Janie Face to Face

CHAPTER NINE




Monday after lunch with her New Jersey parents, Janie drove up to Connecticut in Donna’s car.

No matter which bridge she took over the Hudson River, it was the wrong one. No matter how she timed this trip to avoid commuter traffic, she hit traffic. No matter how often she told herself that once she hit Connecticut the traffic would thin out, it never did.

It was only four days since her last trip to Connecticut. Four days since Miranda met and enjoyed Michael Hastings. Miranda would want to talk about Michael. Which meant Janie would have to discuss Calvin Vinesett’s book.

Michael was all lies, she thought, navigating the tricky connection from the GW Bridge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. But that’s true of many people in my life. My Connecticut parents—my sturdy suburban straight-arrow parents—are world-class liars. When I first recognized myself on the milk carton, they even told me about their decision to lead a life of lies.

Miranda had insisted that she and Frank never wrote to Hannah again. Never telephoned. Never sent their real daughter a birthday present or a Christmas card. “We let her vanish,” said Miranda, who had wept.

Her father shed no tears. Janie had assumed he was too manly for weeping. But he was protecting yet another lie. A life built on lies must be shored up, day after day, fib after fib. Did the man inside Frank’s ruined body know what he had done? Did he continue to believe that he had done the best and only thing?

As for Michael, Janie believed that he had not thought particularly about telling lies. He had a chance to sidle into publishing, and he took it. The fun of being a spy without the risk of going to war.

Michael had lost his gamble. Janie had given him very little. He could contribute nothing to Calvin Vinesett’s book.

As for Frank and Miranda, she still loved them. But she loved them differently. She loved them sadly.

Last year she and her mother had had a terrible confrontation. Frank’s illness had taken such a toll, and that day, Miranda cried, “You aren’t helping me enough. You aren’t visiting your father enough! You only loved him when he was healthy and handsome. I need you, Janie! We both need you!”

“I’m going to tell you the truth,” said Janie cruelly. “Frank has always known where Hannah is. He’s been supporting her all these years. I found the checkbook and the bank account he used. He sent a check every month to a post office box in Boulder, Colorado. For your sake and his, when I put a stop to that, I didn’t tell the FBI, so they didn’t catch Hannah. Every time I look at Frank, I know that he chose to take care of the woman who destroyed my real family. I love him, Mom, but not as much. It has nothing to do with his health. It has to do with his decision to protect Hannah.”

Miranda did not ask for more information. She sat there and dwindled away, like a creature in a nightmare, getting smaller and smaller. She never said whether she already knew. She never said a word about Hannah. Did Miranda’s heart and arms yearn to hold her real daughter again? Or was her heart frozen against the horror of what Hannah had become? Would Miranda have tried to find Hannah herself, if she had known where Hannah went every month? She never said, and Janie never asked.

Janie made it to the Merritt Parkway, a good road because it was so pretty and a bad road because it was so narrow. She ached to talk to Reeve, or at least text him, and know that he was emotionally at her side. But he was working. She could not bother him at work. He would tell her it wasn’t a bother. But it would be.

She turned up the radio to distract herself.

At last, she arrived. The Harbor was a pretty place with a flowery front garden and tall trees. She signed in at the front desk. “Hi, Grace.”

“Why, hey there, Janie. You were just here the other day. Your parents will be so happy to see you again so soon.”

Janie went through the lovely sitting area and said hello to people who had lost pieces of themselves; ancient decrepit people, struggling to breathe or remember. Her father needed to be here, but, oh, poor Miranda!

Janie took the stairs instead of the elevator, which was incredibly slow.

Few apartments at the Harbor were locked, because the aides had to go in and out so often. Michael had been fascinated by that. Would Michael tell Calvin Vinesett that there were no locks? But Calvin Vinesett had so little interest that he assigned somebody else to visit her parents. So what if the author of the book knew that not even a bolt stood between him and two helpless residents?

Janie knocked and went in. Her father sat in his wheelchair. Miranda was massaging her husband’s feet, which had poor circulation and had turned a ghastly mottled purple.

This wreck was the wonderful dad of her childhood. Janie was glad that Frank himself did not know how bad it was. She flooded herself with the images of this once-fine man. Every picnic at the beach and ball game in the backyard. Every soccer game coached and piano practice timed. Every shared evening watching TV and fixing snacks and tucking under the afghan.

She looked at his big hands, which had held and thrown so many footballs, now trembling on his lap.

Abruptly and completely, she didn’t care anymore that those hands had written the checks that paid the bills of her kidnapper.

It’s okay, Daddy. You did the best you could. And now it’s over. And thank God I still love you. And I believe, wherever you are inside that body, that you love me.

Frank and Miranda looked up in astonishment. Janie was swept by love for them; by respect for their courage. She hugged them hard and found herself sobbing and her mother said, “Darling, tell me everything. What’s wrong?” and her father mumbled, “N cry.” Don’t cry.

She kissed his cheek.

“I’m crying because I’m happy,” she said, which was not true. Who could be happy, seeing Frank’s destruction? “You will absolutely never guess what. I flew down to Charlotte Friday afternoon to spend the weekend with Reeve.”

“Reeve?” said her mother. “What about Michael?”

“He turned out to be a dud. We never have to think about him again.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Michael was charming. And so sweet to your father.”

“He’s history,” said Janie firmly. “Here’s the news. Reeve asked me to marry him.”

Her mother’s jaw dropped.

Janie handed over her cell. “Watch this video.”

Miranda held the iPhone awkwardly and frowned at the first muddled moment of the airport scene and then gasped as it unfolded. “Oh, Janie! That is so romantic! That is beyond romantic!”

Janie took the phone back. “Look, Daddy. Can you see the screen? Do I have it at the right angle?”

He reached for the phone and managed to hold it himself. They crowded together to see it again. Her father’s eyes twinkled in the old way.

“Reeve can really kiss, can’t he?” said Miranda, giggling. “You’ll have a long engagement, won’t you? You won’t finish college for two years and I know you’ll want to stay in New England. I’m sure Reeve is hoping to earn a transfer or promotion so he can get out of there anyway.”

“He loves it there,” said Janie. “And so do I. And here’s the really big news. We’re getting married July eighth.”

“A month after your college graduation? That works. Two years is enough time for planning.”

“July eighth right now,” said Janie. “A month and a half from today.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said her mother dismissively. “You can’t get married now. You’re barely twenty years old. What will your New Jersey parents say? I know Reeve’s parents will disapprove. They have high hopes for Reeve and getting married too young is a poor decision. No. You must rethink this, Janie.”

The door opened and in came two dietary aides. “Hey, Ms. Johnson,” they said. “Hey, Mr. Johnson. Oh, look, your beautiful daughter is visiting for supper. We’ll bring a tray up for you, too, Janie. It’s such a good meal tonight. Lemon chicken, carrot-raisin salad, orzo, broccoli, a nice dinner roll, and chocolate pudding.”

They set Frank’s meal on a rolling hospital tray while Janie opened the card table for herself and her mother. A shocking contrast to the long slow meals in the formal dining room they had enjoyed for so many years.

When the aides had left, Janie said, “Mom. You know I love you. I’ve managed to be two daughters at one time, but I can’t have weddings in two places. The wedding will be at Our Lady of Grace, the Springs’ parish. Father John will perform the wedding. The reception will be in the Springs’ backyard. But you’ll be there and you’ll also be my parents. I will have two mothers of the bride and two fathers of the bride. Donna is reserving a wing at the motel for everybody to stay, and a handicapped room for you and Daddy.”

Miranda swallowed hard. A few tears slid down her cheek.

Was Miranda wishing that she was the real and only mother of Janie? Wishing that her real daughter, Hannah, could have had a middle-class life and a wedding among friends?

Janie realized that she did not care. It was okay to love extra people and be torn. “Mom? Will you be okay? Tell me.”

“A person always weeps over a wedding,” said Miranda bravely. “Reeve is a lovely boy. He will be a delightful son-in-law.”

But Reeve would not be Miranda’s son-in-law. He would be Donna Spring’s son-in-law.

They talked about Reeve and what fun it had been living next door to his family and whether Mrs. Shields was reacting well to the news of a wedding in seven weeks. Not likely. Mrs. Shields mainly reacted well to things she controlled.

When dinner was over, Frank took his wife’s hand. Their hands were so old! Their joints had swollen and their veins had knotted. Her father patted Miranda’s fingers, repeating something neither woman could understand.

“The ring,” said Miranda finally. “He’s tugging on my diamond.”

“Reeve didn’t give me a diamond ring, Daddy,” Janie told him. “Maybe we’ll do that some other year.”

He mumbled a long sentence whose only clear word was “wedding.”

“The wedding will be in New Jersey, Daddy. In church. You’ll be there, because you’re the father of the bride. We’ll get a tux for you too. You’ll look so handsome.”

“Far de bide,” he said.

“Father of the bride,” she agreed.

“Come?” he said clearly.

Janie knelt beside him. “Oh, Daddy, yes. I need you there.”

She met her mother’s eyes. “But here’s the thing, Daddy. I have another father. My New Jersey father. Jonathan Spring. And another mother. Donna Spring. And I want to get married as my real legal self.” Janie clasped her father’s hand and drew her mother’s in and held their hands in hers. “I will say my vows as Jennie Spring,” she told them. “The days of Janie Johnson are over. And then I will be Jennie Shields. So my name is Jennie now.”

She had never asked these parents to call her Jennie. She had forced the real parents to say Janie.

I’ve been a terrible person, she thought. But I had terrible decisions to make. And I wasn’t ready.

Maybe nobody is ever ready for a terrible decision.

“Even I’m not used to the name Jennie,” she said, trying to smile. “Reeve is going to have cue cards so he can remember to say Jennie during the ceremony. But that’s the wedding present I want from everybody. Even from you. My name. Jennie.”

• • •

Reeve had lost himself in work. Mondays were especially busy. Right now they were preparing for the College World Series. It wasn’t until everybody began knocking off that Reeve remembered he led a life outside of work. He had not checked his phone in some time.

Many people had texted and called. Especially Janie. He read her messages, following her through the long drive and difficult visit to Connecticut.

If I don’t tell her that I was offered a position in Connecticut, thought Reeve, then I’m not letting her be part of the decision. Aren’t wives and husbands supposed to share important decisions?

He wanted Janie to think about china and curtains and stuff. Where she would finish college and what she would do with that degree. He wanted her to have ordinary problems, like parking or shoes. He wanted to carry her away from the grip of the kidnap and the double parents.

They would live in his one-bedroom apartment, which was in a pleasant complex surrounded by trees and running trails. He even meant to go running one of these days. He had seriously been thinking of getting tableware, because the little plastic forks he got with takeaway food kept breaking. But then he’d have to find time to go shopping, and find out where you did that shopping, and somehow it never worked out.

Janie loved shopping. This was good. They would divide household tasks. She would shop. Of course, it’s easier to shop if there’s money.

Reeve had been in the weddings of one brother and one sister. Those weddings had been like architecture, undergoing design and revision for a year. At his wedding, all he had to do was show up with his shoes polished. He moved through Janie’s texts, assuming that she had assignments for him. Her most recent text said, Want to visit again soon.

Can’t afford another ticket soon, he wrote back.

I’ll drive, she wrote. Only 14 hours.

Reeve did it in twelve. She obviously intended to drive the speed limit. He made a mental note that when the two of them went on trips, he would drive.

What do we need to talk about? he texted.

I wasn’t thinking about talking. XOXOXOXO.

On the bench in Boulder, sitting in the dark, Kathleen watched the video yet again.

She had a wedding vision: herself in a white gown, and an aisle, flowers and guests and music. But she could not put Stephen into this vision. Stephen dreamed of being a geologist—going down shafts or up mountains; going to Mongolia or Tanzania or the isolated land of northernmost Canada. But basically, just going. On his own in a world of risk and tough odds. He did not dream of weddings.

“I mean, think about it,” said Stephen. “Reeve’s in a big city. Has a fabulous job. Famous athletes and coaches roam all over his office. He has no responsibilities except at work. And he wants to change all that and get married.”

What would the wedding be like? Kathleen wondered.

Would it be formal? Would there be a bridal shower?

Would there be bridesmaids?

Would that snippy sister, Jodie, be a bridesmaid?

Would Janie remember that her older brother, Stephen, had a girlfriend?

Would Janie think of inviting the girlfriend?

Would Stephen think of putting Kathleen’s name on the guest list?

Would Stephen even know there was such a thing as a guest list?

I want to be at Janie’s wedding, thought Kathleen. I want to be at my own wedding.

She was glad it was dark and Stephen could not see her face or the tears shining in her eyes.

Stephen said, “So now we have the names of the three possible Hannahs. That’s what we’ll do tomorrow. Go look at them.”

“We both have to work,” said Kathleen faintly.

“I’m getting a substitute,” said Stephen.

She was not going to be left out of Hannah hunts. “Me too,” said Kathleen.


Jodie told her supervisor and the nuns that she wanted to leave now, because of an upcoming wedding. They hugged and kissed and told her how wonderful she was, and how of course she must go home for that great celebration! They gave her a party, and somebody somewhere managed to bake a cake, and all the children came, and she photographed them on her cell phone so she could keep them in her hand.

She loved Haiti. She loved Haitians. But now she was going home to party. The family’s first wedding!

Jodie had expected to return from Haiti as the star of her family, the one who had handed her life to charity, done good work, and helped save the world. Everybody would want to see her photos and videos and hear every bit of her story. But no. The lost sister had center stage again.

From the nuns, Jodie had learned to pray for patience.

She smiled at God and said silently, So I need even more of it, God. Janie’s a big patience taker.

At the airport, Jodie rejoiced because she was going home. Such a beautiful phrase.

Once again, she would have a life of comfort and safety. A life of electricity and friends. Cars and air-conditioning and washing machines. Libraries and malls. She could eat a salad without worrying about diarrhea. She did not have to think of the tropical diseases that came through the air, through the soles of bare feet, through water and dust and mud and rubble. She did not have to look at what passed for housing in the areas not yet cleaned up from the earthquake—housing so bad that if an American kept a dog like that, the American would be arrested.

They began boarding her flight.

She was just about to turn off her cell when a message arrived from that researcher who was helping with a book about the kidnap. It was so annoying that the man had her cell phone number. Who had given it to him, anyway? Probably Brendan, who had become such a pain. Mom said Brendan was giving interviews. Jodie had asked her mother, “What do you think about the book?”

“I’m still thinking,” Donna had said. A non-answer if there ever was one.

Jodie deleted the researcher.


Donna Spring floated on the joy of her daughter’s wedding.

All those years of fury and fright; all those nights of despair; all that weeping and emptiness—and now her daughter wanted to be her daughter. She wanted to be Jennie again, and marry in the church where her real family went to Mass. She wanted her real father to be the real father and give her away in marriage. She wanted to become Jennie Spring Shields.

After all this time and all this pain, Donna’s daughter finally knew who her family was.

What do good people do when there is no good thing to do? The question had haunted them from the day Janie recognized her face on the milk carton.

Frank and Miranda Johnson were good people. They had done a good job rearing the little girl they thought was their granddaughter. They had done good things in their community and they had done good things keeping the lines open when Janie could not be reconciled to her original life. Frank and Miranda had constantly invited Stephen, Jodie, and the twins to their house. They had driven Janie down to New Jersey for Christmas and Easter, keeping their distance, staying at the motel until it was time to leave.

The media savaged them. Parents of a kidnapper: it must be their fault. Janie had stood by them literally and figuratively.

Donna remembered her joy when Janie trusted her with information, and her outrage about that information. Frank had known all these years how to find the kidnapper and had been paying her bills.

“I don’t think Miranda knows,” Janie had said. “I don’t want to tell her. I just closed the account. It’s over.”

But the FBI could have staked out that post office box! We’d have her by now! Donna wanted to shake her foolish child by the shoulders.

“My parents have been through enough, Mom. Capture and trial? No. I like to think that in the pieces of his mind he has left, Frank still has good things, like sunshine and football. I mean, who cares anymore?”

I care! thought Donna Spring. Hannah took a sledgehammer to our two families. I even care that poor Frank was crucified by that horrible woman, keeping his terrible secret, hiding money and accounts and staying anonymous until it gave him a heart attack and a stroke. I care for Miranda. I care for me! Every single night of my life, thinking if only I had held her hand in that shoe store in that mall.

I care that a woman of violence, like Hannah Javensen, could do anything to anybody. That even now she may be harming the innocent. And we could have locked her up!

But now, tonight, she thought, I care for you, my darling daughter. Imagine. You’re getting married. To the very boy who betrayed you on the radio.

Donna had three boys of her own. In fact, she had married a boy. Boys didn’t always think first. Or ever.

Donna gave Reeve credit for driving Janie to New Jersey five years ago to check out the Spring family. Janie and Reeve had parked across the street and stared at the front door of the house on Highview Avenue, watching four redheaded kids pile off school buses. Kids who looked like Janie. Donna imagined knowledge coating Janie like ice: she really was the face on the milk carton.

You’re only twenty, thought Donna. But in some ways, you’re as old as I am. You have suffered, you made difficult choices; every day you struggle to do the right thing, even when you can’t figure out what it is.

But Hannah … not so much. Hannah wanted to do the wrong thing.

Oh, how Donna Spring wanted Hannah to pay!


In Boulder, Stephen and Kathleen found the street on which the first possible Hannah lived. It was a long road. The person did not live at the expensive end. She lived at the dumpy end. Stephen and Kathleen found themselves facing a small house divided into very small apartments. Probably rented to students, with 100 percent turnover every year or even every semester.

“What will you say to her?” Kathleen wanted to know.

“All I want to do is look at her.” He walked right up and rang the bell. Nobody answered.

Stephen rang again and they waited again.

A woman walking a dog paused on the sidewalk. “I’m the landlady. You wanna rent a room? I got an empty one. You gotta share a bathroom.”

The woman was middle-aged. Somewhat heavy. Short puffy hair dyed blond, with gray roots showing. Bushy eyebrows. A big solid chin and very full lips.

“Thanks,” said Stephen. He looked at the list and read the first name out loud. “So that’s you, ma’am?”

“Yep.”

Scratch her, thought Kathleen. The Hannah in the high school picture is thin. Thin lips, thin hair, thin eyebrows, thin shoulders, thin nose. Weight gain wouldn’t change basic features. This was not Hannah.

Stephen said, “Did you ever rent to a woman named Tiffany Spratt?”

Who in the world was Tiffany Spratt? wondered Kathleen.

“Come on,” said the woman, gesturing with her dog-poop bag. “You think I remember them by name all these years, coming and going and skipping out on their rent? Mainly I have boys, though. Girls, they’re always wanting their own bathroom.”

“Thanks,” said Stephen. “Appreciate your time.” He walked away.

Well, this was the shortest and least productive interview on record. Kathleen followed reluctantly. Down the block, Stephen opened his wallet and took out the photograph of Hannah.

Imagine carrying the picture of the criminal who destroyed your life right in your wallet! Imagine it sitting there, where you’d see it each time you used a credit card! Its little yellow hair and its little prim smile always staring up!

Sick, thought Kathleen. If we got married, I would put a stop to that. But we’ll never get married. He’s not the marrying kind. And my parents say you can’t change anybody. Which is nonsense. I’ve changed myself a bunch to meet Stephen’s expectations.

Anyway, who was she to judge him for toting old photographs around? She herself had two photos of Hannah from the FBI website, the same high school yearbook photo and the computer-aged portrait.

“Ever since Jodie and I went into New York City trying to find Hannah I’ve carried this,” Stephen told her. “We were stupid kids, but it wasn’t a stupid idea. Hannah was arrested in New York once, and she’s out here somewhere. And a guy who writes huge bestsellers, who ought to know what he’s doing—his research team thinks she’s here in Boulder. So maybe the list exists as bait to get me, but I actually feel better about his research. He got some of it right. That can’t be Hannah, but she is the right age, and gender, and I think the poverty fits too.”

The reader of this future book wants way more than age, gender, and poverty, thought Kathleen. The reader wants description and conversation and analysis and photographs and background. Calvin Vinesett has a long way to go. Which is good. The book will take ages to write, and by then, Janie will be safely married and living far away under another name.

“Who’s Tiffany Spratt?” she asked.

“That’s the name Frank and Hannah chose for the post office box and the checks. I figure if we meet the real Hannah, she’ll be a little shaken that we know the name.”

It crossed Kathleen’s mind that the real Hannah was a kidnapper. By definition, violent. Should they really be wandering around trying to shake up people who liked violence?


On Wednesday, Lizzie was on the phone to her little brother yet again. “Yesterday,” she said sternly, “I visited the Harbor to see Mr. Johnson.”

Reeve was startled by this news. But then, his family had lived next door to the Johnsons for years. He used to be very fond of Mr. Johnson. Now Mr. Johnson was a shell. It was hard to be fond of a shell. You had to be fond of the history of the shell.

“You will have legal in-laws,” said Lizzie, the family attorney. “Donna and Jonathan Spring. And you will have emotional in-laws, Frank and Miranda Johnson. Instead of helping Janie with her burdens, you are whisking her away.”

“Isn’t that a form of helping?” asked Reeve.

“Does it help Frank and Miranda?” demanded Lizzie.

“Listen, Lizzie. Janie found that assisted living place, after searching everywhere for something her parents could afford. She cleaned up that big house and got it repainted and found the real estate agent and got it sold. She put on that huge tag sale. She arranged the move from nine big rooms to three tiny rooms. She got Frank into his teensy bedroom with his walker and his eleven medications and she got Miranda into her teensy bedroom with her three medications. She got cable TV and telephone and Internet connections up and going. She arranged the furniture to fit and put the stuff Miranda wouldn’t part with in a storage unit. Every two weeks, for two whole years of college, she visited. You didn’t visit our parents every two weeks when you were in college. You didn’t even come home for Thanksgiving!”

“And I salute Janie,” said Lizzie. “But who will visit Frank and Miranda now that you’re taking their only child to North Carolina?”

“You probably should do it, Lizzie,” said Reeve. “Your house is closer. Yes, I think that’s the solution. You visit.”

Reeve rarely stopped Lizzie in her tracks. It was a pleasure.

But his sister had many topics to discuss. “Reeve,” she said, “I understand the ceremony will be in the Catholic church. Are you becoming a Catholic?”

“I’m not sure. The priest is letting me meet with him by Skype. We have two talks scheduled, and one more in person in New Jersey before the wedding.”

“It’s a serious decision,” said his sister.

“Getting married?” said Reeve. “I’m with you. How much more serious does it get?”

“I cannot support the pope’s decrees in many situations,” said Lizzie.

“And that applies to me how?” demanded Reeve. “Lizzie, I’m Christian. I can be a different variety of Christian. I know we’re too young to do this. I know we don’t have enough money and we haven’t thought it through and we’re crazy. But we’ll have the blessing of God.”

Totally fun. He had silenced her twice in one conversation.

• • •

Sarah-Charlotte’s roommate said, “I read a lot of true crime, you know. It fascinates me.”

Sarah-Charlotte did know. There was always some gruesome title lying open on Lauren’s bed. Nothing would make Sarah-Charlotte read true crime. She knew how lucky toddler Jennie Spring had been that her kidnapper had not tortured or murdered her. She knew that a person like Hannah Javensen who would actually snatch somebody’s baby would do anything. It was a chance in a million that when Hannah was ready to do worse than kidnap, she found herself near the one household where she could dump the kid and pretend the crime had never happened.

Lauren said, “Kidnappings are shocking because they involve innocent helpless children. But the Janie Johnson case is especially interesting. Janie was taken for no reason that anybody could discern. The kidnapper just felt like it. Imagine a woman so removed from normal human emotion that stealing a kid was no different from stealing a video game. The toddler survived, so it’s not like that Smith case where the mother drove her car into the pond and purposely drowned her little boys so she could date somebody who didn’t like kids. But I think Hannah Javensen is just as frightening. A kidnapper who presents a stolen child to her own mother and father like a birthday present. ‘Here! A granddaughter for you! Auburn curls and a polka-dot dress! Well—I’m off! Bring her up for me!’ The kidnapper wanted her own mother and father to get caught for her crime and suffer what should have been her punishment.”

“Hannah pulled it off,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “Frank and Miranda were hideously punished.” Although Janie was punished the most.

“As for Michael/Mick,” said Lauren, “it isn’t safe for Janie to be stalked by some kidnap junkie. Let’s investigate him. I’m so disappointed in Calvin Vinesett. I’ve read all his books, and I had no idea that he used researchers. I always imagined him going to the prison and visiting the killer and interviewing the sick and crazy parents—there’s always a sick and crazy parent, you know.”

“There is not,” said Sarah-Charlotte sternly. “I love the Johnsons. The sick and crazy person is Hannah. She was probably born that way. Or her body chemistry shifted sideways and she became that way.”

And then Lauren’s parents arrived at the dorm to take her and her stuff home for the summer, and the girls hugged good-bye. Sarah-Charlotte hauled the last of her own stuff down to the lobby, turned in her room key, and waited for her parents.

Mick had followed her too, trotting down the sidewalk that day, hoping to become friends. He really is a stalker, she thought, and she was utterly confused. The guy had a New York City apartment. Why would he travel to Boston, figure out what classes Sarah-Charlotte was in, and edge into her life?

I can’t tell him anything, she thought.

But what did he think I could tell him?

She had a thought so weird she couldn’t breathe. No, she said to herself. Impossible.

She batted her hands at her head, to get rid of the crazy thought.

I need a second opinion. But whose?

Not Janie. Not Reeve. They don’t need more kidnap in their lives. Not the Johnsons, for sure. Not the Springs, who are all kidnapped out. Reeve’s lawyer sister, Lizzie? She helped Janie once.

But Sarah-Charlotte didn’t like Lizzie, and the feeling was mutual.

A couple of times, Sarah-Charlotte had run into Brian, one of Janie’s younger twin brothers, who was also in school in Boston. Well, not Boston, really; Harvard students always said Cambridge.

She called him, but Brian was not willing to discuss the true crime book. Either he had things to do or he was not a fan of Sarah-Charlotte’s. Sarah-Charlotte learned only one thing: Brendan had given interviews. That didn’t get her anywhere.

And then her parents arrived, and triple-parked, and they flung boxes and duffels and suitcases into the car, and Sarah-Charlotte forgot.


Jodie’s plane was approaching Newark. She was pierced by the deep emotion of an American returning home after a long time. It wasn’t joy, but joyful heartache. Yes. I’m home. Oh, thank you! I’m home.

The plane was coming down over New Jersey, her beloved state, and below her was an ocean of small roofs and wide roads, hurrying cars and fat green trees.

They landed.

She would have kissed the ground if she had been at ground level.

At the gate, she had a drink of cold water from a fountain, and thought how Haitians would love such a thing, and then went to the ladies’ room and marveled at how clean and white and sweet-smelling it was.

She turned on her cell phone and called her parents.

“We’re waiting at baggage claim!” shrieked her mother, as if she needed to project volume all the way to Haiti.

When Jodie got to baggage claim, hundreds of other arriving passengers were on their cell phones, describing exact locations, but Jodie could skip that step. Hers was the crowd of redheads. Mom’s was getting gray and Dad’s was vanishing to a curly rim around a bald head, but that massive mane of red hair could only be Janie.

The difficult sister cared enough to come.

And then they were all hugging and laughing and saying pointless things like “How was the flight?”

“I want to hear all about Haiti,” said Janie.

Jodie thought, I could never explain Haiti. I didn’t understand while I was there. “First, I get to hear all about the wedding,” she said.

Haiti receded as if it had been a dentist appointment instead of another world and a year.


“Get in here, Reeve!” shouted his boss.

Reeve’s gut tightened. He’d done everything, hadn’t he? In the right order? In a timely fashion? Every detail correct?

He trotted into Bick’s office.

“So, how far have you gotten with these wedding plans? Because we have a problem.”

“We do?”

“I shouldn’t have okayed July eighth so fast. We’ve got the Big East preview that weekend and I want you on it. I can give you the second week in September, or else next weekend. June third. I figured things were gonna be pretty loose, seeing the way you proposed and all. You didn’t engrave the invitations yet, didja?”

Oh, great, thought Reeve. Career or wedding. Love when that happens. “Let me talk to Janie real fast.”

He went out of Bick’s office. Out of the whole building. Into the shade of an overhang. Good thing there were cell phones. He was pretty sure Janie was in New Jersey for Jodie’s welcome home party, but a person could get confused following Janie’s family schedule.

“Janie? Problems. They don’t want to give me July eighth after all. How do you feel about either June third, or else September?”

They both burst into crazed laughter.

“That’s it? Those are our choices?” said Janie.

“Yup.”

“If we wait until September, I’ll be a crazy woman all summer. But there’s no way to put a wedding together in—oh, wow—that’s ten days!”

“Aren’t we just serving sandwiches out in the backyard, though?” asked Reeve. “And aren’t you getting a dress off the rack at the bridal mall?”

“Ten days,” Janie repeated.

“Come on, woman,” said Reeve. “I’ve crammed all my studying for entire semesters into ten hours. We can figure out how to say I do in ten days.”

“Except guess what—the actual wording is ‘I will.’ ”

“Will what?”

“I will take this man to be my wedded husband, to love and to cherish from this time forth. I love that word, ‘cherish.’ ”

“And will you want to cherish me in ten days or in four months?”

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes, Reeve.” Janie flew downstairs to find her mother. “We have to change the wedding date. How does June third sound?”

“Insane,” said her mother.

“True, but will you and Dad be here?” Janie giggled. “I know my other parents don’t have any trips abroad planned.”

“Let’s think. Brendan and Brian aren’t a problem. They’ll be home from college by then anyway, and all we have to do is button them into their wedding clothes. I’ll call Stephen immediately. He’ll be irritated, but he always is. Let me check with Father John and make sure we can get the church. It’ll be very exciting. There will be so much to do, nobody can sleep from now on.”

“It’s only ten days,” said Janie. “Who needs sleep?” She stood close to her mother’s cell phone to hear the conversation with the priest. Father John just laughed. Yes, they could get married on June 3.

Janie called Reeve back. “June third is on. Are your parents okay with that? What about your brother, Todd? What about Lizzie?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot all of them. Can you text me a list?”

“How about I just handle them?”

“Wow,” said Reeve. “My bride isn’t just beautiful. She’s willing to be slaughtered on my behalf.”

Dozens of people had only one thing to say on Facebook: Ten days?

Mrs. Shields telephoned her son. “Ten days?” she said fiercely.

“I know. Even for me, it’s a little speedy.”

“Ten days is impossible, Reeve.”

“All you have to do is show up, Mom. You’re only a few hours from New Jersey. We’ve scheduled the wedding for two o’clock in the afternoon, so no matter how bad the traffic is, you’ll make it. Ideally, though, you’ll come Friday and we’ll have a wedding rehearsal and a dinner. Mrs. Spring is working on hotel rooms.”

“The Friday rehearsal dinner is our responsibility,” said his mother grimly. “I’ll call Mrs. Spring right now and she’ll have to make the reservations. What’s her first name again?”

“Donna. You’ll like her, Mom.”

His mother said nothing.

Reeve said, “Or could you pretend to, Mom? Please?”


“The third of June?” repeated Stephen Spring. “Are you serious? You expect me there in ten days?”

“Actually, I need you in seven days,” said his mother. “We have to get you fitted for a tuxedo and you have to help with a million details.”

“Has there ever been a time when Janie wasn’t a pain?” he asked.

“Jennie,” she reminded him. “And I think it’s Reeve being the pain this time. And so what? We get to put on a wedding. Now don’t dillydally. Get your plane tickets.” His mother hung up.

Kathleen was laughing. “When I get married,” she said, “it’s going to be a lot more organized.”

Stephen didn’t ask who she planned to marry. He didn’t ask her to come to his sister’s wedding either. He said, “Let’s get our bikes. We need to track down those other two Hannahs.”





THE TENTH PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE




The final check was big. Hannah spent it on three things.

First, a dentist. The man had some nerve to charge that much for one silly tooth. But Hannah had known how to handle people from the day she got Tiffany Spratt a post office box. The dentist agreed to be paid in installments. She proved how reliable and honest she was by making payments each month for four months when he hadn’t even done anything yet. He was impressed and agreed to fix the tooth while she would keep paying him.

What an idiot. Like she would keep paying after her mouth looked good.

Second, she got her own cell phone. She’d been stealing them, and enjoyed playing the games and exploring the apps, but the phones were quickly canceled. And once everybody in the world got a cell phone, public phones vanished. Her own cell phone was a necessity.

Third, a computer.

She no longer needed the library; instead she needed the phone company and the Internet supplier. They were harder to scam than the dentist. You had to pay them. And Frank’s money was now gone.

She had to work two lousy jobs instead of just one lousy job.

She always disguised herself. When she was a maid at motels, she wore street clothes under her uniform so she’d look fat. But it was just habit. She no longer really believed anybody was after Hannah Javensen. She was old news.

Also, they were stupid. She was smart.

Sometimes she liked to read through her collection of old Jennie/Janie articles, where they said they were going to bring the kidnapper to justice. “Justice” sounded like a town, with streets and sidewalks and a courtroom. Well, they couldn’t bring her to the town of Justice. She had vanished better than anybody.

That year, Hannah had her forty-sixth birthday. She could hardly imagine being that old. But she was. She thought sometimes about turning fifty. Or sixty. It was terrifying.

They couldn’t expect her to scrub toilets and vacuum hotel rooms when she got old. Already her knees hurt and her back hurt.

The coffee shop was hard. She bussed tables, loaded dishwashers, and put away the mugs when they were still so hot they burned her.

The customers were always clean and chipper and chatty and young. They loved their little mugs. When she returned a mug to the display wall, she had to hang it with the customer’s name visible.

They all got to use their real names. It was so unfair!

She kept track of names of people she hated. There was the woman who got hired in Hannah’s place when a motel canned her. There was the woman who told on her when she was sneaking the waitresses’ tips out of the jar. The woman who ratted when she smuggled meat from the restaurant refrigerator. People had no sense of kinship.

Sixteen years after that day in New Jersey, Hannah was watching TV in a sports bar. The bar was a rough place, but that was not a problem, because Hannah was a rough person. She did not have the cash to pay for her drink and was more focused on that than some college ball game. She pondered how to get money out of Frank and Miranda.

Supposedly, knowledge was money. But Hannah had acquired a lot of knowledge and it hadn’t brought money.

On wide screens in front of her, to her left, to her right, and behind, the announcers fumbled their patter. They ended up laughing. Those guys were probably paid a million dollars and when they made a mistake, everybody just laughed. When she made a mistake, they fired her.

“We’ve just been saved!” said the commentator. “Our terrific researcher produced the facts.”

“Let’s give credit where credit is due,” said the second guy. “Don’t we have a camera near that kid? Reeve Shields, take a bow.”

Reeve Shields? It was not an ordinary name. Could it be the boy next door to the Jennie/Janie? The one who wouldn’t friend her on Facebook? The one who came here with the Jennie/Janie to visit the Stephen?

For two seconds, the television showed this person Reeve in a cubicle somewhere. He was very young and very handsome, with moppy hair and a long narrow face split by a huge happy grin. He got to be on television and he was cute and people loved him and they remembered his name!

Hannah had put up with a lot in this world. She was not putting up with this. That Jennie/Janie not only got two families—including Hannah’s own—but also this cute guy?

That girl deserved nothing! That girl had just gone along for the ride.

And that girl even had Hannah’s money! They probably had written their wills, those slimy parents of hers, and cut out their real true daughter in favor of this girl Hannah herself had given to them!

Out of her rage burst a brilliant idea.

It was an idea so amazing that it glittered, a jewel resting on velvet in a store window.

After a while she could touch the idea and glow in its light. The idea solved everything. She would have money.

And the Jennie/Janie would be very sorry.