Shattered (24 page)

Where it was eventually forgotten, as this case would have been forgotten if Gemmel had not noticed and been intrigued by how much she looked like Angela Garcia.

Lisa found herself almost wishing Gemmel hadn't noticed.

Certainly she would be sleeping better at night.

There was a Christmas picture of the children in the file, the kind of inexpensive professional photograph that would have been taken at one of those talk-to-Santa setups in a mall. Probably in Lexington, because the children looked to be approximately the same age that they had been when they had disappeared. Perched on Santa's lap, Marisa, wearing a Christmasy plaid dress and red tights, was looking down at a small stuffed reindeer in her lap. Her brother, Tony, in a red sweater and black pants, stood by Santa's knee, staring solemnly in the direction of the camera. Like Marisa, he was a sturdy, rosy-cheeked, black-haired child. Handsome and a little mischievous-looking. A shiver went up Lisa's spine as, taking a closer look, squinting past the glow of her laptop screen and enlarging the picture as best she could, she was able to determine that his eyes were brown.

A warm caramel brown.

Like mine.

At the thought, her stomach tightened. But then, of course, she reminded herself, golden brown was in no way extraordinary. After all, in a world in which approximately half the population was brown-eyed, how many shades of brown could there be?

Because Marisa was looking down, her eye color was impossible to determine. Suddenly desperate to know, Lisa searched through the file, scanning every page for a mention of Marisa's eye color. She knew that it had to be part of the record, because a detailed description of the child would have been taken and sent to the media as well as law enforcement across the country, but if it was in the file she couldn't find it.

In her mind, she'd pictured Marisa's eyes as blue, but she realized that was strictly because the doll Katrina's eyes were blue, and she'd extrapolated the color to the child. But if Marisa's eyes were caramel, too . . .

What? Then she was Marisa? Was that what she secretly suspected? Lisa shook her head at herself. It was impossible, and not only because she had seen the photographic proof of her own birth, or because her existence had been carefully documented from the time her mother had first begun to swell with pregnancy to some snapshots Robin had taken of Lisa with Martha last week. The age difference alone ruled that out.

Still, she couldn't stop looking at the photo.

There was a picture in her baby book of herself with Santa at about four years old that Lisa had never really been aware of until she and her mother had gone through the album together on the day of the fire. It had been well on its way to fading into the dim recesses of her memory until now.

That picture of herself looked enough like this picture of Marisa that they could have been taken of the same child.

Lisa's heart started to beat faster. She was still staring down at the picture when her mother, on a gurney, was rolled out of the MRI room.

Glancing up at the sound of the gurney's wheels, Lisa quickly closed the laptop, slid it into her tote, and stood up.

"Good news," Lisa greeted her, falling into place beside the gurney after a quick smile for the orderly who was pushing it. "Dr. Dean said you haven't had a stroke. They're going to schedule you for some physical therapy, and then, when you're a little stronger, they're going to let you go. Maybe as early as Monday."

"That's--wonderful. I can't wait--to get home." Her mother's eyes grew misty, and Lisa realized that Martha was fighting back a sudden welling of tears. "I was afraid I was--going--to die in here."

"No way." Lisa wrapped her fingers around her mother's as a lump rose in her own throat. The truth was, she had been afraid of that, too.

A little later, very casually, she asked her mother if she remembered anything about a family by the name of Garcia who'd gone missing from the area about thirty years ago.

For a moment Martha frowned, and Lisa had thought she was going to say no. Then her brow cleared. "Yes--I do."

The answer was surprising enough to send a tiny chill through Lisa. Unsure how to proceed--the last thing she wanted to do was cause her mother any distress--Lisa met her mother's eyes. There was no trace of self-consciousness in them that she could detect. No trace of the nervousness she should have been feeling if she'd been keeping a lifelong guilty secret from her daughter and suspected she was about to be called on it.

"Did you know them?"

"No. But--there were children involved--and I was a--new mother. It was--all over TV. And--the papers. At the time. I remember thinking it--was very sad. Why? Have they--turned up?"

Still watching her mother closely, Lisa shook her head. "I came across a file on the case at work, is all."

She hesitated, tempted to pull her laptop out of her tote and show her mother the pictures. But illness had made Martha fragile, and seeing how much the daughter she adored looked like the missing family might well worry her.

It might even stir up things best left unstirred.

Even to have such thoughts was unsettling. Lisa felt as though she were tiptoeing her way through a minefield. One wrong step had the potential to set off an explosion that could be catastrophic.

"That must be--so interesting. Sometimes I wish--I--had had a career." Martha's tone was wistful. Knowing her mother well enough to be convinced by her words and manner that she wasn't hiding anything, Lisa allowed herself to be led down the trail of gentle reminiscences that Martha embarked on.

When her mother was wheeled away for her first physical therapy session shortly after three p.m., Lisa left the hospital to run some much-needed errands. The first thing she did was, finally, get a room at the Marriott down the street and move her suitcase into it. If she was going back to work tomorrow, she needed a base other than the hospital. Then she did a little shopping, acquiring such necessities as underwear and toiletries, and a very basic wardrobe.

Finally she drove out to Grayson Springs. Detective Watson had called and asked to meet with her there, and she had agreed, although not without some misgivings: From his tone, she was sure that he had more questions, and maybe even more suspicion, for her. But she wanted to pick up some things, including her baby book and other photo albums, and because she felt uneasy about going out to the house or anywhere else that was kind of isolated on her own, she considered that the safety Detective Watson's presence promised outweighed any unpleasantness he might have in store for her. With an eye toward getting the most out of her visit, she also made an appointment to talk with the contractor she had selected to restore the house. Among other things, she wanted his opinion on whether it would be possible for them to move back into the house after Martha was released from the hospital. Once Lisa had begun thinking the matter over, she had started to be horribly afraid it would not. There had been so much damage, and there was so much work to be done, that it was possible that she would have to find some other place for herself and her mother to live until at least some of the repairs were completed. She immediately thought of the manager's house, where Robin and Andy were staying, but just as quickly ruled that out. An old farmhouse much like the one Bud Buchanan lived in, although in far better shape, it was totally unsuitable for a woman in a wheelchair.

The problem was that although Dr. Dean's verdict today had felt very much like a reprieve, the hard truth remained that Martha didn't have a lot of time. Lisa wanted her to be able to spend as much of that time as possible in the home she loved.

When she crested the rise in the long driveway to be greeted by the scorched and damaged outline of the roof against the sky, Lisa's heart sank. The house's once pristine facade was seared and black in places, and beside the columned porch the bucket of a bright yellow cherry picker hoisted a man toward the gutted second floor. More trucks were parked in the driveway, and workers swarmed around the place like bees. The grass was rutted, the windows grimy with smoke, the front door standing open. Seeing Grayson Springs so terribly brutalized made her ache with loss. Her eyes stung and her throat grew tight remembering the house the way it had been.

But there was no undoing what had been done. Blinking away incipient tears, she steeled herself to accept the situation as it was and deal with it.

The contractor who was waiting for her confirmed what she instinctively knew: It would take months to bring Grayson Springs fully back to life. Even to get the part of the house that the fire had left undamaged livable again would require weeks of work, because of havoc wrought by water and smoke and the destruction of such essentials as the electrical, heating, and air-conditioning systems.

The hard truth was that her mother would not be able to go home right away.

Detective Watson, as it happened, wanted to ask about the smoke detectors. It seemed that the semi-melted remains of two of them had been recovered. From their location in the debris, he believed that they were the ones from either end of the second-floor hallway ceiling in Lisa's bedroom wing.

"Who was responsible for seeing to their maintenance?" he asked.

Lisa frowned. They were standing near the porte cochere with a bustle of activity going on around them. It was hot and humid, and the terrible burned smell that she was actually starting to grow almost accustomed to hung in the air. There was also a great deal of noise. The contractor and his crew were on the far side of the house, yelling back and forth. A chain saw roared from the front yard. An arson team was at work inside, and she watched as plastic bin after plastic bin of blackened items was carried past to be stored in an outbuilding until investigators could go through them.

"Robin--Mrs. Baker, I suppose. Or Mr. Frye. Really, anyone who thought of it. Why?"

"Far as we can tell, the batteries were missing. From both."

Lisa felt an icy tingle run down her spine. It was possible that the missing batteries were an accident, of course. Somebody took them out, meant to replace them, and never got around to it. But how likely was that?

Her stomach tightened. Her heart started to thud. She could feel her body reacting, and she did her best to keep it from showing. "You really think it was arson?"

"We wouldn't be doing this if we didn't." Detective Watson did his sleepy-turtle blink at her. "You said you were in bed asleep when the fire started. If they didn't have batteries, the smoke detectors definitely weren't working. So, you want to tell me how it was again that you woke up and became aware of the fire?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake." His suspicion of her was as tangible as a blast of cold air. "If it was arson, I didn't do it, I promise you."

"If you could just answer the question, Miss Grant."

Lisa gave up and gave in. She had nearly finished with one more recounting of how she had awakened to smell smoke when something atop one of the bins being carted past caught her eye.

"Stop," she broke off to say sharply to the uniformed deputy who was carrying the bin. As he obediently stopped, frowning at her, she walked toward him. "I--that 's mine."

"That" was Katrina. The doll's face was smudged with soot, and her hair was singed so that the ends frizzed around her neck. Her clothes were dirty and scorched in places, and her tights and shoes were missing. It was obvious from the discoloration and flatness of the dress's nap that she'd been soaked with water that had then slowly dried. But she was still perfectly recognizable.

Almost convulsively, Lisa picked her up out of the bin, her hands closing around hard plastic arms clad in now stiff blue velvet. As she was tilted upright, the doll's eyes flew open. Lisa's heart gave an unexpected leap. For a moment she had the eerie impression that Katrina was staring at her.

Get a grip.

With Detective Watson's permission, she took Katrina with her when she left. But during the drive back to Lexington she became spooked enough by the doll's vacant blue gaze to lock her securely in the trunk before she went back into the hospital.

It felt, Lisa decided with a shiver, like having a ghost riding with her.

18

"You bought that at Walmart?"
Nola looked incredulously at Lisa's airy white linen jacket, which she wore over a simple white tee with a pair of black slacks. "I don't believe it. It's actually cute!"

"They have some nice things. You just have to look. You ought to try shopping there. You might be surprised." Hiding a smile, Lisa took another small bite out of what remained of her scoop of tuna salad. The tuna, presented on a bed of lettuce surrounded by juicy red tomato slices, was delectable, and she was determined to savor every last morsel. It was also pricey enough to be a splurge she allowed herself only rarely now. She and Nola were seated in a booth at one of their favorite restaurants, Fortuni's, which was located in the middle of Lexington's chicly revitalized downtown. It was Friday lunch hour, and the place, which was popular with the legal community because it was near the courthouse, was crowded and noisy. As she had to be in courtroom nine at the prosecution's table complete with paperwork at one, and it was now twelve-thirty, they were just finishing.

Nola, the Saks, Neiman's, and expensive boutique shopaholic, dismissed Walmart with a shudder. "Sweetie, forget Walmart. I brought you two big boxes full of the good stuff. Lucky we wear the same size."

Lisa grinned at her friend. They did wear the same size, although Nola was two inches shorter and considerably curvier where it counted. But they had wildly different tastes and coloring. Blue-eyed, with a crop of platinum-blond curls that spiraled to her shoulders and the kind of round-cheeked, pert-nosed beauty that made her look like a teenager at twenty-eight, Nola favored bright colors, silky textures, low-cut tops, short skirts, and clingy dresses. If there was a pantsuit in her wardrobe, Lisa had yet to see it. The only thing they agreed on was shoes: They both favored sinfully expensive high heels. Trust-fund-baby Nola could still afford them. Lisa unfortunately couldn't.