Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 22

WYATT ORDERED NICKY to remain in the county’s SUV. Did he have the authority to do that? Nope. Did he have probable cause to arrest her for anything? Not really. Couldn’t nail her for the house fire, as she’d been with him and Kevin the entire time. Even an arrest for Wednesday’s crash was problematic, given her blood alcohol reading didn’t meet the DWI threshold of .08.

Technically speaking, Nicky Frank could walk away from him and Kevin, not to mention the burning embers of her house, and be well within her rights.

Like hell, Wyatt thought, for the third time in as many minutes. She was his only link to something larger, murkier and far more criminal than a lone car accident.

He left Kevin in charge of babysitting, while he went in search of the fire marshal.

“What can you tell me?” Wyatt asked the older man, Jerry Wright, who’d been called out from several towns over. All in all, three separate volunteer fire departments were on the property. It was that kind of blaze, deserving that kind of response.

“Started in the outbuilding,” Wright answered crisply now. They had to stand well back, not just because men were still working hoses, but because the flames were throwing off tremendous heat. “Definitely an accelerant, and lots of it. Metal buildings don’t normally like to burn. But this one. Shi-it.”

Wyatt had checked out the rear of the property, where the gray shed was now a charred, twisted shell of its former self. The shed that had once housed Thomas’s tools of the trade. Interesting.

“Who called it in?” Wyatt asked.

“Neighbor, eventually. But given the distances between the properties out here, it had probably already been burning for a bit. Call came in a little after eight. Response time was solid, first unit rolling in by eight fifteen. Still, shed was a goner from the start, I’m told, house already fully engulfed. Whoever wanted this done didn’t mess around.”

“Any reports of a man on the scene?”

“Negative. House is too hot to enter, so can’t swear to what we’ll find inside. But from the time we’ve been here, no signs of life.”

Wyatt nodded; he strongly doubted Thomas was anywhere on the property. The man’s silver Suburban, which had been in plain sight in the driveway four hours earlier, was now conspicuously missing. Wyatt’s best guess, Thomas let the police take his wife away, then torched his own place and split.

But why?

Nicky claimed he was afraid of her, and Wyatt was a smart enough man to understand she didn’t mean in the literal sense. More likely, Thomas feared her fickle memories. Three concussions in a row seemed to have unlocked some doors in Nicky’s mind. And not all the contents were pretty.

Meaning, what had Thomas and/or Nicky done in the past that at least Thomas was still desperate to hide? More important, how did it relate to the existing, nonexisting, probably dead, possibly still alive mystery girl, Vero?

“Fire’s too hot,” the fire marshal informed Wyatt now. “You want more info, gotta wait till morning.”

“All right, keep me posted.”

Wyatt left the man, taking a few steps back to once more consider the blaze. The roof of the house was fully engulfed. It was an impressive sight, an entire home being consumed alive. Windows shattered. Metal groans. A singular type of destruction that was both awesome and terrifying.

He wondered what Nicky saw when she gazed upon it. Was she horrified by what her husband had done? Had to be photos, family mementos, favored possessions, that were even now turning to ash before her eyes.

Yet, when he returned to the car, she simply sat in the backseat, staring at the inferno, blank faced.

“We got an APB out on Thomas’s vehicle,” he informed Kevin. “’Bout all we can do for now.”

Kevin nodded.

“She spoken at all?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat.

“Not a word.”

“Checked her phone?”

“She doesn’t have a phone. Lost it in the car wreck, remember?”

“Meaning Thomas has no means of contacting her,” Wyatt murmured.

“Unless they have a predetermined meeting place.”

“That’s it. We’re taking her to the station. As long as Thomas Frank is missing, she’s our bait.”

*   *   *

NICKY DIDN’T PROTEST when they pulled out of the driveway and once more hit the road. She didn’t ask where they were going or complain of hunger or thirst. She simply sat, eyes out the window, quilt on her lap.

From time to time, Wyatt would study her in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher what she was thinking. She looked exhausted, as she should be. She looked unwell, as she was. Too thin, too pale, as if a good stiff wind would knock her off her feet. But her face was shuttered, flat affect.

Hadn’t someone mentioned shell shock once before? At the accident, the passing motorist who’d stopped to assist. He’d been a war vet and reported she appeared shell-shocked, as in the literal definition of the word. Watching her now, Wyatt saw the man’s point. Nicky Frank had gone somewhere inside her head. Question was, when would she come back out again?

The North Country Sheriff’s Department was housed in a two-story brick building not far from the county jail and even closer to the county courthouse. It offered a parking lot, fingerprinting and lots of buzzing overhead lights. But no food. For that, Wyatt and Kevin made a detour to McDonald’s, one of the only joints open after midnight. Wyatt and Kevin ordered with gusto. Quarter pounders, large fries, large coffees, all the calories, salt and caffeine a good detective needed to stay up all night.

Nicky requested another bottle of water, in a voice that was perfectly monotone. Wyatt would’ve thought she’d been turned into a statue, if not for the way her fingers stroked the top layer of her quilt. Touching it over and over again. Like she was working the rosary, he thought. A woman lost in prayer. Or offering penance.

They took the food to the station house. This time of night, you could count on headquarters for a little action. County dispatch worked out of the building, meaning there was plenty of noise coming from down the hall, in terms of both phone calls and the operators entertaining themselves between the calls. Of course, bookings happened at all hours, with 2 A.M. being prime time for collared drunks.

Wyatt and Kevin carefully steered Nicky through the lobby, then down the narrow hallway, around one twitchy meth addict, around another. The station lighting always felt glaring to Wyatt, as if trying to compensate for something. It was enough to make him squint. He couldn’t imagine how much Nicky was suffering with her condition.

In the end, they set her up in the conference room. Not an interrogation room, because that might have seemed aggressive, and again, technically speaking, Wyatt couldn’t make the woman stay. But nor did he want her in their offices, because she needed to feel the pressure. Her life was imploding. For all their sakes, time to talk.

She didn’t look at them when Kevin pulled out the chair. She took a seat, gaze forward. Quilt back on the lap. Bottled water on the table. Then she waited.

She’s done this before, Wyatt thought. Police stations, interrogation; none of this was new to her. Just as he had his strategy, she had hers.

Wyatt took his time. He set down his McDonald’s bag, let the room fill with the unmistakable fragrance of fries. Kevin did the same. Next, Wyatt removed the cover from his large coffee, adding yet more aroma to the mix. Unwrapping his burger, taking his first greasy bite. Yeah, he’d regret it in the morning. A man his age couldn’t afford to eat like this regularly, but for the moment, it was a salt-fat-carb explosion in his mouth. Two A.M. eating didn’t get any better than this.

Kevin made a show of squeezing out ketchup onto the burger wrapper, then dipping his fries.

Still Nicky didn’t say a word, though they all sat so close, Wyatt thought they’d be able to hear her stomach growl at any moment.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” he asked at last, voice conversational.

She shook her head.

“We got vending machines, you know. Maybe chips, a candy bar? More gum?”

She shook her head.

“Lights too bright?”

She finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired, he thought, but more than that they were flat pools of resignation. She didn’t want. She didn’t need. She was simply a woman awaiting her fate.

Wyatt felt a chill then, uncomfortable enough that he got up, wadded up his wrappers and threw away the remnants of his dinner. He kept his coffee. He paused long enough to murmur to Kevin, “Check on the APB. Any news at all, we could use that.”

Kevin nodded, disposed of his own wrappers, left the conference room. Wyatt stood alone with Nicky. Their prime suspect. Witness. Victim? Maybe that’s what really bothered him. Forty-eight hours later, he still had no idea, and it pissed him off.

When he took his seat again, he deliberately placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“What happened at your house tonight?” he demanded.

Her face finally flickered to life. “How would I know? I was with you.”

“Your house is gone, you know. Total loss, according to the fire marshal. Meaning everything inside, photos, your paintings, favorite pillow . . . poof.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Same with the work shed,” Wyatt continued. “Gonna be a bummer for the family business. All those tools, projects, supplies. Gone. Orders that now won’t be fulfilled. Clients that will be unhappy. Three-D printer that’ll never be used again.”

She didn’t flinch. The business hadn’t been her bailiwick anyway, Wyatt thought. It had been Thomas’s.

“First house fire?” he asked now.

She frowned, seemed to come slightly out of her fog. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, all the cities, states, houses you’ve lived in over the years. Come on, you and Thomas give new meaning to rolling stones.”

She frowned again, rubbed her temples. Then held out her hand as if reaching for something. Someone.

Wyatt waited. She didn’t say a word. Just her hand, suspended in the air. After another moment, she seemed to realize what she was doing. She replaced her hand on her lap. A single tear rolled down her face.

“Shame it was this house,” Wyatt pressed. “You’d put some effort into this one. Repainting the door, working in the garden. Did you think that maybe this was the place you’d finally stay?”

“I missed snow,” she murmured, gaze still fixed on the table.

“Where is Thomas now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should. You’re his wife, his business partner. If you don’t know him, who does?”

“Ted Todd Tom Tim ta-da!” she whispered.

“What did you just say?”

“He has no family. He has no friends. He has no place to go.” She finally glanced up, met his eyes. “I have no place to go.”

“Damn selfish of him, don’t you think?”

“You should take me to a hotel.”

“First I want you to tell me about New Orleans. When did you meet?”

“At work. A movie production set. I was working craft services. He was in set production. He told me he waited three weeks to get me to say hi.” She spoke the words automatically. Wyatt thought he’d heard that story before, because he had: almost word for word from Thomas that first day at the hospital.

“Is Thomas from New Orleans?” Wyatt asked.

“No.”

“What brought him there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Twenty-two years together, and you never asked him what he was doing in New Orleans?”

She peered at him blearily. “Why did it matter?”

“Are you from New Orleans?”

“No.”

“You two . . . just met up there.”

“Yes.”

“Helluva courtship. Four weeks, then that’s it? You two hit the road, never looked back. You live together, work together, travel together, everything together.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“He burned your house alone.”

“I wrecked my car alone. Drank alone. See, maybe it’s best if we stay together.”

“You ever meet his family? In all your travels and wanderings, he ever take you home?”

“No.”

“Why? Ashamed of you? Scared of something? Who doesn’t bring their spouse to meet the family? Mom. Dad. Sister.” Wyatt didn’t actually know about the sister part. He was baiting her, though, waiting to see if Nicky would react, ask any questions of her own.

But she merely shook her head, said nothing.

“Who are you, Nicky? What really brought you and Thomas to New Hampshire?”

“We wanted a change.”

“You’re looking. You want something, are trying to find it so badly you contacted a private investigative firm even after your husband asked you not to.”

She didn’t answer.

“Then you took off in a storm Wednesday night, while your husband was otherwise occupied, just so you could go looking again. You followed a woman home from a liquor store. You stood out in the rain. You spied on her house. Why? What do you need to find so badly you’re willing to go behind your husband’s back? And what did you do that made him so angry he torched everything you own?”

“Not everything.” She tapped her quilt, still folded neatly on her lap.

Wyatt stilled, studied her. “You’re right. The blanket. You’ve been carrying it around all night. He gave that to you, didn’t he, Nicky? He told you to take it with you.”

To his surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know what he was going to do. I didn’t. But in hindsight, he must’ve already had the plan. That’s why he told me to take the quilt with me.”

“Why? What’s so special about the quilt?”

She shrugged. “I need it. On the sad days. I can smell her. I hold this close, and I can smell her and it comforts me.”

“Smell who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Vero?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who, then? Dammit, Nicky!” Wyatt pounded the table. “Enough with the half answers. Who are you looking for? And what the hell did you finally find that scared your husband enough to do this? It’s time for answers. Start talking.”

“But I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do! Somewhere in that mixed-up head of yours, you know everything. Think. Remember. Your husband’s gone, your house is ashes. It’s just you, Nicky. All alone. No place to go. You wanna keep being the victim here? Then stop stalling and think!”

The conference room door opened. Nicky jumped at the sound. Wyatt turned, annoyed by the interruption. Then he caught the intent look on Kevin’s face. Wyatt rose immediately, as his detective walked over, handed him a stapled sheaf of paper.

“Came in earlier today,” Kevin said softly. “But we were already out, so Gina left it on my desk.”

Wyatt glanced down at a report run by the state on the bloody prints recovered from Nicole Frank’s car. The top sheet didn’t even make sense at first blush. It wasn’t until he digested the second piece of paper, then the third, the fourth . . .

He looked up at Kevin, as if waiting for the obvious denial.

Instead, his detective was nodding slowly. “Yeah. My first reaction, too. But it’s all in there. The pieces fit.”

Together, they turned, studying Nicky, who was staring at them expectantly.

“It’s true,” Kevin whispered. “By God, it’s true.”

Wyatt didn’t speak. He returned to the conference table. He pulled out his chair. He took a seat. Then he placed the report before him and slid it across the table toward her.

“Nicole Frank,” he said steadily. “Meet Vero.”

Chapter 23

DID YOU KNOW?” Vero asks me. We are back in her tower bedroom, drinking scotch out of teacups.

“I think some part of me must have,” I tell her.

“Will you stop visiting me now? Finally let me go?”

“I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”

“True. Not to mention, you’ve left out a lot of details.”

On cue, more skeletons begin to appear in the room. Pop, pop, pop. One, two, five, more than I can count. They jam into all available spaces, huddling on the gauze-draped bed, pressing against the walls, climbing up the rosebush. All of them wear flowery dresses draped over their gleaming white bones. One of them grins toothlessly at me. She waves a hand in my direction, like a long-lost friend, like a promise from the dead.

“I can’t do it,” I whisper frantically. The teacup in my hand begins to tremble. “I can’t. It’s too much. I don’t want to remember! I just want it all to go away.”

Vero adds more scotch to my china cup.

She says, “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”

*   *   *

“DID YOU KNOW?” Wyatt asks me.

I am staring at a flyer for a missing child. VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.

Hey, you like to play with dolls? I have a couple in my car . . .

The poster includes a blown-up photo of a smiling little girl. I touch her hair—I can’t help myself. I peer deep into her gray eyes.

One of the only photos her mother had, I know without asking. Shot with a Polaroid after they’d baked cookies. Her mother had been in a curiously good mood all afternoon. Picked up the camera, said, ‘Hey, sweetie, smile!’ Vero had giggled at the unexpected attention, then marveled at the developing process.

Right before footsteps started down the hall.

VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.

I turn to the next page. Three photos now. The first from the missing persons poster, then a second, age-progressed to ten years. Features crisper, more defined. But still the big smile, the light in her eyes.

No, I want to tell them. They have it wrong. Vero never smiled at ten. Her eyes had not looked like that at all. By ten, she’d been a hardened pro.

A third and final photo. Age-progressed to sixteen. Nothing more, because finding a missing child that many years later was already a long shot. But someone, a case worker, a computer technician, had made this effort.

She looks beautiful at sixteen. Brown hair softer, waving around sculpted cheekbones, a smattering of freckles across her nose. Wholesome. The girl from down the street. The teenager you’d hire to watch your kids.

I touch this photo, too. I think of pouring rain and the smell of dank earth and the weight of it against my chest. I remember the feel of the dead.

VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.

“Do you recognize these photos?” Wyatt asks me.

I can’t answer. Confronted by the evidence, I still can’t state the obvious.

Eventually, Wyatt does it for me.

“You’re the girl in these photos, Nicky. The fingerprints recovered from your car prove it. Your name isn’t Nicole Frank. You are Veronica Sellers and you’ve been missing for over thirty years.”

*   *   *

THE DETECTIVES HAVE questions for me. The FBI will want to speak to me, too, Wyatt says. I’m not sure if this is a warning or a threat. Better to speak now, in the company of “friends”? Or wait for the swarm of suits, endless streams of strangers who will demand to hear my story again and again, all while claiming to have my best interests at heart?

Kevin has taken a seat. Again they ask me if I need anything. Food, snack, another bottle of water?

I think a bottle of Glenlivet would do nicely. But mostly, I hold my quilt on my lap. I concentrate on the soft feel of the fabric beneath my fingerprints. I wonder what she will say when she finally hears the news.

Happy, happy, joy, joy? Or thirty years later, is it too late to welcome your dead child home again?

“Do you remember the name Veronica?” Wyatt asks me, after I refuse all their requests, after I sit there, still doing nothing, because what is there for me to do?

I shake my head.

“When was the last time you used that name?”

“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She disappears.”

“From the park,” Wyatt provides.

“An older girl invites her to play dolls. Vero knows better. Her mom has told her not to talk to strangers. But the older girl seems nice, and Vero is lonely. She would like to play with dolls. She would like to have a friend.”

The detectives exchange glances.

“What happened to Vero next?” Wyatt asks.

“A woman appears. Her blond hair is pulled back; she wears such pretty clothes. Much nicer than anything Vero’s mom can afford. She is holding a needle. Then she jabs it in Vero’s arm, while she stands there, still waiting to see the dolls. And that is that. The older girl is a recruiter. And now Vero is recruited.”

“This woman and the girl, they kidnap Vero?”

“They drive her away in the car.”

“And no one sees,” Wyatt mutters, but he speaks this to Kevin. Information they must have from the original case file, because Vero has no way of knowing this. From the first instant the needle pricks her skin, Vero is gone. She disappears.

“Where do the woman and the girl take Vero?” Wyatt asks.

“Vero moves to a dollhouse. Deep red walls, beautiful stained-glass windows, floral carpets. She gets her very own tower bedroom with a rose mural climbing up the wall. She cries at first, when the woman leads her inside, then turns and locks the door. But of course the room is the prettiest she’s ever seen. A bed that is all hers, surrounded by yards of gauze. A wooden table already set with a real china tea set, and surrounded by four chairs filled with a stuffed bear, several dolls. Even the carpet is soft and fluffy. Vero wonders if she’s been adopted by her fairy godparents. They’ve come to take her away, and while she wished they hadn’t sent a woman with a needle, she likes this room. She likes this house. Maybe, if she prays really hard, she and her mom can stay here.”

“Does Vero’s mom arrive?”

“No. The first woman returns. Dressed all in black now, frosted hair upswept, fat pearls around her neck. She’s beautiful but scary. Like a china doll you can look at, but never touch. She tells Vero that Vero is their new guest. Her name will now be Holly. She will wear dresses at all times. She will do as she’s told. She will speak only when spoken to. Then the woman gives Vero a new dress. Flounces of pink silk. Vero . . . Holly? . . . likes the dress. She thinks it’s very pretty. But she’s nervous. She doesn’t know what to do, so she doesn’t move.

“The woman steps forward. She slaps Vero across the face. Then she rips Vero’s shirt from her body. She tells Vero she stinks. She tells Vero she is stupid and ugly and filthy and what kind of ungrateful child refuses such beautiful clothes? Then she holds up the new dress and rips it in half, too. If that’s the way you’re going to be, she tells Vero . . . Holly . . . then you can wear nothing at all.

“She takes all of Vero’s clothes, even her panties. Then she leaves. And Vero sits in the middle of the pretty bedroom, naked and alone. For days and days and days.

“Vero cries for her mom,” I whisper. “But her mom never comes.”

“What happens?” Wyatt asks softly.

“Vero learns. She wears what they tell her to wear. She answers to the names they call her. She speaks only when spoken to. There are daily lessons. Some are like school, reading, math, the basics. Others are in clothing, hair, makeup. Then there’s music, culture, art. She studies, every day. She tries, because the room is beautiful and the dresses are nice and when she does well, the woman praises her. But when she messes up . . .

“She’s alone. Except for lessons with the woman, she sleeps alone, wakes alone, sits alone. She starts to tell herself stories. Of where she once lived. Of the woman who once loved her. Of life before these walls. As days become weeks, become months, become years? It’s hard to tell time in the dollhouse. There is just now. Everything else ceases to exist.”

“What happens?” Wyatt asks.

“Eventually she passes her lessons. She is old enough, educated enough. Then the men come. And she’s sorry she ever studied at all. But she doesn’t fight, doesn’t protest, doesn’t complain. She already knows the men aren’t the real danger. It’s Madame Sade she has to fear.”

“The woman, Madame Sade, runs a brothel?” Wyatt asks bluntly. “She trains the girls, then brings men into the house for sex.”

“Our job is to make them happy.”

The detectives exchange glances. They are no more fooled by Madame Sade’s euphemism than I was.

“What can you tell us about Madame Sade?” Kevin asks.

My lips tremble. My grip on the quilt tightens. I can’t speak.

“Describe her,” Wyatt prompts more gently. “What does she look like?”

“A china doll. Beautiful but scary.”

“Is she as old as Vero’s mom?” Kevin presses.

“Older. Fifties maybe.”

“Does she have kids, a husband, a special friend?”

I look at him, the memories heavy. “Some of the men want her. But the girls, they whisper: Be careful what you wish for.”

“Are there other people in charge?” Wyatt asks.

I shake my head. “It is Madame Sade’s house. She makes the rules. She doles out the punishments.”

“How many other girls are there?”

“I don’t know. Until Vero is twelve, she stays locked in her tower room, a precious flower, a rare commodity.”

Kevin looks away. Wyatt’s face is too shuttered to read, but that’s okay; I’m too lost in the murky corridors of my mind to focus on him anyway.

“What happens after twelve?” he asks at last.

“There are other floors in the dollhouse. Vero moves downstairs, to a smaller room she shares with another girl. Chelsea is older and not happy to see Vero. She steals Vero’s makeup, cuts holes in her dresses. She won’t allow Vero to sleep on a bed. Instead, Vero is given a spot on the rug. Vero is no longer alone, but she’s still lonely. She has her stories, though. She whispers them, night after night. Once upon a time, in a secret realm, there lived a magical queen and her beautiful princess . . .”

“Do the men still come?”

“Madame Sade likes nice things. We make the men happy; she gets more nice things.”

“Can you describe the clients?” Wyatt asks.

I shrug. “They are men who have the right jobs and wear the right clothes and grew up with the right connections. Madame Sade doesn’t allow just anyone to come over to play.”

“Would you recognize these men if you saw them again?”

“Do you really think I was looking at their faces?”

Wyatt flushes, sits back.

“What can you tell us about the house?” Kevin asks.

“Vaulted foyers, marble parlors. Levels and wings and towers that go on and on.”

“A mansion? Something castle-like or more Victorian in style?”

I rub my temples. “Victorian,” I whisper.

“Were you ever allowed out of the house?” Kevin continues. “Can you tell us about the surroundings? Were there street signs, other homes nearby? What about neighboring woods, water, mountains, other distinct geological features?”

I shake my head. My forehead is on fire. The telltale nausea is back. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore. I don’t want to have these memories anymore.

“Vero . . . Nicky.” Wyatt tries to regain my attention. “What you’re describing sounds like a very high-end sex-trafficking ring. This is a big deal. Do you understand that? Some of these people could still be actively exploiting children. Organized operations such as the one you’re describing have a tendency to grow larger and more sophisticated with time. Think of the mafia. Thirty years later, the original don might be retired, but he has a whole new generation of lieutenants running the show. This place . . . We need to find it.”

I stare at him. He doesn’t understand. His words mean nothing to me. They can’t mean anything to me. If not for three hits to the head, I never would have allowed these memories to return in the first place.

I sigh. I can’t help myself. I’m tired. I’m so very tired and my head hurts and all these things he is asking of me . . .

“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She’s disappeared. You can’t help her anymore.”

Wyatt studies me. “Then why are you still looking for her?”

And just for a moment, my eyes sting with tears.

They’re not going to let me go. They want what they think I know, details and memories that will bolster their investigation even if it destroys my sanity. Thirty years ago, a little girl vanished. Now a grown woman stands in her place. The cops can’t just let it be. Thomas understood this. So he lit a fire.

The problem with asking questions, he tried to tell me, is that you can’t control the answers.

The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.

My hand reaching out, still trying to find him.

“Vero is twelve years old,” Wyatt prods now. “She no longer lives in the upstairs room. Where is she?”

But I can’t play anymore. The memories are too hard, and I am too done.

“Shhh,” I tell them. “Shhh . . .”

For a moment, I don’t think they’ll listen. Or maybe they won’t care, being detectives on a case. But then Wyatt sits back. He eyes me carefully, maybe even compassionately.

“One last question?” he negotiates.

“One.”

“How did you get out of the house, away from Madame Sade?”

I stare at him. I think the answer should be obvious. But since apparently it’s not, I give him the truth.

“Vero finally learns how to fly.”