Abby nodded and held up her glass. She would not sleep tonight. That was a given. And the alcohol was freeing her mind.
She thought about how cautious she’d been with Leo, keeping her secret file of facts about Cass’s story, afraid of what he would think. She’d been working this case with one hand tied behind her back. Maybe that was the problem.
Enough … she thought. She stared out at the water, shining in the moonlight. She opened the door all the way and let everything she knew, or felt, or believed in her gut, to pour in.
Judy Martin has classic narcissistic personality disorder. What she had suspected three years ago, she now knew beyond a doubt. What are the basics? The perfect but fragile alter ego, always needing to be fed. Always so hungry. She thought about Owen Tanner and how he had fed that alter ego by giving Judy stature and money after a life of poverty and likely some kind of abuse or neglect across the river in Newark, where she was from. But then he had been too easy, too malleable, too weak. She started to see him as unworthy of her beauty and intelligence and sexual appeal. For women with this disorder, that was the kiss of death. Their male counterparts thrived with submissive women, so long as they were attractive and coveted by other men. But narcissistic women sometimes needed their men to be powerful. A woman who can seduce a powerful man is the best of the best. Holding his interest is the alter ego’s perfect diet.
Jonathan Martin had fit the bill. He was a man’s man, arrogant and successful. People noticed him when he walked in a room. Eyes followed him—the men’s because they wanted to sidle up and ride his wave, and the women because they wanted him to notice them, even for a second, so they could go home feeling attractive in their long, weary marriages.
She had managed to keep him by her side, even as she got older. Even after she lost her girls. But now, what would shake loose from the news of his affair? She would begin to doubt not just him. She would begin to doubt herself, too. The splint would break. Her alter ego would go into a state of absolute panic as her true self, the one that was profoundly insecure, came to life again. And it would be unbearable.
There would be a battle inside her now. The two selves would fight for control of her mind. That abandoned, hurt baby would scream out that the world was going to destroy it and no one could help. No one could save that vulnerable, helpless baby. While the perfect alter ego would try to convince it that all was well. That it was under control. That it was so perfect, no one could touch it, let alone cause its demise.
But what proof could it offer to that baby after this most compelling evidence—evidence that her husband lies to her? Her husband cheats on her? Her husband no longer finds her attractive? She cannot be that special if these things have happened.
And then, what else had he lied about these many years? the baby will ask. What else has he told her, whispered in her ear in the darkness, or said to her face in the brightness of day? And her daughter—Cass? What was she lying about? There was no question Judy thought she was, or that she was crazy. But what if she wasn’t? Either way, the baby was screaming again.
Abby closed her eyes, took a breath in and out. Suddenly, a vision of Cass’s bedroom on the island was playing like a movie. The bed. The dresser. The books on the shelf. The window looking out into the courtyard.
And then there was that description Cass had given when she was talking about books she’d read on the island, The French Lieutenant’s Woman.
What did she say about it? The reasons Sarah Woodruff had to lie. Because people believe what they want to believe.
Cass had counted everything, it was the coping mechanism she had developed as a child and which she now did almost subconsciously. Except she had not counted how long she waited in Emma’s car. And how long the boat took to get to the dock where the truck was waiting. And Emma’s labor—surely that kind of stress would have caused her to count. It was the counting that gave her comfort in moments exactly like these. And where had she been for two days—the time between Richard Foley’s boat being found near Rockland and when she showed up on her mother’s doorstep?
She saw the room again as she drew a quick breath, her hand to her chest. Oh my God, she thought.
She threw down a twenty and rushed out of the bar, across the lobby to the stairs, then up to the third floor. She was winded when she reached Leo’s door, knocking furiously.
He answered, half asleep. “Abby…?”
She pushed past him and into the room. “Close the door,” she said.
He did as he was told, then walked to where she stood. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“If I tell you I know something, can you just believe me?”
So many parts of her thought she knew the answer. Growing up with a parent who couldn’t love you opened your eyes to the fundamental truth that most people went through life denying. It was exactly what Cass had said. No relationship was safe. No relationship could be trusted. They were all vulnerable to other forces more powerful than friendship or even love. That was the lie people told themselves—that love could make people faithful. And yet she was standing now in front of a man who had been like a father to her, asking for just that. Faithfulness.
Leo sighed and leaned against the dresser. “Oh, kiddo…”
His face grew more serious as he studied hers.
“Of course,” he said. “I will believe you. What is it you need to tell me?”
Abby swallowed hard. She wasn’t that far from being Judy Martin. From being her own mother. She knew what it was like to need protection from herself, from her fears of being betrayed. But she couldn’t do this alone. And it had to be done. Of that, she was certain.
So she just said it.
“I know how to find Emma.”
TWENTY-ONE
Cass—Day Six of My Return
My father was devastated a second time when they found traces of blood on the dock, and on the bow of Richard Foley’s boat.
I would have cleaned all of that up if I could have. But there had not been enough time.
It was that same day they found out who the Pratts were. The company that owned the island was registered to a man named Carl Peterson. From there it was easy. Carl Peterson was Bill Pratt’s real name. His wife was named Lorna Peterson. That was Lucy Pratt’s real name.
They had lived in North Carolina until seven years ago. Carl was a carpenter. Lorna worked from home as a seamstress. But I can’t call them that again. To me, they are Bill and Lucy.