Crash & Burn (24 page)

I draw her next, my hand stuttering over the grim set of her mouth, the harsh lines at the corners of her eyes. I can't help myself; I shiver.

“What's her name?” Tessa asks me.

“Madame.”

“Does everyone call her that?”

“Anything else is a sign of disrespect. We must respect.” I pause. “She wants us to love her. Maybe some part of her even wishes we actually were her daughters, that we are one big happy family. But if we don't love her, she will settle for us fearing her instead.”

“Is it her house?”

“Been in the family for generations. We're lucky she lets us live here.”

“Like you're lucky for the clothes on your back, the food on the table?” Tessa asks sharply.

“Without her, we would have nothing,” I say simply. “Without her, we would be nothing.”

I move on to the dining table. A long rectangle, capable of hosting a party of sixteen. An elaborate crystal chandelier dangles in the middle, while a faded crimson floral print adorns the walls.

“Who cooks, who cleans?” Tessa is asking.

“She takes care of us; we take care of her.”

“And at night, when the . . . guests arrive.”

“Dinner parties. She's the hostess. We're her daughters. We must be considerate of the guests. Engage them in conversation, entertain their every need.”

I leave the dining room. The wraparound front porch, where we could sit as a reward for good behavior. The vaulted foyer, where she would stand to greet every new arrival. The tower bedroom, with the rose-painted mural. Where it all began. Where it all ended.

Where Vero and I still sit and drink a cup of tea.

One room left. I know it well; the twin beds shoved together, the narrow window on the wall. Where Chelsea and Vero spent their last years, whispering stories together in the dark.

Small, cloistered, should be the easiest to sketch. And yet my hand skips over it time and again.

Vero braiding my hair, her skin falling off in chunks.

Vero dancing across that awful frayed blue rug.

My hand is shaking. I can't get the tip of the pencil down on the paper. I try to focus, will my own fingers into action. My arm shakes harder.

I'm aware of Tessa watching me, which only makes it worse.

“Nicky,” she asks quietly, “was it your or Thomas's idea to return to New Hampshire?”

I don't answer her question. I'm too busy staring at my trembling hand. Her cell phone rings. Tessa checks the display, then
excuses herself, taking the phone and stepping out of the room into the hall.

Alone I think I can do this. Draw the rug. Just draw the rug.

But I can't.

When my hand moves again, it doesn't draw the room. It draws a face. One as familiar to me as my own. With deep, dark eyes. Laugh lines crinkling the corners. Dark hair, tousled around his forehead.

Except this Thomas is younger than my own. With fewer lines and thicker hair. His jaw is not fully fleshed out, his face still babyish around the edges. A teenager, full of promise but not yet grown into himself.

And he's not smiling at me kindly. Or flirting with his gaze. Or winking at me slyly.

My fingers move again. Mud splattered across his brow. The smell of wet-churned earth, the feel of the grave. Or maybe it's soot, smeared across his cheek. The smell of smoke, the feel of the flames.

I don't know this Thomas. The look on his face. So grim, so horrible.

The things he has done, I think, automatically. The things he's about to do next . . .

I drop my pencil. Grab the sheet of paper. Quick, before I can think twice, I rip it from the pad.

I can hear Tessa's voice, still talking on her phone in the hall. As I cross to the hotel bed, lift the mattress and shove the sketch beneath it, disappearing it from sight.

My heart is still beating wildly. I can barely sit. My head throbs. Thomas, young Thomas, clearly not from New Orleans.

Vero is laughing in the back of my mind. Or maybe she's taunting.
“How does someone so smart get to be so stupid?”

Then:
“Run, baby, run.”

But I can't run. There's no place for me to go. Only worse things for me to remember. Fresh dangers for me to face.

I need to pull myself together. The scent of grass. Trying to draw it in, find my center again. But it's not happening.

Vero is whirling around in my mind. Dancing across that awful rug as hair and flesh fly off her bones.

I'm on the edge, I realize. The furthest I've ever gotten in my memories. Maybe even now standing right outside the shuttered-up box. All I have to do is lean forward, remove the sign that says “Keep Out,” then tug hard on the lid . . .

The door opens. Tessa walks into the room. The look on her face is stern and immediately foreboding. “That was Wyatt. We need to return to the sheriff's office. They've recovered Thomas's vehicle. Nicky, you have some serious explaining to do.”

W
YATT
TOOK
HIS
time. For too long things had been moving too fast. He'd been playing catch-up. His officers had been in reaction mode. Now, with less than twelve hours to learn everything he needed to know from one woman regarding two crimes, he was slowing things down. Getting his ducks in a row.

For the upcoming interrogation, he'd commandeered the conference room. He and Kevin had hung a map of the North Country on one wall. They had blown up photos of the liquor store, the gas station, an outside shot of Marlene Bilek's home, and the crash, which they placed at key points around the atlas. He had odometer readings. And last, but not least, he had laid out on a table one recently purchased collapsible shovel and one pair of bloody gloves.

The gloves fascinated Kevin. He'd spent a solid hour meticulously uncurling them, careful not to further damage the shredded material. They were thicker than traditional latex gloves, he reported, but thinner than rubber garden gloves. He'd done a presumptive test on a carefully scraped sample of the dried brown substance, which had been positive for human blood. Yet another i dotted, t crossed—
don't try to tell me you wore these gloves to bury Fido or tend to an injured deer. We know this is human blood, now start talking.

The sheriff had been right; no more messing around. Wyatt wanted answers and he wanted them now.

Because, yeah, he'd made his call to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and they were very excited to learn
of Veronica Sellers's recovery. Definitely fly-to-New-Hampshire, take-over-the-case kind of excited.

Four in the afternoon, going on thirty-six hours without sleep, Wyatt figured he had one chance to get this right. He didn't plan on screwing it up.

He glanced through the window. Spotted Tessa pulling into the parking lot. He motioned to Kevin to wrap things up; then both took their positions.

When Nicky Frank aka Veronica Sellers walked into the room, Wyatt's first thought was that she looked better than she had seven hours ago. Sure her face was still a pale canvas overlaid with a patchwork of black stitches, purple bruises and brown lacerations, but she had her chin up, blue eyes clearer. She carried herself stronger. A woman with a purpose. Looked like she'd made some resolutions of her own while she was away.

Coming in behind her, Tessa was her normal shuttered, efficient self. She didn't so much as glance at Wyatt, but helped usher Nicky into a hard plastic chair. Rather than sit beside her, Tessa took up position a few seats away. A neutral party, trying to keep her distance from the fray.

Wyatt noticed for the first time that Tessa was carrying a sketch pad. She set it on the table in front of her. Her gaze, like Nicky's, went to Wyatt, then waited.

He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous and resenting it.

“Thanks for coming,” he started out. He kept seated, determined
to remain relaxed. “As Tessa most likely explained, we have some more questions for you.”

“We've been busy, too,” Nicky started out. “Tessa came up with this candle trick. She burns a familiar scent and I draw pictures from the dollhouse. I've been able to remember half a dozen rooms—”

Wyatt held up a hand. “No.”

Nicky sputtered, stared at him. “No?”

“I'm not interested in the dollhouse.”

“You're not interested? You don't care what happened thirty years ago?”

“No. I care about Wednesday night. You wanna make up stories about what happened thirty years ago, be my guest. Tell fanciful tales about madams and kidnapped girls and evil roommates, have at it. I can't solve thirty years ago, Nicky. Hell, I'm beginning to think the whole thing is just one more wild-goose chase, like getting us to search for Vero on Thursday morning. You have issues. We know you have issues, and still we took your bait. Not anymore. We're talking Wednesday night. Every hour, every minute, every second, and we're starting with a pair of bloody gloves, recovered from the pants pockets of the jeans
you
were wearing Wednesday night. What did you do, Nicky? And why did it require a shovel?”

*   *   *

H
E
'
D
DE
FINITELY
CAUGHT
her off guard. She appeared genuinely baffled, her mouth opening, then closing. A fish struggling for oxygen. A liar fresh out of excuses. Wyatt made no move to fill the silence. Neither did Kevin.

Even Tessa sat quietly. She'd been through such rodeos before,
and while she was Nicky's hired investigator, she wasn't legal counsel and she knew it.

“Gloves?” Nicky whispered at last.

Wyatt rose to standing. He didn't move immediately to the gloves or the shovel; better to keep her off-kilter. Instead, he moved to an oversize map of New Hampshire, where he and Kevin had done their best to resurrect her drive on Wednesday night, based on a conversation with Marlene Bilek and Nicky's odometer reading.

“You drove to the New Hampshire state liquor store Wednesday night. You had a call from Northledge. From Tessa Leoni.”

He glanced at Tessa. She provided a curt nod.

“She informed you of the employment information for Marlene Bilek, your long-lost mother, whom you'd hired Northledge to locate.”

“I wasn't planning on bothering her,” Nicky said immediately. Her eyes were glued on the map. She already appeared stressed. “I just wanted . . . I wanted to know.”

“You bought the yellow quilt from her,” Wyatt said, a statement, not a question.

“I Googled her name on and off over the years. But she'd remarried; her last name is different. Then I found an old posting, showing the marriage photo with both their names in the caption. So I searched again with last name Bilek. And . . . and I found her. In New Hampshire. She sold quilts online. I bought one.”

“As Nicky Frank?”

“Yes.”

“You never told her who you were? Never gave out one shred of personal info?”

Nicky shook her head. “I never even spoke to her. It was an online transaction. I used PayPal. We never spoke at all.”

“But you've been tracking her.”

“The website only had a PO box. No street address was listed.
Not under her name. Not under his. I think her husband . . . he's a cop, right? A retired officer. He must monitor their personal information online.”

“So you hired Northledge. With Thomas's blessing?”

Nicky shook her head wildly. “No, no. Absolutely not. I did it on my own. Used a cashier's check and everything. I didn't want him to know. Not after . . .”

“After what, Nicky?”

She looked away, head down. “I think he figured out about the quilt. I never told him, but the first time I held it, I cried and cried and cried. I couldn't help myself. I think he guessed where it came from. He grew shorter with me, less patient. ‘Aren't we happy?' he'd say, over and over again. ‘We have each other; isn't that enough?' I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I didn't want to upset him after everything he's done for me . . . But no”—she looked up slowly—“it's not enough. I'm still sad even when I know I shouldn't be.”

“Wednesday night, you went in search of Marlene Bilek,” Wyatt stated firmly.

“Yes.”

“You drove to the liquor store.” He tapped it on the map. “You went inside, hoping to see her.”

“I recognized her. Even from the back. Then I panicked. I saw her, but I wasn't ready for her to see me. What if she didn't remember me? Worse, what if she didn't want me? Thirty years later, what kind of daughter simply reappears from the dead?”

“You bought a bottle of Glenlivet.”

Nicky didn't look away. She held his gaze while she nodded miserably.

“And then you followed her.” Wyatt returned to the map. “I spoke with Marlene Bilek this afternoon—”

“You told her about me?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Bilek this afternoon,” he continued brusquely, “determining her usual route home. It's a forty-mile drive, mostly back roads, passing through here, here and here.” He traced the red line with his finger. “Leading at long last to her house.”

He tapped the blown-up picture of the Bilek's front porch. Taken during daylight, not at night, when Nicky would've viewed it, but close enough.

Her gaze remained locked on the tiny yellow house. As if she could drink it up.

“Did you tell her about me?” Nicky whispered. “That I'm Vero. What . . . what did she say?”

“Don't think that's my story to tell.” Wyatt gazed at her hard. She couldn't return his look.

“According to Mrs. Bilek,” Wyatt continued, “her daughter was also home that night. Sixteen-year-old Hannah Veigh. Look like anyone you remember?”

“Vero,” she whispered.

“What did you do, Nicky?”

The sternness of his question seemed to catch her off guard. “What?”

“What did you do? You've been up half the night. You've been drinking; you've been driving. Now you're at a cute little house, peering in the window, and there she is: your long-lost self. Vero. What did you do?”

Nicky sat back, pushing against the table with her hands. “Do? I didn't. I don't think. How could I?”

He crossed swiftly to the table. “Tell me about the collapsible shovel, Nicky. Tell me about the gloves. Covered in blood.
Human
blood. We know; we already tested it. You're drunk, you're alone, and you've just discovered your long-lost mom hasn't been pining for you after all. In fact, she's remarried, has a new kid, Vero 2.0.
Your mother has gotten on with her life. She doesn't miss you at all.”

“You don't know that. How can you know that?”

“You're stalking her.”

“I just wanted to see her. To find out how she was doing—”

“You couldn't call? You couldn't write?
Hey, Mom, I finally got away from an evil madam. That was twenty-two years ago, but, hey, better late than never to finally reach out. Wanna do lunch?
”

“It's not like that,” Nicky protested weakly.

“Like what? Like you're a mixed-up, fucked-up woman, driving drunk and stalking your own mom? Tell me about the shovel. If you were just going to find out how she was doing, why'd you need a shovel? Tell me about the gloves. If you were just following along, why are they covered in blood? What did you do Wednesday night? Come on, Nicky. I'm tired of your lies and your stories. What did you do Wednesday night?!”

“I called Thomas.” The words blurted out. Nicky blinked her eyes, as if even she was surprised to hear them.

“You called your husband?”

“From a pay phone. I was crying and I was hysterical. I'd just seen Vero. She was dead except now she was alive. I didn't know what to do anymore. And my head hurt so much. I know I shouldn't have been drinking. I know I shouldn't have been driving. And Thomas was going to be mad at me, because he'd asked me, begged me, to please let it go. ‘We can be happy,' he would say. ‘Once we were happy; I know we can be happy again.'

“But I don't think I can continue being this sad anymore. I need to change. Except to change, I need answers. Why is November so bad? Why do I spend my afternoons talking to a ghost girl in my head? Thomas knows how to live. I . . . don't. So I asked to move here—”

“You asked,” Wyatt interjected sharply.

“Yes.”

“Thomas didn't refuse.”

“He suggested Vermont. But I kept at it and eventually he caved. Then once I was here . . . I felt closer. Marlene's post office box had been New Hampshire. Now we were in the same state. Except it wasn't quite enough. I wanted to see her, just . . . look. So I hired Northledge. Then Wednesday night . . .”

Nicky's voice trailed off. “Looking in the window, seeing Vero. My head exploded. So much bright light. Flames. I saw flames everywhere.
Vero learned to fly.
I wanted to run into the house. I wanted to hold her so badly. Tell her over and over again that I was sorry. She mustn't hate me. I didn't mean . . . Except she wasn't Vero, right? Couldn't be Vero. I was crying too hard to function. No cell reception, so I made my way to a pay phone and called Thomas.”

“He came to you.”

“He told me where to meet him. Right after that gas station. Bend in the road. Pull over there.”

“You went to meet your husband. Were you wearing gloves, Nicky?”

She shook her head. “No, I was driving, focusing hard. My head, the alcohol. I had to concentrate to stay on the road.”

“When you got to the meeting spot, Thomas was waiting for you. Was he carrying a shovel?”

Nicky closed her eyes, seemed to be trying to think. “No.”

“Gloves?”

“He . . . he handed me gloves. Told me to put them on. ‘Do you trust me?' he asked. ‘Do you trust me?'”

Nicky opened her eyes. She peered up at Wyatt. “I said, ‘Yes.'”

“Then what?”

“Then . . . he . . . he disappeared. And I was flying through the air. And I died again. A woman twice returned from the dead.”

*   *   *

W
YATT
KEPT
ON
her. He made her walk over to the gloves, examine the shovel. Revisit each photo of her stops that night.

“Is she . . . is she okay?” she asked, looking at the picture of Hannah Veigh Bilek, who, frankly, with her long dark hair and light-blue eyes, looked exactly like Nicky's younger sister. “Nothing happened to them, right? I mean, there's blood on the gloves. But I know I didn't. And Thomas . . . He couldn't. He wouldn't. Right?”

“Sounds like you have doubts.”

“He's a good man,” she said, but the words sounded more automatic than convincing.