Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 31

I close my eyes. Tessa's right; it's easier this way. I inhale deep, pulling the scent all the way into my lungs, into my stomach. I feel sun, the promise of an outside world. I feel the yearning of a young girl, locked up for too long inside.

My hand moves across the paper.

From time to time, Tessa asks me questions. She sits at the table across the room, leaving me be. I can hear the clack of a keyboard, her own fingers busily at work. But she's in her world and I'm in mine, and even her questions blend with the pictures opening up before me.

"What are the names of the girls?"

"Vero, Chelsea, CeeCee, Renita."

"How old are they?"

"CeeCee and Renita are older. Madame's first girls. They scare us."

"Why?"

"They're . . . cold. Know things even we don't know yet. Madame is hard on them. They're getting too old for the dollhouse, and everyone knows it."

"Do you talk to them?"

"Never."

"Who do you talk to?"

"Vero tells stories. Of the time before. When she was a real girl and someone loved her. Chelsea listens. They hunker together in their side-by-side beds. They whisper and dream of Someday. Other Places. Outside. Then night falls. Madame unlocks their door. And it's time again."

I draw a room. Not the narrow bedroom, but a parlor. With a marble-trimmed fireplace and bra.s.s sconces on the wall. A room that had once been grand. But it's worn now, frayed around the edges. Like Madame. Once beautiful, now clinging desperately to what used to be and might have been.

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 gra.s.s. 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."

Chapter 28.

WYATT 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 st.i.tches, 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. h.e.l.l, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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?"

HE'D DEFINITELY 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."