Double Blind (19 page)

He folded her body into the suitcase. Zipped it closed.

I screwed my eyes shut against the memories. “Who is she, where are they, when was it taken?”

“At some charity ball in Palo Alto last year. The caption says her name is Patti Stolsinger.”

Patti Stolsinger. Patti Stolsinger.
The name rolled around on my tongue. Who
was
she?

Waves lapped against the boat beneath the black sky. The water looked even darker, ready to swallow her whole. He lifted up the suitcase and slid it over the edge of the boat. It hit with a splash . . .

I rubbed my eyes. Silence ticked in the room.

One end of the suitcase dipped underwater. It sank until it disappeared.

I leaned forward and stared at Patti's face. Was she still at the bottom of some cold lake? The Bay? Or had her body been found, leaving her loved ones desperate to find the killer?

Now I knew the truth. She
was
real. Could I walk away from this? From her?

I gazed at Patti's face. She looked back at me, pleading.

Mom's fingers tapped the keyboard. “Here's another picture of Patti in a society page.” Mom spoke quietly, as if our room had become a memorial. “‘Patti Stolsinger of Atherton and Marian O'Neil of Palo Alto, admiring a flower centerpiece at the Black and White Ball.' That was in 2010. No sign of Hilderbrand.”

The Black-and-White Ball. I'd heard of it—a big charity event for the rich.

The picture of Hilderbrand and Patti still vibrated in my head. How did he go from that to murder?

Mom tilted her head. “If they were dating, he should be a suspect.”

You'd think so. But then, he was William Hilderbrand. “Keep looking. There has to be something about her death. Or disappearance.”

Mom clicked more keys. “There are a lot of hits to go through.”

I lay back in the chair and stared across the room. Voices passed our door in the hall. Children. A mother calling for them to slow down.

“She's a researcher in a biotech company.” Mom's voice remained low. “Named Biocent.”

On the kitchen floor, she groaned. He grabbed a knife and knelt above her . . .

My cell phone went off. I jumped, my thoughts wrenching from the scene. It had to be Sherry. I pushed out of the chair to answer. Her ID showed on the screen.

“Hi, Sherry.”

“Hi. You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't sound it.”

I wanted to tell her—
We found him
.
We found her
. But I stopped myself. Maybe she shouldn't know. It might only put her in danger, too.

Would I have to leave town without even saying goodbye to my best friend? Immediate tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away and made my voice sound normal. “I just got up. We're still at the hotel. What's up with you?”

“I have a couple hours this morning while J.T.'s next door for a play time. I can go down to the police station and give them my prints.”

“Oh, good.”

“Who should I ask for?”

“Ted Bremer, but he may not be on duty yet. Anyone at the station can probably take them.”

“Okay.”

“Call me after you've done the fingerprints. I'm sure your husband's thrilled you have to do this.”

“Jay's very worried about you.”

“Probably worried I don't cause
you
trouble.”

“Lisa, you're my friend.”

My heart panged. “I know.”

“Actually he said—Can your mom hear?”

I glanced at Mom, hunched over her computer. “No.”

“Jay said something interesting about her. 'Cause you know how well he remembers the scene at Ryan's funeral.”

Didn't we all. Mom had been at me to move home, insisting I wasn't strong enough to make it alone in California. Sherry got madder every time the woman opened her mouth. Then Mom added I didn't have any friends here to help me.

“
I'm
helping,” Sherry shot back. “A lot more than you, if you want to know. I don't put her down every chance I get. No wonder she doesn't want to move back to Denver.
You're
there.”

Whoa. I'd never heard Sherry talk to anyone like that. Mom had gone crimson and stalked from the room.

I sat on my hotel bed, facing away from my mother. “What'd he say?”

“That it's a good thing she showed up. It would make you stronger.”

What was
that
supposed to mean? Mom always had a knack for cutting me down, and he knew it. “Well, he's a man. They see things weird.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

We fell into silence.

“Sherry, I need to go.”

“Okay. I'll call you when I'm done at the station.”

I dropped the phone on the bed and stared at the wall. Jay's words rattled around inside me.

“She bothering you?” Mom's tone accused.

I stood up and faced my mother. “She doesn't bother me, Mom. She's my friend.”

My mother eyed me, then gestured toward her computer. “I'm still looking.” As if I should have no doubts as to who was really helping me here.

I squeezed the back of my neck. Had this day only just begun? I pictured Sherry at the police station, talking to Officer Bremer—

A horrible thought crashed into my brain. It struck so hard it weakened my knees. “Oh, no.”

Mom frowned at me. “What is it?”

I sat back down on the bed. Focused on the brown coverlet as snatches of our meeting with Officer Bremer replayed in my head. The way he'd hesitated when I asked if he knew a case that would fit my memories . . .

Of
course
he knew. With Redwood City just one town over from Atherton? He had to.

And I'd stupidly told him details about the murder. Details no one should know—unless they were
there
.

“Lisa,
what
?”

I felt sick in my stomach. “He thinks I'm involved.”

“What? Who?”

“Bremer. He thinks I'm involved in her murder.” I shook my head. The whole thing seemed so obvious. How could we have been so naïve? We'd handed the police every reason in the world to suspect me.

“Where did you get that idea?”

Was Bremer talking to Atherton police right now, planning their next move?

Now I
couldn't
leave town. That would only make them all the more suspicious. They'd just track me down, drag me back. I was trapped here, between Hilderbrand and the police.

The realizations fell like muddy raindrops, clogging my head. I couldn't begin to think what to do next.

“Turn off the computer.” My words sounded off-key. “I don't want to see any more. I don't want to know.”

“We gave them evidence, Lisa. We
have
evidence that we're telling the truth.”

“Not nearly enough!” I threw out my hands. “Think like a cop. We could have staged the break-in and the phone message. We could have slipped the envelope onto the hallway floor as we let Agnes inside. There's nothing to prove we're telling the truth. We are stupid, stupid,
stupid
!”

“But why would you want to kill that woman? You don't even know her.”

I laughed. “Convince them of that.”

Suddenly my mother's face was the last thing I wanted to see. She'd gotten me into this mess with Bremer. Practically made me call the police. I slid off the bed and headed for the bathroom. “I'm going to take a shower.” Hot enough to burn away my thoughts. Convince me I was wrong.

It didn't work. The hot water only weakened me. I needed food again. But no way. I did not want to sit down and eat with my mother.

Come on, Lisa. Calling the police was your decision, and you know it.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom Mom had packed up her laptop. She took one look at me and declared I needed breakfast. She was reading my mind again. I hated that.

“I don't want anything.”

“You
need
it.”

I shook my head.

“Look. I drove us here. And I'm not driving you home until you eat.”

I leaned against the wall, tears pooling in my eyes. I couldn't deal with this. A murder, the police—and my mother, too?

How had I gotten here? My whole life was falling apart.

Mom slipped her arm around my shoulders, her voice gentling. “Come on, honey. You're just feeling overwhelmed right now. It'll pass. And you'll be better if you eat. We'll talk this through.”

I had no more strength to fight her. Next thing I knew, she was leading me down the hall to the restaurant.

We chose a booth in the corner. I faced the wall, not wanting to even look at other people. What was wrong with me? Where was the determination I'd had two days ago?

Mom folded her hands beneath her chin. “You will get through this. We
will
figure it out.”

God, please make that true.

I played with my fork, trying to think of something good. “I haven't had any new memories in over twenty-four hours. Maybe they're done.”

“Hope so.”

The waitress took our orders and poured coffee, trying not to look at my bandaged head. I doused my drink with cream. Mom and I couldn't seem to find any more to say to each other.

“Why did you come, Mom?” The words slipped out of me.

Dismay flicked across her face. “Why are you so surprised I want to help you?”

That question had a thousand answers.

My throat clutched. “You told me I needed to draw my picture better.”

“What?”

“When I was five. That picture I made for you. You didn't say thank you or that you liked it. You just told me how to
fix
it. I couldn't do anything right.”

Mom's lips creaked open. She gazed at me, lines crisscrossing her forehead. “You did lots of things right.”

“You sure didn't make me feel like it.”

Her focus danced around the table, as if a response might lie in the plates and silverware. “Is this what you were talking about yesterday? About making you feel worthless? I really . . . I don't even remember that picture.”

Don't remember?
The memory had carved itself into me.

“I'm sorry, Lisa. I truly am.”

The apology floated by me, a milkweed on the wind. My gaze dropped to my lap. She didn't even
remember
?

“I never meant to make you feel like you couldn't do anything right.”

All these years I'd cowed beneath this memory and many others. While my mother had no clue? Did she think she'd raised me well? Didn't she wonder why she had so much self-esteem while I had none?

And then I saw it. Just like that. I'd let these memories shape my life. And who had it hurt?

Me.

The thought sent me reeling.

“Lisa, do you hear?”

I looked at my mother as if for the first time. “Yeah. I hear.”

We fell silent again. I took a drink of my coffee, the heat and taste of it anchoring me.

Mom pressed her fingers into the table. “Whatever I've done, whatever I've said to you, now or years ago, was to help you. I just want to make you better.”

Make me better.
Hadn't she said those same words yesterday morning?

I set down my coffee cup. “Mom,
you
can't make me better. You, or anyone else on this earth.
I
have to make myself better, with God's help.”

Mom gazed at me, then nodded. “It's so hard to watch your child suffer. You'd do anything to make it go away.”

That made no sense. “When you pointed out the flaws in that drawing, you
made
me suffer.”

My mother looked away. “That's the irony, I suppose. In trying to prepare you for life so you'd hurt less . . . I hurt you.”

It was a major revelation for her, and it played across her face. I didn't want to pursue it, afraid I'd just rub it in. She already looked pained enough.

The waitress appeared with our food. Somehow I forced it down. It tasted like glue. Mom and I talked little. My thoughts fixed on our conversation and what she might be thinking.

“I'm sorry,” she said eventually. “Really I am.”

“It's okay, Mom.”

We could talk about it no more. The whole thing needed time to settle.

I found myself wondering about the break-in and Officer Bremer. Where was he right now? What was he doing?

And where were Mom and I supposed to sleep tonight? At the hotel I felt like a refugee. Discarded. Helpless. If I couldn't leave town, on my own turf at least I could fight.

But fight how?

“I'm going to call the apartment manager to get my lock changed,” I told Mom as we headed back to the room. If the lock had been picked, it may make little difference. But it was something to do.

“Sounds good.”

We packed up and checked out of the hotel. The whole time I felt our conversation shimmer between us.

On the drive back to Redwood City my cell phone went off. It was Sherry again, telling me she'd been fingerprinted. “If I ever hold up a bank, they'll know where to find me.”

I tried to laugh. “Thanks for putting yourself through that. We're on our way home.”

“You sleeping there tonight?”

“I can't stay away forever.”

“But won't you be scared?”

Petrified was more like it. “I'll work through it.”

Sherry made a sound in her throat. “That chip was no placebo.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

I hung up—and my phone rang again. Maria Delgado, a tech from Redwood City Police Department, was on the line, wanting to come over to dust for fingerprints. “Can you give us half an hour?” I asked. “We're just now headed back.”