Before He Finds Her (31 page)

“At first I assumed it was my father. But I’m pretty sure it was David Magruder’s driver.”

“Wait—David Magruder?”

“Yes.”

“How do you two know each other?”

“We only met twice. I thought he might know something about my mother’s murder.”

He frowned. “And what makes you think David Magruder’s driver is the one who attacked you?”

“He told me not to look at him, but when he was leaving the hotel I looked anyway. His black shoes were shiny. I think he wore the same pair as the man who drove me to David’s house yesterday.”

“Do you know the man’s name?”

“No.”

“Do you remember the kind of car he drove?”

“A black Lincoln Town Car. But I think David owns it.”

“How are you so sure about the make of the car?”

“I notice cars. My uncle works on them for a living. And I like them.”

“You don’t by any chance remember the plate number?”

“No. But—I think his name was Bob. I think David called him that. No—
Bill
. That’s what he called him.”

“Did you get a last name?”

“No.”

“Did you see the Town Car today at any point?”

“No—only yesterday.”

“And are the shoes the only reason you think it was this man?”

“He was tall.”

“How tall?”

“Like maybe six two?”

“And besides his shiny black shoes, what else was he wearing?”

She told him about the coat, the cap. How she couldn’t see his face because of the upturned collar.

“And why do you think this man would have assaulted you?”

“I think David made him.”

“Why would—” He shook his head. “Let’s back up a little. You said you went to Mr. Magruder’s house yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, I tried to interview him on Wednesday—”

“Interview him? What for?”

“I thought he might”—she looked over at Arthur—“I thought he might tell me something useful about the day my mother died. Something that might help me find my father.”

“Why did you think that David Magruder would know anything about the death of Allison Miller?”

She didn’t want to get Arthur in trouble. “I just thought he might.”

“It was my suggestion,” Arthur said from the bed. “I’d told her about Magruder’s multiple interviews with the police following the murders. Sorry—the murder.”

Officer Bauer watched him a moment. “So did anything come of the interview?”

“No. He acted really rude and then made me leave.”

“Why did he make you leave?”

“He didn’t want me asking about his past.”

“So if he was so rude to you on Wednesday, why would you get into the car with his driver on Thursday?”

Good question. She tried to remember. Her head throbbed, and she knew her thinking wasn’t as clear as it should be.

“David summoned me to his house,” she said.

“Summoned? Why would he do that?”

It was either his tone or her deeply ingrained distrust of the police, but she thought she heard doubt in his voice and didn’t like it. He wasn’t so young. He’d probably forgotten how his uniform made a person feel guilty and afraid. She tried to answer accurately. “I think he felt bad about how he treated me the day before.”

“So he wasn’t rude, when you went to his home?”

“No. He was nice. He even promised to help me find my father.”

“You mean he knew who you really were?”

“He sort of figured it out. But then he must have changed his mind about helping me and made his driver... do this.” She remembered what David had said about his driver the night before.
He isn’t on twenty-four-hour call, Melanie.

“The man who attacked you—he also told you to leave town?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it’s your belief that this message, this threat, came from David Magruder?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why would he want you to leave town?”

“He told me he had no alibi for the time of my mother’s murder.”

“David Magruder told you that.” The officer raised an eyebrow.

“Officer?”

Officer Bauer turned to face Arthur.

“Please remember,” Arthur said, “that you’re speaking to a traumatized young woman who’s doing her best to answer your questions.”

The officer kept his gaze on Arthur a beat too long, but when he spoke again to Melanie his voice was gentler. “Ms. Denison, why do you think Mr. Magruder would tell you that?”

“I think he was so surprised to see me alive that he started spilling his guts. Also, I’m pretty sure he was drunk.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He drank most of a bottle of champagne while I was there. And some Scotch, I think.”

“So are you suggesting that he had you assaulted because he regretted telling you about lacking an alibi for the night of your mother’s murder?”

“I guess so, sir. And he told me he knew my mother really well, which is something he’d lied to the police about.”

The officer made a face like a bug had just flown into his eye. “That’s—surprising, frankly. We’ll have to go back to the file on that. Are you sure you have it right? That Mr. Magruder said he had lied to the police about his relationship with Allison Miller?”

“Yes, sir. I’m positive.”

The officer clicked the stop button on his tape recorder. “I know you’ve been through a lot already, but I’ll need you to speak with a detective.”

“
Why
?” Her voice sounded panicky even to herself. A cop, now detectives... she wasn’t supposed to be in this town—ever. Those were the terms. Why was she doing this to herself? To her aunt and uncle? “I don’t want to talk to more people.”

“Ms. Miller—”

“Denison, please,” she said.

“Ms. Denison, someone obviously doesn’t want you in this town, digging up the past. He’s pissed off enough to hurt you, maybe worse, and whether it’s David Magruder or someone else, a detective can move fast on this. I can’t. My part ends here. I file the report, and the detective takes it from there. So please—will you talk to her?”

And maybe because of the “her” at the end of his sentence, and maybe because Arthur didn’t indicate that she shouldn’t, she reluctantly said okay, she’d speak with the detective.

The officer was barely out the door before Arthur Goodale, finally privy to it all, began silently to weep.

21

In a town with little crime, the law moves fast when it must. A nurse led Melanie downstairs for a few more tests, a little more poking and prodding, and then into a small room outfitted with a hospital bed and a chair, a TV mounted from the ceiling, and two paintings of birds hanging crookedly on one wall. A woman standing in the room identified herself as Detective Isaacson. She waited while the nurse helped Melanie into the bed and then left the room, shutting the door behind her.

The detective was tiny and fit, like she could probably run a marathon today and another one tomorrow. Except for her hands, which gave away her age, she could have been in college. Her skin looked flawless, but that made it hard to read her face.

“Ms. Denison,” she said after shutting the door, “you told Officer Bauer that you’re actually Meg Miller. Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Melanie said.

The detective watched her a moment. “It’s an astounding statement. That case—that was my rookie year. I remember it really well. So if you’re telling the truth, if Meg Miller is alive...”

“She is. I am.”

“But you go by Melanie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The detective nodded. “So where’ve you been, Melanie?”

She repeated for the detective where she’d been all these years, and how she was nearly eighteen now and pregnant, and how she’d driven north because she was tired of being hidden and afraid. She repeated the events of that morning, but it all felt like so much wasted time, going over the same story again.

When she’d finished, the detective spent another minute writing notes into a small spiral notebook. “May I sit down?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The detective pulled the chair close and sat. “Tell me a little more about being in the witness protection program. How did that come about?”

Her instincts still said
Don’t talk. Not a word.
But she had already said more words than she could ever take back.

“The night my mother was killed, everyone was afraid that my father would kill me, too, so the witness protection people hid me away. And my Aunt Kendra and Uncle Wayne agreed to go with me and raise me.”

“And they took you to West Virginia?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What town?”

Melanie hesitated. Then: “Fredonia.”

“Why there?”

“It’s where they’re from. Not that town, exactly. But nearby, in West Virginia.”

The detective wrote down a few notes. “And that’s where you still live?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And who did you say arranged all this?”

“The U.S. Marshals. And a local judge.”

“Do you know the name of the judge?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But it was a judge from here in Silver Bay?”

“I think so. But it was definitely a judge and the U.S. Marshals. They did it in the middle of the night and no one else knew about it.”

Detective Isaacson was looking over Melanie’s shoulder, deep in thought. She put the pen down. “I have a problem with this.”

And suddenly the small, plain room, the two chairs—it all felt like a trap. “What do you mean?”

“Were you ever involved in criminal activity?”

“No, of course not.”

“Were your aunt or uncle.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Because that’s how witness protection works. It’s for people who have been involved in criminal activity. So they’ll be safe to testify in court.”

“Then they made an exception for me.”

The detective shook her head. “And they never relocate people to somewhere they once lived. It’s always somewhere brand-new.” She tilted her head. “You’re sure it was witness protection and not some other program, maybe?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Not the FBI? Some other organization?”

Melanie was getting angry with the detective for doubting her. “Yes—I’m sure.” Why was
she
suddenly under fire? What had she done wrong?

“Tell me about your aunt and uncle. How are they related to you?”

“Ma’am?”

Every question felt like a trap. The detective’s small stature—even that felt like a ploy to gain Melanie’s trust.

“You said ‘aunt and uncle.’ Which side of the family are they on?”

“Uncle Wayne was friends with my father. Aunt Kendra... I’m not sure. They’ve been married a long time.”

“So they aren’t blood relatives?”

“No, ma’am.”

The detective gave her a long, hard look. “I’m told you need to stay here a while, make sure you’re stable enough to go home. In the meantime, I need to get in touch with the U.S. Marshals. Tell me something—are there any gaps in your past, or in your aunt and uncle’s, that they don’t talk about?”

Rule:
We do not discuss the past.

Melanie didn’t answer.

“All right,” said Detective Isaacson. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. Tell you what. I’m going to see about having a conversation with David Magruder’s driver. But I’ll be in touch soon.” She smiled. “Did Officer Bauer give you his card?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t use it. You need anything, you call me.” She handed Melanie a card with her name and phone number.

As soon as the detective was out the door, a nurse came into the room wheeling in a blood pressure machine. After checking Melanie’s blood pressure, she said, “We’ll keep you here a couple more hours for observation. You can sleep unless you’re feeling nauseous. Are you feeling nauseous?”

“A little.” But whether it was from the assault, the interviews, or the baby, she couldn’t say.

“Then you should try to stay awake,” the nurse said.

Beside her, on a small table, was a telephone. “Does this phone make long-distance calls?” Melanie asked.

“You have to dial nine first.” The nurse turned on the TV and left.

Melanie called Phillip’s cell. He would be at school now, probably lunchtime.

“I’m sorry,” she said when he answered on the second ring. “I thought I could do this alone, but I can’t.” She told him she was in the hospital, and why. She told him she needed him there with her. “Do you think you can come here soon?”

“I can come there now,” he said.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

For being such a child
, she thought. “I miss you,” she said.

“I love you, too, Melanie.”

She didn’t think she wanted to watch TV, but she was wrong. Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet were on the screen looking beautiful in the sunlight, and she allowed herself a much-needed break from everything other than that amazing, unsinkable ship.

Three hours later, Detective Isaacson was back and escorting Melanie from the hospital. Melanie had been advised not to drive for the rest of the day, so the detective would be taking her back to her hotel. In the hospital lobby, Melanie said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop in there.”

The flower shop just off the hospital’s main entrance was cool and fragrant—peaceful. She ordered a vase of fresh flowers to be delivered to Arthur’s room. She signed the note, “Your friend, Melanie.”

“Are you hungry?” the detective asked once she’d left the shop.

Melanie nodded. “Extremely.”

“Me, too. Let’s eat.”

While she drove, Detective Isaacson talked about herself, how she was the youngest of six children—runt of the litter, she called herself. How she was the first in her family to go into law enforcement. Her stories sounded prepackaged—like she’d used this exact same small talk to try to bond with previous victims—but Melanie felt grateful not to be asked any more questions.

They went to the diner by Melanie’s hotel—she was beginning to feel like a regular—and Melanie followed her doctor’s advice and ordered an actual meal: cheeseburger (no bacon—the thought of bacon suddenly nauseated her), French fries, side salad. While they waited for their food, Detective Isaacson’s small talk began to worry Melanie. There was no way the detective would spend this kind of time with her unless she had something meaningful to say. “I got the address of David Magruder’s driver and hope to speak with him later this afternoon,” she said. But that didn’t warrant this kind of personal service, did it? “Mr. Magruder is in New York today, working, but I’ll pay him a visit at his home later, depending on what his driver has to say.”