Well, maybe that’s not true. I would never stop wanting to find my sister.
Our father had always been this way. We had to see his feelings and, to a large extent, feel them as well, because that’s what normal people do, especially when they are very young and are learning how to be empathetic. He was always sorry for being weak. From crying in front of us to settling the custody case to sleeping with our mother and breaking up his family with his first wife and Witt. But I was tired of sorry. From him. From the millions of people who were watching my story and making their dumb comments on TV. From everyone who said, “I’m so sorry.” Sorry happens after something bad has happened, after people have let it happen. It had become contemptuous to me, all these I’m-so-sorries.
Being alone with Witt nearly destroyed me, pieces of me crumbling, falling to the floor, and I had no idea how to piece me back together. That sounds bad, but it was the opposite of bad. When my father left, when I heard the door close, I fell into Witt’s arms all at once and sobbed. He had heard my stories from the island and he didn’t ask me any questions at all. Not one. He told me everything was all right and that he would make sure it stayed that way. Witt said I could come and live with him and his wife. We talked of logistics and strategies to get through this time of finding Emma—and we would find her!—and then of the future, when the media trucks were gone and my fifteen minutes of fame were over. He was going to get me tutoring so I could take the GED and get my high school diploma. And then I would go to college if it was the last thing he did. He said these things very fast into my ears as he held me while I cried. I nodded and said okay over and over so he knew that I heard him and that I believed him. But I did not believe him. Not completely, the way I pretended to.
“What’s happened, Cass? Are you worried we’ll never find her?” Witt pulled away and looked me in the eye.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why? Has something gone wrong with the Bureau or that doctor?…”
That’s when I told him about the conversation I had overheard between my mother and Mr. Martin when they were behind the closed door of their bedroom:
Jonathan, she’s out of her mind. Did you hear what she’s saying? Talking about these people and Emma’s baby … it’s crazy talk!
So what? Don’t you see? They have to realize it on their own. You can’t be the one to tell them she’s crazy. Let them find out through their investigation. They’ll find the island, and that boatman.
What if she’s not?
Not what?
Not crazy. What if I’m the one who’s crazy?
I am not having this fucking conversation one more time! I swear to Christ, Judy … sometimes you can be so fucking stupid—
Don’t be angry with me. I’m scared. The things she’s saying—
Cass is not right in her head. End of story.
They went on to discuss all the ways I seemed “off.” I sounded paranoid. If they told Dr. Winter or Agent Strauss that I did not seem myself, the search for Emma could be diverted to a search for my sanity. This was another reason I asked to sleep at my father’s house. I needed to see myself through Witt’s eyes so I would know for sure that the Martins were wrong about me. And that even if they were right, if I had lost my mind, that no one would believe them and they would keep looking for my sister.
Witt laughed a little bit. It was not because he was happy or found any of this funny. It was the laugh people have when they are thinking about vengeance.
“Good. Let them think you’re crazy! Let them fight about it and worry about it. My God, you and Emma did plenty of that when you were kids. Look—this is easy. You’ll pass the psychological examination tomorrow, and that will be the end of it.”
“And they can keep searching for Emma at all cost.”
“Yes. They will keep searching for Emma. And they will talk to the counselor at the school. And one way or another, Emma will be found.”
I asked him then what he thought when he heard my story and when he looked at me. Did he think I was crazy? Mrs. Martin had a way of making people forget what’s real. Maybe she had done that to me.
“No!” He said it emphatically.
Too emphatically. But I did not ask again.
He put his arms around me. “No, Cass, no! I promise you.”
I kept crying, right into his chest, my tears soaking into his shirt. I wanted to go back in time, even to the bad times, when Witt and Emma and I were together in this house. Maybe my father was right. Maybe it was dangerous to have things like that because when they’re gone, it breaks you into pieces.
Witt didn’t know what to make of me then. But I could see everything wash away except his love for me.
“Come home with me now. Right now! You’ve done everything you can do to find Emma. You’ve been through too much, Cass.”
Our father returned with ice cream then. I stopped crying and Witt stopped telling me to go home with him. We ate the ice cream with our father at the kitchen table.
I thought about what Witt said as I calmed myself down. I thought about getting in his car and never coming back. Relief washed over me and it felt like nothing I have ever felt before, like someone had just injected me with a powerful drug that takes away all your pain. I needed the pain to stop.
But I could not get in my brother’s car and drive away to a new life. Not now. Not yet.
I was not finished with Mrs. Martin.
FOURTEEN
Dr. Winter—Day Four of Cass Tanner’s Return
On day four of Cass Tanner’s return, they sat in the parking lot of Danbury High School talking about the boatman, who had just been identified as Richard Foley. The ID had come in that morning, and everything else was now on hold. It was their best lead. If they found the boatman, they would find the island, and—they all hoped—Emma and her baby.
“Are they sure?” Abby asked.
“How many gang rapes of government officials from the Department of Fish and Game do you think there are in Alaska?”
Field agents in Alaska had found an article in the Ketchikan Daily News from seven years back about a fisherman’s account of the rape.
“They talked to the reporter. Foley refused to disclose the name of the woman, and without corroboration, the paper couldn’t print the names of the men involved.”
Abby considered this. Seven years was a long time. But small towns had long memories.
“So, listen to this. The reporter said Foley lived in Ketchikan for about three years. Cycled on and off the boats. He left after the incident, according to his own account, and returned seven years later to make amends for his silence.”
“Too late to prosecute?”
“The DA said they couldn’t do a damned thing without the woman’s cooperation. Everyone knew who she was. It’s a small town. But she wanted no part of the story after all that time. Said she’d moved on. The article was tucked away in the back pages, and nothing ever came of it.”
“And Foley?” Abby asked.
“Came and went in a day. Guess he wasn’t in the mood to catch up with his old fishing buddies.”