Mike’s wallet.
For the last two and a half days, Andy had been studiously avoiding opening the wallet and staring at Mike’s handsome face, especially when she was lying in bed at night and trying not to think about him because he was a psychopath and she was pathetic.
She looked up at the farmhouse, then checked the driveway, then opened the wallet.
“Oh for fucksakes,” she muttered.
He had four different driver’s licenses, each of them pretty damn good forgeries: Michael Knepper from Alabama; Michael Davey from Arkansas; Michael George from Texas; Michael Falcone from Georgia. There was a thick flap of leather dividing the wallet. Andy picked it open.
Holy shit.
He had a fake United States marshal badge. Andy had seen the real thing before, a gold star inside of a circle. It was a good replica, as convincing as all of the fake IDs. Whoever his forger was had done a damn good job.
There was a tap at the window.
“Fuck!” Andy dropped the wallet as her hands flew up.
Then her mouth dropped open, because the person who had knocked on the window looked a hell of a lot like Clara Bellamy.
“You,” the woman said, a bright smile to her lips. “What are you doing sitting out here in this dirty truck?”
Andy wondered if her eyes were playing tricks, or if she had looked at so many YouTube videos that she was seeing Clara Bellamy everywhere. The woman was older, her face lined, her long hair a peppered gray, but undoubtedly Andy was looking at the real-life person.
Clara said, “Come on, silly. It’s chilly out here. Let’s go inside.”
Why was she talking to Andy like she knew her?
Clara pulled open the door. She held out her hand to help Andy down.
“My goodness,” Clara said. “You look tired. Has Andrea been keeping you up again? Did you leave her at the hotel?”
Andy opened her mouth, but there was no way to answer. She looked into Clara’s eyes, wondering who the woman saw staring back at her.
“What is it?” Clara asked. “Do you need Edwin?”
“Uh—” Andy struggled to answer. “Is he—is Edwin here?”
She looked at the area in front of the barn. “His car isn’t here.”
Andy waited.
“I just put Andrea down for a nap,” she said, as if she hadn’t two seconds ago asked if Andrea was at the hotel.
Did she mean Andrea as in Andy, or someone else?
Clara said, “Should we have some tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She looped her arm through Andy’s and led her back toward the farmhouse. “I have no idea why, but I was thinking about Andrew this morning. What happened to him.” She put her hand to the base of her throat. She had started to cry. “Jane, I’m so very sorry.”
“Uh—” Andy had no idea what she was talking about, but she felt a strange desire to cry, too.
Andrew? Andrea?
Clara said, “Let’s not talk about depressing things today. You’ve got enough of that going on in your life right now.” She pushed open the front door with her foot. “Now, tell me how you’ve been. Are you all right? Still having trouble sleeping?”
“Uh,” Andy said, because apparently that’s all she was capable of coming up with. “I’ve been . . .” She tried to think of something to say that would keep this woman talking. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
“Oh, so much. I’ve been clipping magazine photos with ideas for the nursery and working on some scrapbooks from my glory years. The worst kind of self-aggrandizement, but you know, it’s such a strange thing—I’ve forgotten most of my performances. Have you?”
“Uh . . .” Andy still didn’t know what the hell the woman was talking about.
Clara laughed. “I bet you remember every single one. You were always so sharp that way.” She pushed open a swinging door with her foot. “Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”
Andy realized she was in another kitchen with another stranger who might or might not know everything about her mother.
“I think I have some cookies.” Clara started opening cupboards.
Andy took in the kitchen. The space was small, cut off from the rest of the house, and probably not much changed since it was built. The metal cabinets were painted bright teal. The countertops were made from butcher’s blocks. The appliances looked like they belonged on the set of The Partridge Family.
There was a large whiteboard on the wall by the fridge. Someone had written:
Clara: it’s Sunday. Edwin will be in town from 1–4pm. Lunch is in the fridge. Do not use the stove.
Clara turned on the stove. The starter clicked several times before the gas caught. “Chamomile?”
“Uh—sure.” Andy sat down at the table. She tried to think of some questions to ask Clara, like what year it was or who was the current president, but none of that was necessary because you don’t put notes on a board like that unless a person has memory problems.
Andy felt an almost overwhelming sadness that was quickly chased by a healthy dose of guilt, because if Clara had early-onset Alzheimer’s, then what had happened to her last week was gone, but what had happened to her thirty-one years ago was probably close to the surface.
Andy asked, “What colors were you thinking of for the nursery?”
“No pinks,” Clara insisted. “Maybe some greens and yellows?”
“That sounds pretty.” Andy tried to keep her talking. “Like the sunflowers outside.”
“Yes, exactly.” She seemed pleased. “Edwin says we’ll try as soon as this is over, but I don’t know. It seems like we should start now. I’m not getting any younger.” She put her hand to her stomach as she laughed. There was something so beautiful about the sound that Andy felt it pull at her heart.
Clara Bellamy exuded kindness. To try to trick her felt dirty.
Clara asked, “How are you feeling, though? Are you still exhausted?”
“I’m better.” Andy watched Clara pour cold water into two cups. She hadn’t heated the kettle. The flame flickered high on the stove. Andy stood up to turn it off, asking, “Do you remember how we met? I was trying to recall the details the other day.”
“Oh, so horrible.” Her fingers went to her throat. “Poor Andrew.”
Andrew again.
Andy sat back down at the table. She wasn’t equipped for this kind of subterfuge. A smarter person would know how to get information out of this clearly troubled woman. Paula Kunde would likely have her singing like a bird.
Which gave Andy an idea.
She tried, “I saw Paula a few days ago.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “I hope you didn’t call her that.”
“What else would I call her?” Andy tried. “Bitch?”
Clara laughed as she sat down at the table. She had put tea bags in the cold water. “I wouldn’t say that to her face. Penny would probably just as soon see us all dead right now.”
Penny?
Andy mulled the word around in her head. And then she remembered the dollar bill that Paula Kunde had shoved into her hand. Andy was wearing the same jeans from that day. She dug into her pocket and found the bill wadded into a tight ball. She smoothed it out on the table. She slid it toward Clara.
“Ah.” Clara’s lips turned up mischievously. “Dumb Bitch, reporting for duty.”
Another spectacular success.
Andy had to stop being subtle. She asked, “Do you remember Paula’s last name?”
Clara’s eyebrow went up. “Is this some sort of test? Do you think I can’t remember?”
Andy tried to decipher Clara’s suddenly sharp tone. Was she irritated? Had Andy ruined her chances?
Clara laughed, breaking the tension. “Of course I remember. What’s gotten into you, Jane? You’re acting so strange.”
Jane?
Clara said the name again. “Jane?”
Andy played with the string on her tea bag. The water had turned orange. “I’ve forgotten, is the problem. She’s using a different name now.”
“Penny?”
Penny?
“I just—” Andy couldn’t keep playing these games. “Just tell me, Clara. What’s her last name?”
Clara reeled back at the demand. Tears seeped from her eyes.