family. How could he? The stark difference between Caleb’s family and mine had been obvious from the moment I met them, when Caleb and I had traveled to the South Island for Christmas. They were admirable people, all of them: his mother was a pediatrician, his father a carpenter, both earnest and dedicated to their jobs. His older sister Molly, a sleek, whip-smart barrister, had an amiable husband and two adorable, apple-cheeked children.

  I had been nervous about meeting Caleb’s family, especially on a religious holiday. I had long ago given up on organized religion, as my father being murdered and my mother joining a cult led me to believe there was no grand design and certainly no benevolent God. In contrast, the Perlmans took the birth of Jesus Christ quite seriously. It surprised me to see Caleb, a man who I had never known to attend church and who I had often heard rail against Christian ministries in Africa, go through the stand-sit-kneel motions of a Catholic mass, the prayers and responses tumbling from his mouth without hesitation. I worried my lack of faith embarrassed him, but neither he nor his family seemed bothered by my apathetic brand of atheism.

  It wasn’t until evening, after the third bottle of wine had been opened and Molly had beaten us all at rummy four times, that I began to loosen up, and fast on the heels of that relaxation came a pang of sadness. I would never have an adult relationship with my parents. My father had been taken from me when I was still a teenager; my mother had abandoned us and made it abundantly clear that she did not wan
t to be found. For the remainder of the holiday, anything that Mrs. Perlman did that reminded me vaguely of my own mother—baking cookies, reciting a poem, laughing a certain way—sent me into an internal tailspin.

  On the trip home to Auckland, I almost confessed. I was one breath away from telling Caleb everything, from the sudden, violent death of my father to the painful fading of my mother, even the heartache that Lanie had caused. But then I had recalled the warm hugs Caleb exchanged with his family, the clear love they shared, and I kept my mouth shut. He would never understand.

  • • •

  When we were finally permitted aboard the airplane, I found myself seated between a man who had already staked his claim to the shared armrest and a cheerful young woman with a drooling infant on her lap. I squeezed into my seat and immediately commenced battle for a portion of the armrest, which the man ceded with a grunt. As I buckled my seat belt, the woman handed me an index card with a miniature organza sack of jelly beans stapled to it.

  Hello! the card greeted me in pink bubble letters. My name is Rosie and this is my first time on an airplane! I am very excited about flying, but I might get scared or uncomfortable and I might cry. I don’t mean to disturb your flight! I hope you like these jelly beans!

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, forcing my tired, overstressed face into the approximation of a smile. “Jelly beans. Yum.”

  “If you don’t like those flavors, I have other options,” the woman said, opening her purse to reveal a collection of similar note cards.

  “These are great, thanks.”

  “This is her first time on a plane,” she continued. “Our ultimate destination is California. I purposefully took a layover in Chicago. Do you think that was stupid?”