Chapter 25
I JERK AWAKE. MY legs kick out. My head flies up. Maybe I scream? At the last second, I do my best to choke off the gasp, old habits dying hard.
Round wooden table. Gray linoleum floor. Ugly drop ceiling. The sheriff’s department. I have fallen asleep with my head on the conference room table, still clutching the pale yellow quilt.
Wyatt and Kevin are no longer sitting across from me. Instead, Wyatt stands near the door and there’s a dark-haired woman beside him. She wears dress jeans, black leather boots and a tailored navy-blue jacket that brings out the color of her eyes. There is something about the way they are standing that captures my attention. Together, but separate. I have a sense of déjà vu. Thomas and me.
“Nicole Frank?” the woman asks. Her voice is low and firm, a voice of authority.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember me? My name is Tessa Leoni. We spoke on the phone. Wednesday night.”
Something clicks in the back of my head. I glance at Wyatt.
“Sergeant Foster contacted me on your behalf,” the woman provides, as if reading my mind. “He thought, given present circumstances, you might appreciate some assistance.”
“You’re not a lawyer.”
“No. I’m a private security specialist.”
I can’t help myself; I smile. “My life is so bad I require a specialist.”
The woman returns my smile. She’s not beautiful, I think, but striking. Hard angles. Strong jaw. Her smile is not soft, but reassuring. Her stance is not relaxed but confident. She doesn’t look like a person who was given a private security title. She looks like a woman who’s earned it.
Now she turns to Wyatt, and there is something in his gaze . . .
He would stare at her forever if he could. The way Thomas once looked at me.
“Are you filing charges against my client?” she asks him.
“We have some questions—”
“Which I’m sure can wait until she’s had a chance to clean up, eat a meal.”
“We did offer her bread and water,” Wyatt deadpans.
“Please, I’ve seen your vending machine.”
They have a history. I want to tell them to stand closer. I want to tell them to talk less, listen more. Hold this moment. I think I’m going to cry. It’s the mood swings, I tell myself, just another side effect of multiple head traumas.
It’s not that I’ve woken up for the first time in twenty-two years in a world without Thomas.
Both of them are looking at me. The woman doesn’t ask questions; she tells me what we’re doing next.
“You’re coming with me. I’m going to get you situated in a hotel, order you some food, find you some clothes. You’re my client, so please know anything you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. This guy, however, can’t say the same, so I’d advise waiting on the rest of this conversation until we’re alone.”
She turns to Wyatt. “How watertight is your department these days?”
“Now, now, don’t piss me off.”
“We need time.” Tessa’s voice softens. “She needs time.” She jerks her head toward me. “Twenty-four hours?”
“Can’t make any guarantees. Missing kids belong to the feds. And kids who magically reappear after being gone thirty years . . .”
“There are cable news execs getting fluttering feelings in their heartless chests as we speak,” she fills in.
“Exactly.”
Tessa doesn’t talk again until we’ve left the building. She leads me straight to a dark Lexus SUV with a beautiful tan leather interior. I think of my Audi, and it already seems so long ago, a vehicle for a different woman in a different life that never could’ve been me.
When we get in the car, she locks the doors.
“How are you?” she asks without preamble. “I understand you’ve suffered from multiple concussions. Do you require medical attention? Do we need to pick up any ibuprofen, painkillers, Band-Aids, chocolate doughnuts, whatever, to help you?”
“I like ice packs.”
“I can make that happen. When did you last sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“Nine A.M.”
“Then I slept the past few hours at the station.”
Tessa nods, pulls out of the parking lot. “Do you remember me?” she asks as she pulls onto the main road.
“We talked on the phone Wednesday. But you weren’t the investigator who first took my case . . .”
“No. Originally you met with Diane Fieldcrest. But she got hung up on another assignment. I just happened to be having a slow week, so I offered to help her out. To be honest, I don’t normally handle such routine assignments. But once I realized who you were looking for . . .”
I don’t say anything.
Tessa glances at me. Her hands are sure on the wheel. “You don’t owe me anything,” she continues matter-of-factly. “You hired Northledge to locate a woman. I ran the background, discovered the requested information and reported back to you. After that, what happens is your business, not ours.”
I don’t say anything.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she repeats. “You do, however, need to understand exactly what you’re about to be up against.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fact one, you’re a missing person who is essentially, thirty years later, returning from the dead.”
I wince.
“The media loves this stuff. As in, if we can keep reporters at bay until after lunch, I’ll be shocked.”
I stare at her. I haven’t considered any of this.
“They’re going to ask questions,” Tessa continues. “Starting with, why didn’t you come forward before now? If you were abducted at six, but somehow got away . . . Why have you waited this long to find your family? What have you been doing all these years?”
I can’t speak. My heart is pounding too hard. I can feel a tremendous sense of pressure building in my chest. Like a grave, I think wildly. They have no idea.
“Nicky, you’re in trouble.”
I open my mouth. I close my mouth. Finally, I nod.
“I know it, you know it, Wyatt knows it. Frankly, that’s why he called me. Now, I’m going to start with the obvious. I’m going to check you into a hotel under an assumed name. I’m going to find you clothes, including the proverbial oversize sunglasses and bulky hats. Also, we’re going to find you a lawyer, and I mean ASAP. But even then, Nicky, you’re in trouble.
“You have thirty years to account for. You have a husband who might be an arsonist. You have a motor vehicle accident that may be the result of a felony DWI.”
She turns to me. “You have a family, Nicky. You have a mom, who’s lived forty miles from you for the past six months, and you never even let her know you were alive.
“Nicky, on behalf of all the reporters and really bored community members who are about to zero in on your life: What the hell do you have to say for yourself?”
I don’t have any answers.
I hold my quilt. And I find myself thinking once again, flying is not the hard part; the landing is.
* * *
TESSA FINDS US a hotel. Not a major chain, but a smaller operation near a ski resort where hotel rooms outnumber the local population ten to one. This will make it harder for the reporters to track us down, I realize.
She leaves me in the car to book the room. When she returns, she drives to the back of the hotel, where it turns out she’s gotten us a second-floor walkup. There are no buildings across from the hotel, meaning there is no way for anyone, say, a photographer with a telephoto lens, to find us. I realize I’m starting to think the way she thinks, or maybe I’ve known these things all along. Back of the hotel is more secure than the front. Lower level too accessible, second floor easier to control.
The room is basic but nice. Two queen beds, relatively new beige carpet, flat-screen TV. There is the obligatory picture of a moose on one wall, a photo of a snowcapped mountain on the other. Could be any hotel in the North Country, I think, which makes it perfect.
Tessa has a small overnight bag with her. Obviously, I have my quilt.
She places her bag on the bed closest to the door, so I set the quilt down on the other bed.
“Are you staying?” I ask. By which I really mean, are we sharing a room? The thought already has me uncomfortable. Like I traded in one set of jailors—Wyatt and Kevin—for another.
Tessa doesn’t answer, just takes a seat at the foot of the bed. She’s already drawn the curtains. Now she turns on the TV, finds a cable news channel, sets the volume on low.
“All right, we have some basics to cover.”
I don’t know what else to do, so I sit.
“Are you hungry?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll bring you food. Write up what you want; I’ll take care of it. But no room service. Not yet. Draws attention.”
“How long are we staying here?”
“I have no idea. My turn: Where is your husband?”
I decide to play along: “I have no idea.”
She smiles. “Let me clarify some things. I imagine Diane had this initial conversation with you, but given the post-concussive syndrome and the fact you barely remember employing Northledge at all—”
“I’m pretty sure I did,” I interject.
“Can you describe our Boston office?”
I try, come up blank.
She nods. “Exactly. So when you hired Northledge to track down Marlene Bilek, you handed over a large deposit, a retainer check to be used to cover the expenses of that search. In your case, you handed over a cashier’s check.”
She pauses a beat. I fill in the rest. “I couldn’t use a personal check. I didn’t want Thomas to know.”
“Fair enough. The firm never minds being paid in cash. But the truth is, tracking down Marlene Bilek took about fifteen minutes of my time. Meaning, we didn’t come close to burning through the retainer. You are, by virtue of your money sitting in our account, a client in good standing.”
“Okay.”
“This makes me the investigator handling your case. Couple of things you should know. The first principle of our firm is that your privacy is our most important asset. I need you to be honest with me. I can help you best if you are honest with me.”
I study her. I think I’m getting good at this game: “But?”
“But while a private investigator can offer her client confidentiality, our relationship still doesn’t rise to the level of privilege. For example, anything you say to a doctor or a lawyer is automatically protected in a court of law. I’m only your investigator, not a doctor or lawyer.”
“Meaning you can be forced to disclose what I tell you.”
“I can be subpoenaed, yes, much like a reporter. At which time I can protect my source, so to speak, and be found in contempt of court, or I can disclose the information.”
“Contempt of court equals jail time. Why would you want to go to jail for me?”
Tessa tilts her head to the side. “I don’t know, Nicky. Why would I want to go to jail for you?”
“You need me to be truthful,” I say at last. “But you also need me to be careful. For both our sakes.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to try to make it easier for both of us.”
“How so?”
“Wyatt . . . Sergeant Foster—”
“Wyatt. You know him. You have a relationship.”
“We’ve worked together before.”
“This isn’t a court of law,” I tell her. “You’re not under subpoena.”
Tessa smiles, still doesn’t take the bait. “Wyatt says you claimed you were kidnapped and held as a sex slave. In a fancy home, maybe a Victorian, probably somewhere in the greater Boston area. You referred to it as a dollhouse.”
“Yes.”
“There were other girls there. At least one roommate, but most likely dozens more.”
“It was a big house.”
“And the clients who frequented, we’re talking successful men, well-to-do. This was an elite operation.”
I shrug. “Perverts come in all socioeconomic classes.”
“Trust me, I know. This was a sophisticated operation, yes? You weren’t the first girl taken, nor the last.”
I can’t look at her anymore. “No.”
She nods. “The police are going to look for the dollhouse. This kind of sex-trafficking operation, the resources it would take, the players involved. I bet they already have a few ideas of where to start. Given your situation, however, I have a different idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nicky, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re not the first girl to have gotten away?”
I can’t help myself. I stare at her blankly. No, I’ve never thought such a thing.
“Maybe,” Tessa continues now, “there are more of you out there. And that would be a good thing, Nicky. There’s strength in numbers. It bolsters your story. It takes some of the pressure off you. It would mean, by definition, you’re not alone.”
I can’t speak; I can’t breathe. Another girl. Would that be a good thing? Sisters in arms? Or . . . I can’t sit anymore. I get up and pace.
“Thirty years ago,” Tessa is saying, “the investigative landscape was very different. ViCAP, a database for linking criminal cases from around the country, was just getting started. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children had barely been founded. All in all, it was very difficult for law enforcement agencies from different jurisdictions to compare notes. Meaning a six-year-old girl could be kidnapped from a park here, while a twelve-year-old runaway disappeared from a shelter there, and an eight-year-old delinquent never came home from the mall, and no one would necessarily connect the dots. We know better now, and I’d like to use that to our advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a friend. A Boston detective who currently has some time on her hands. I’m going to ask her to go back through thirty years of missing-kid cases, from all over New England, to see if she can connect some dots. If we can establish just how many girls they were taking, and how, and from where, that would enable us to corroborate your story. It might also help identify the players involved.”
I walk away from her. Check out the flat-screen TV. I’m rubbing my arms, though I’m not sure why. I’m not cold but I’m covered in goose bumps.
I miss Thomas. I wonder where he is right now. Where is he going and what is he doing? Right or wrong, I wish he was here.
“Why are you hiring someone else?” I mumble. “Can’t you just ask around yourself?”
Tessa doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her question takes me off guard.
“Do you know what a Chinese wall is?”
I shake my head, already confused. I need more sleep. My head hurts.
“A Chinese wall is an informational barrier constructed within a firm for the sake of ethical integrity. For example, in a law firm, if investigating one client’s case might result in identifying information that was detrimental to another client, the firm could construct a Chinese wall. Essentially, the company would establish two separate investigative efforts, operating independently and not sharing information, thus enabling itself to serve both clients without compromising ethics.”
I frown, still confused. “But I’m your only client. How is hiring someone not to tell you what they learn helpful?”
“She would tell it to you, just maybe not to me.” Tessa hesitates. When she speaks again, her tone is careful. “Northledge is a top-notch investigative firm. With an impressive list of wealthy and respectable clients. Now, according to you, the customers at the dollhouse . . .”
“Wealthy and respectable clients.” I spit out the words.
“Exactly. I could do the research. But what I might find and have to present to my own bosses . . . It’s cleaner this way, for both of us. And trust me, this detective I’d like to hire, D. D. Warren. If she identified the governor himself exploiting young girls, she’d slap him in handcuffs. If there’s something to find, any kind of trail to be picked up from thirty years ago, she can do it.”
I nod, but I don’t feel reassured. This Chinese wall protects Tessa and her firm’s roster of wealth and privilege. What I need is a Chinese wall for me. Some kind of defense to protect who I am now from what I once did. Except maybe there is no protection for that. Which is why I spend most of my days both forgetting who I am and yet still searching for Vero.
“One last thing,” Tessa says quietly.
“What?”
“Your mom. Nicky, Thomas may be gone, but you still have a family. Don’t you think it’s time to finally call them?”
“You don’t understand,” I whisper. “Vero is six years old. She is gone. She disappears.”
But then I remember something else. A view from outside a house on a rainy night. A young girl sitting on a sofa.
I open my mouth. No words come out.
Tessa is waiting for me to speak. She is patient. Wyatt is patient. The whole world is waiting for me.
I want to lie down in the dark, ice pack on my head. I want to cover myself in the quilt. I want to close my eyes and be alone with Vero.
We will sip scotch out of teacups. I will watch the maggots crawl around her shiny white skull.
I will apologize once more for everything I’ve done.
Maybe this time, she will forgive me. Because no one ever got out of the dollhouse alive.
“Nicole?” Tessa asks quietly.
The memories are shifting again. Cold, dark shadows that heave and menace. Nothing comforting, nothing enlightening.
I understand for the first time, the truth is not all out yet. And maybe not even the kind of truth that will set me free. Thomas had tried to warn me, but I hadn’t listened. Now here I am. Shivering in dread. Nearly choking on the bile of my own fear. Something, something in that darkness looms.
All these years later, is still waiting for me . . .
“Nicky?”
Tessa’s voice comes from a distance. I use it to anchor myself, pull myself back to the present.
She must see something in my eyes, because she takes my hand, helps me take a seat on the edge of one of the beds.
“Nicky, picture the dollhouse. A room, a piece of furniture, some aspect of that home, then breathe in deep and tell me what you smell. Nothing too scary or overwhelming. Just an association that comes immediately to mind.”
Funny, I don’t have to think too hard. As she said, a fragrance comes immediately to mind.
“Freshly mowed grass.”
Tessa doesn’t question or debate my choice. She simply rises to standing. “I need to run a few errands for us. I recommend using the time to freshen up. Because the moment I return, we are getting to work.”