She turned off the hazards and pulled out. As soon as she turned the corner on Jamie’s parents’ block, she saw the throng of media, the vans with satellites and full camera crews, the street lit up like it was the middle of the day. Kylie peered through the windshield, nibbled her bottom lip.
“I’m going to park as close as I can, and then we’ll walk fast. They all know your name and will ask you questions, but don’t talk to them and stay close to me, okay?”
“Okay.”
Vega slowed. No one saw them yet. She parked halfway down the block and cut the engine, unbuckled her seat belt.
“You ready?” she said to Kylie.
Kylie nodded.
“Ready.”
Vega got out and shut the door on her side, and one reporter, a blond woman in a parka, turned her head and saw them.
“It’s them!” she announced, giddy.
Vega went around to Kylie’s side and opened her door as the crowd rushed to them.
“Don’t worry. I’m here,” Vega said to her, but Kylie may or may not have heard because of the noise.
You’ve seen the rest. You saw the footage running for thirty-six hours straight on CNN, or you were forwarded a YouTube video, or your friend or your mom put a link on Facebook. You watched; you clicked: Vega walks Kylie down the sidewalk with her arm around her, people and cameras and mikes in their faces. Vega tilts her head to whisper in Kylie’s ear. Kylie blinks a little at the lights but keeps her eyes ahead. The questions keep coming and are variations on the same: Did he hurt you? Where did they keep you? Were you tortured? Are you okay?
The last is really an afterthought.
Then you’ve seen the paint-by-numbers courtroom drawings of Lindsay Linsom on the stand, the tearful prison interview in which she describes how she crushed the Valium into glasses of orange juice for Ashley Cahill and Sydney McKenna before smothering them with pillows. And then the bodies were placed in heavy-duty garbage bags and buried in the woods on the Linsoms’ property in Hershey. The tabloids dub her “Ice Queen.”
You’ve seen the program Mind of a Monster, the story of Preston Linsom’s sordid childhood, during which he was likely repeatedly molested by a business associate of his father’s.
You’ve heard the whole story, but it’s confusing: how Evan Marsh looked like a movie star and John McKie looked like an old man’s dead son, how Lindsay Linsom kidnapped three girls and dressed them up to look like her own daughter—all of them stand-ins for someone else.
You’ve seen the long-awaited funerals of Ashley Cahill and Sydney McKenna, their parents burying the decomposed remains in small white coffins. You notice the mothers, one young and stunning in the way of a high school homecoming queen, the other old and spectral with white hair and a dowdy black dress.
You’ve seen the speeches made by Chief Traynor, praising his police, the FBI, the ingenuity of the private investigator team. You’ve seen him take many questions and answer only a few, saying the investigation is ongoing. We’ll let you know when we have further information.
You’ve seen the profile of Max Caplan and seen his professional comeback celebrated, if for no other reason than his tousled charm.
The only thing you remember about Alice Vega is the image of her in a short-sleeved shirt, holster with gun crossing her back, her face bruised and bandaged as she steers Kylie up the path. Then Jamie Brandt, probably meaning to watch at the window until they come inside but when she sees her daughter can’t control herself, bursts through the front door and runs, in a cropped football pajama top and shorts, barefoot. Kylie sees her and runs too, both of them toward each other so fast you think they will collide and knock each other unconscious.
But they don’t. They know what to do. Kylie jumps into Jamie’s arms, even though she is nearly as tall as her mother, and Jamie is frail but doesn’t budge under the weight. You can just barely see Jamie’s face, because the cameras aren’t allowed on the property; they have to stay at the curb. Her eyes are closed; she is crying. They go inside, and Alice Vega follows.
It is all familiar to you by now.
20
The doctor was a woman, in her fifties, hair dyed auburn with gray roots. She was short and a little overweight and had small padded hands like a baby. Cap watched them while she picked up and put down various tools to examine the stitches on his ear, which the ER doctor had sewn. Nell stood in the corner of the room by the door.
Cap was not in pain; they’d given him acetaminophen with codeine and it was working. He didn’t feel his ear, but he was also fighting to keep his neck straight and his eyes open.
“The good news is there’s no damage to the ear canal or any of the vasculature of the outer ear,” said the doctor, facing him, still holding the otoscope. “Bad news is he shot off part of the helix. This,” she said, running her finger along the top curve of her ear. “So you’ve lost about half an inch off the top. Which, if you like, you can reconstruct surgically after the stitches are removed from the laceration.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Cap, hoping the words came out fully formed. “What do you think about me going home? I’ve been here a long time.”
“I have to talk to Dr. Muncy, who did your stitches, and then I’ll discharge you. No more than an hour. You have someone to drive you home?” she said, turning to Nell in the corner.
Nell said they would figure it out, and they all said thank you, and the doctor left.
“How you doing, Bug,” said Cap.
She came up to him and put her arms around his neck.
“Okay,” she whispered into his hair. “They said I should go to an ENT for the ringing.”
“Good,” said Cap. “We can go together.”
“And to a psychiatrist for this.”
She stepped back from him and held her arm and hand out straight. Her hand trembled, a miniature diving board.
“We can go together to that too,” said Cap.
They stood there for a while, with Nell leaning her head on his, Cap listening to the sound of her breathing. He let his eyes close and pictured a soft foamy tide rolling up on the sand. Sun, seagulls, the whole thing.
“Let’s go, Nell.”
He opened his eyes, and there was Jules in the doorway. He hadn’t seen her in a year or so, Nell traveling back and forth between them unaccompanied. She had let her hair grow long, Cap noticed, and was coloring it too, her natural deep brown almost black. He realized how much Nell looked more and more like her as she grew—the cheeks, the eyes, the dark, expressive eyebrows. Gorgeous elegant creatures, both of them. Brunette giraffes.
“Come on, Nell,” she said quietly. “Let’s go get some sleep.”
Nell pulled away from Cap and looked him in the eyes.
“Let’s try a week without physical injury, deal?” she said.
Cap smiled.
“Deal.”
He hugged her once more and kissed her hair. She walked toward her mother, and Jules came forward to say something to Cap.
She wore a long wool sweater, jeans and boots, and hadn’t slept, eyes heavy, arms tightly crossed in front of her as if to prop herself up.
“Are you okay?” she said.
She wasn’t looking at him, staring at his lap.
“Yeah, Jules, I’m fine.”