Eyes On You Part 20

Nancy parked directly in front of the house and led me by foot around to the back. It was clear from the ground that the rain had bypa.s.sed this area. The guesthouse was behind and to the right of the main house, alongside a gorgeous black-bottomed pool. Nancy unlocked the door, and we stepped inside a room with whitewashed wood beams and a stone fireplace. At some other point in my life, I would have relished being there.

"I stocked a few things in the fridge," Nancy said. "I wish I had time to make you lunch today, but I need to be with my sister. It's her chemo afternoon."

"I'm so sorry about your sister," I said. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Bettina said there was a car I could use, and I'll just drive into town if I need anything."

Nancy wrinkled her nose. "Oh dear, she didn't mention that. I'm using the car this afternoon to take my sister. You're welcome to it tomorrow."

"That's okay," I said, though I couldn't help mind. I'd thought there would be a car, and now I felt trapped. I dropped my duffel bag to the floor.

"Enjoy the pool and the grounds," Nancy said. "Ms. Lane said she would be up in a day or two."

After she left I helped myself to a container of chicken salad in the fridge but ate no more than a few bites. I wandered into the other room, flopped onto the bed, and stared up at the whitewashed beams. Finally, I slept. When I woke, I forced myself up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

I washed my face with a cool cloth. Then I dug the manila envelope from my duffel bag and set it on the table. The envelope had been addressed to my aunt Jessie during the first year I'd lived with her. The return address had been made with a rubber stamp: Martha Brenner, CSW, 149 Sherman Avenue, Oneonta, New York.

I'd found it among my aunt's things when she died of cancer seven years ago, but I'd never looked inside. I'd told myself none of it mattered anymore. But I had to look now.

chapter 19.

I picked up the envelope and carried it out to the umbrella-topped table on the deck. The only sign of life outside were the automatic lawn sprinklers between the pool and Bettina's house, their spray catching the bright afternoon light as they spun around.

Though the envelope had been unsealed long ago, the flap was secured with two p.r.o.ngs of a rusted metal clasp. I squeezed them together and tugged the flap up over them. Inside the envelope my fingertips found a thin piece of paper, which I slid slowly out.

It was what I'd a.s.sumed would be inside-the report from the social worker that Jessie had sent me to after I'd returned to stay with her for good. She had claimed it would be a chance for me to talk to someone about what I'd experienced.

"I can talk to you," I'd pleaded. I hadn't been able to, though. I could sense it would be a relief to share, but I couldn't form words to describe my psychic pain, the terrible hours spent cooped up in the closet, my father's betrayal of me. Over time, Mrs. Brenner pried it all from me.

I realized now that Jessie probably had been anxious to learn the whole story herself. Despite her love for me, she must have had doubts, especially considering the factors at play: a dead mother; a newly smitten father; a stepmother smug about the prize she'd snagged and not pleased with the idea of sharing. It would have been easy for Jessie to imagine me acting out. In little ways at first, nothing atrocious, but then one event leading inexorably to another, with no chance of me ever going back. There had been so many moments that year, particularly as I lay in my bed in Oneonta-not the pink canopy I'd slept in at my old house but the narrow headboard-less one in Jessie's tiny guest room-when I'd wondered if I really was the evil one.

I picked up the paper and began to read.

Robin was referred to me at the age of 12, suffering from extreme stress. Her symptoms included headaches, tremors, and a self-soothing rocking motion. It was obvious she was an intelligent and thoughtful girl, but she was very withdrawn at this time. Her mother had died about two years before and her father had remarried fairly soon afterward.

Though initially Robin was uncommunicative, by the fifth session she began to open up about her experiences over the past year. Not long after her stepmother, Janice, moved in, she began to hide or stain Robin's belongings. It appears she did this primarily to incriminate Robin in her father's eyes-so that he'd withdraw from her.

Robin found proof of her stepmother's actions and alerted her father. She was sent to live with her aunt for the summer. During that time, her stepmother convinced the father that Robin had planted this evidence.

The situation accelerated once Robin returned home. Her father made it clear that he didn't believe her but he was hopeful Robin could learn from her mistakes. Robin was needy of her father's love and approval since her mother's death and this lack of belief in her was extremely difficult. The stepmother began locking Robin in the closet while her father was at work, knowing that if Robin reported it, the father wouldn't believe her.

It was in late November that the first symptoms of severe stress began to appear in Robin-headaches and tremors, mostly. She developed the rocking motion to help her cope.

I let the paper drop to the table. When I'd had tremors lately, they had felt familiar to me, but I'd forgotten I had also suffered from terrible headaches back then. I'd lost track, too, that the rocking motion that comforted me had started in the closet. I'd vaguely thought it had begun with my mother's death. I began to read again: Whatever trauma Robin is experiencing now is complicated by the fact that she is still grieving over the loss of her mother.

There has been concern that Robin may have actually been responsible for the behavior and faked evidence as a way of acting out against the stepmother.

I have found no reason to suspect this. I do not believe Robin is capable of this kind of conceit. That said, Robin has been through considerable trauma, and she has psychological wounds to show for it. I recommend continued sessions for an indefinite period of time.

In so many ways, I realized, Janice and Vicky were alike. I hadn't been a real threat to either of them, but they had perceived me that way-as the interloper who could undo all that they'd claimed for themselves. And their plan had been the same: Convince people I was half-crazy, that I'd dreamed up an elaborate and dangerous scheme to portray myself as a victim.

I stood up from the table, stripped off my clothes, and plunged into the pool, exhilarated by the feel of the water on my naked body. I'd been so committed to work this summer that I hadn't been out of town any weekends, hadn't been swimming a single time. I swam lap after lap, caught up in the rhythm of my arms and legs slicing through the cool water. After finally climbing out, I wrapped myself in a beach towel and stood on the deck, thinking hard. Years ago, I had proved my innocence to Jessie and Mrs. Brenner. Once again, I would have to find a way to exonerate myself. In this case, it meant figuring out who'd had the motive, means, and opportunity to harm me.

As I'd realized earlier, I would have little chance attacking the situation from the outside. It would be like trying to ram a fortress with a straw. So I needed to work from the inside, and that meant recruiting an ally. Ann was out, but there might be someone else.

Over the past few days, I'd felt too overwhelmed to read emails or return calls, but I'd glanced occasionally at the screen of my iPhone and knew that a few people from work had reached out. Clutching the towel around me, I traipsed into the house and dug my phone from my purse.

I started scrolling down, bypa.s.sing emails from friends and reporters, as well as panicky ones from the book publishing team.

Maddy had emailed more than once. She was anxious to see me, she said, and had gone by my apartment looking for me. I emailed back, explaining that we couldn't meet because I was staying at Bettina's house in Westport, and I asked her to call me. I knew it wouldn't be smart to take her into my confidence, but she might have info I could use. Plus, talking to her would help me gauge whether she could possibly be behind what had happened. And there was one specific thing I needed to know from her.

There was nothing from Carter, of course. For the first time in days, I thought of the two of us in bed, the reckless pleasure and release I'd experienced on each occasion. There was no kidding myself. I felt more than a twinge of loss and regret.

To my surprise, there was an email from Alex Lucca. Three, in fact. He needed to talk to me, he said. It was important. Why so eager? I wondered.

When I called him, I reached voice mail, but fifteen minutes later, he phoned back. I could hear car horns honking in the background. He'd clearly gone down to the street in order to speak to me privately.

"How are you doing?" he said.

"I'm not great," I said. "But I appreciate your concern."

"I wanted to find out how you were, but I also have information that might be worthwhile."

I felt a jolt of adrenalin. "Okay," I said quietly. "I'm all ears."

"I don't think it's smart to talk on the phone. Can we meet in person?"

"I'm staying outside the city right now."

"How far away are you? I have a car. I could drive to you after the show this evening."

"I'm up in Westport, Connecticut. You wouldn't want to come all the way out here tonight."

"I don't mind. Robin, I really think you need to hear this."

I couldn't turn this down. I found the exact address on the mailing label of a magazine lying on the coffee table, and I gave it to him, knowing it would take at least an hour to drive here following the show.

After hanging up, I warned myself not to become excited, but I couldn't help feeling a surge of hope. There was one person on the inside who at least claimed he wanted to help. And that was a tiny start.

At around six, I finished the chicken salad I'd found in the fridge, eating it outside on the deck. The early-evening sky was streaked with pinks and reds, and the air began to fill with the rhythmic call of katydids. As I stood in the yard, I realized something funny. Despite the mess my life was in, for the first time in days, I actually felt safe, out of reach of my tormenter.

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and tried leafing through magazines, but all I could think about was Alex and when he would be here. I walked back outside and stood for a while on the deck. The light, which had seemed to linger so long, finally faded and the air was cool. Outdoor security lights popped on, but the interior of Bettina's house was totally dark. I had a.s.sumed that Nancy was a live-in housekeeper, yet there was no sign of her. It meant that I would be all alone on the property tonight.

Back inside I turned on lamps, dug a sweater from my duffel bag, and slipped it on. At nine-thirty, I heard wheels on gravel and then the sound of a car door slamming. I watched from the doorway as Alex-I could tell by the tall, slim shape-emerged from around the corner of the main house and made his way in my direction.

I stepped outside and crossed the dark lawn to greet him. He was still in that work uniform of his-the white dress shirt paired with jeans-though he'd rolled up the sleeves. His hair was mussed a little, as if he'd driven with the window down. It was a relief to set eyes on him, but I warned myself to keep my guard up. I hardly knew him.

"I appreciate you coming, Alex," I said as he reached me. "Was the drive okay?"

"Yes, fine. It's good to see you, Robin."

Inside, I asked if he'd like something to drink, and he accepted a beer. I poured myself a gla.s.s of sparkling water.

"I feel terrible about all you've been going through," he said as we took seats at the small dining table.

"How much do you know?" I asked. I realized that it was odd to be sitting with him in a guesthouse of a Westport estate, like one of those improbable things that happen in dreams.

"More than most people, I think," he said.

"Why is that?" I asked, feeling a p.r.i.c.k of concern.

"Other than Tom, no one around work has been told anything, though people are speculating like crazy. There are rumors that you had an affair-with Dave Potts or Carter or whoever. That you're addicted to painkillers. All sorts of c.r.a.p. But by a fluke, I ended up hearing what really happened."

I stared at him, expectant.

"Tom confided the story to his partner, and he ended up blabbing to a lawyer pal who, coincidentally, is a friend of mine. So much for the cone of silence."

"What exactly did she say?" I asked, wondering if Alex knew less than he was letting on and was fishing.

He ran through a capsulized version of my story, with all the basic points correct, including the fact that I'd considered Vicky as a possible suspect.

"I can't believe they think you're responsible," he said at the end. "It's preposterous."

"Why are you so sure I'm not?" I asked.

"I spent four years in the DA's office, and I'm pretty good at spotting liars, narcissists, and sociopaths." He smiled. "You seem to own a lot of shoes, but that's the only obsession I've picked up on."

I smiled back. "I appreciate that endors.e.m.e.nt."

His expression clouded. "Do you really think it's Vicky Cruz?"

I threw up my hands. "I don't know what to think anymore," I said. "There is circ.u.mstantial evidence pointing to her."

I told him about the remarks Vicky had made regarding Ambien and the makeup I used, as well as the hostility she'd directed at me in the corridor.

"Could she see you as a threat?"

"That's what I wondered initially, but maybe I overreacted. Over the past few days, I've been trying to entertain other options. Different people at work."

"It can't be a very long list."

"I never set out to be adored by everyone, but most people appear to respect me. The only one who's seemed to have her knickers in a twist lately is Charlotte."

"I've noticed that," he said. "And she's been the one doing the most whispering and snickering about you. Says she saw you in the lobby yesterday morning and that you looked white as a ghost."

So I'd interpreted her expression correctly. "She clearly blames me, not herself, for her job woes. The question is whether she'd act on her pent-up animosity." I paused. "I feel awful saying this, but briefly, I wondered about Maddy. She seems to have developed a chip on her shoulder about me as well."

Alex scrunched his mouth. "I've worked with her closely lately, and she seems to hold you in awfully high regard."

It had helped to articulate my ruminations, but Alex had promised information, and that was what I was most eager for. He seemed to read my thoughts.

"Let me share now," he said. "Like I mentioned on the phone, I have a piece of information. And it's about Vicky."

Instinctively, I caught my breath.

"You know the night you found the bug in your drink?" he said. "I'm not sure if you were aware of this, but Vicky Cruz had come up to the newsroom around then."

"Yes, I knew that."

"At one point I came around the corner to that little area with the table just behind the set. Your coffee mug is always there, the one with your name on it, and a thermos they keep the coffee in. As I rounded the corner, I discovered Vicky just standing there.

"It seemed an odd place to find her," he added, narrowing his eyes at the memory. "Even odder was that a guilty look crossed her face when she saw me, as if I'd caught her at something. Just a micro expression, but it was definitely there. And then she was calling me sweetheart and asking if I knew whether there was any bottled water around our set."

"What you're saying is she might have dropped the bug in my coffee?"

"Possibly. I have no proof at all, but after I realized what had happened, I flashed back on her at the table. At the time, though, I didn't feel justified making any kind of insinuation. There was no evidence."

"Are you willing to go to Potts and Oliver with it now?"

"Absolutely. But I wanted to talk to you about it first. I'd like to make a suggestion, too. What I'm conveying is very circ.u.mstantial, so it might be best to present this in conjunction with anything else you have that could prove your innocence. Do you have a lawyer helping you put a defense together?"

"Not yet," I said. "And the so-called evidence against me is pretty d.a.m.ning."

I shared what Potts had revealed about the searches on my computer, how they'd been orchestrated while Keiki was at her desk, so it would have been tough for someone to have sneaked in. Alex listened pensively, his hazel eyes flickering.

"You know," he said. "There's a way someone can search from your computer remotely, so that it looks like you've done it yourself. They send you a phishing email with an attachment, and that in turn attaches what's called a botnet to your computer. It sits there unnoticed and allows the other person to download information."

"Why wouldn't Oliver have looked into that?" I said, flabbergasted.

"That kind of investigation has to be done by an outside forensics company, and from what I know, it's pricey. Once security became convinced you were behind everything, they probably didn't want to spend the money."

"That's appalling."

"I know. Can you recall any emails with attachments that were sent to your office computer lately? One you weren't expecting?"

"Not off the top of my head," I said, smiling woefully. I felt deflated. After Alex's call, I'd let myself become hopeful, but all I had was Vicky's proximity to my coffee mug. Once again, Alex seemed to read my thoughts.

"I want to help you, Robin. There's got to be a way to clear you."

"I'm not going to reject your offer. But where do we even start?"

"Over the next day or two, go back in your mind and see if you can remember receiving any unexpected emails with attachments. I also want you to list everyone you know at the network and any recollection you have of someone acting miffed at you, no matter how silly it seemed."