Forgive Me by Daniel Palmer
For Matthew, Ethan, and Luke
Thanks for having my back all these years.
And for the team at NCMEC and people like Nadine Jessup.
One victim is too many.
PROLOGUE
She sat at her writing desk in her home’s spacious first-floor office, dreading this moment that came every year on this date. The dainty desk was a replica of a bonheur-du-jour, a piece of furniture from the eighteenth century made specifically with a woman in mind. The name, “good hour of the day,” referred to the time of day when women took pleasure from opening, reading, and writing letters. She was there for that purpose, but took no pleasure in the task.
Gazing out a bank of windows, she saw the empty garden beds. They would blossom beautifully in springtime, as they always did. But spring was several weeks away. The grass around the beds was brown, and her mood was somber and gray as the overcast sky.
From one of the desk’s lacquered panels, she removed her checkbook, then fished a ballpoint pen from the desk’s main compartment. Out of habit, she checked the balance in the check register—plenty of money in the account, as there always was. The simple observation summoned a familiar feeling of guilt, followed by profound sadness.
She wrote out the check for the same amount as always. Her handwriting was impeccable. The loops, curves, and lines formed perfect, beautiful letters, properly spaced, neat and elegant, almost like calligraphy. She’d loved writing in school, and dreamed of one day writing a novel. She felt she had so much to say about love and relationships, the big questions of life. But that was a long time ago, a different lifetime, and she had since become an entirely different person.
From the living room next to the office she could hear the television. The sound of some sporting event in progress—basketball, she thought. What did she know? Watching sports on TV was her husband’s pastime, not hers. And yet, this was her dream—a husband resting on his lazy chair; a child reared and off on her own; a fine house kept tidy and organized, thanks to her fastidious nature; gardens in need of tending—everything as it should be.
But some dreams come at a price.
She knew that now.
From one of the little drawers across the back of the desk, she removed an envelope and addressed it from memory. Her tears began to fall. The words turned to smudges. She crumpled up the envelope, took another, and started anew. From the same drawer, she got a blank piece of paper and wrote With gratitude for your efforts. She signed her name and folded the paper around the check. Then, she slipped both items into the envelope and licked it closed. The glue tasted extra bitter on her tongue. She slipped the envelope into her purse. She would drive to a mailbox tonight, so it would go out first thing in the morning. She closed her eyes and took inventory of all she had, all her good fortune.
In a whispered voice, she uttered the same phrase she spoke every year on this day, at this exact moment. “May God forgive me.”
CHAPTER 1
Nadine had thought about running away for years. She lived in a nice colonial house in Potomac, Maryland, but home was hell. She was supposed to be the child, so why was she the one taking care of her mother? It wasn’t fair. No, not right at all. Her mother had always loved to drink, but it was different after Dad left. Wine used to make her giddy, but now it just made her slur her words.
Nadine had begged her father to let her come live with him, but he was too busy with work to look after her, or so he’d said. She’d be better at home with Mom, he’d said. Ha! He should come and see what Mom had become since he’d left them for that bitch.
She tried to tell her father what it was like living with Mom. Weekends spent in bed. Often there was no food in the refrigerator, and Nadine would have to do all the shopping (driving illegally, but always carefully, on her learner’s permit) and the cooking, not to mention the cleaning. Mom walked into walls, tripped over her own feet.
Somehow her mother still had a job. She worked for Verizon, doing something in customer service. How she got to work each day, given her evening’s alcohol consumption, was nothing short of a miracle. Her get-ready ritual involved a lot more than a shower, some makeup, and breakfast. Her mother needed half the Visine bottle to get the red out. She often turned on bathroom faucets full strength to mask the sound of retching.
She’d come downstairs, cupping what looked like a handful of aspirin in her palm, and bark something unpleasant at Nadine. “Turn down that TV. I have a headache.”
Of course you do, Nadine would think.
“Is that what you’re wearing? You look like a tramp.” It never failed. Mom’s mouth would open and something cruel, something cutting, would spill out.