Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 11

THE FRANKS LIVED in a relatively new gray-painted Colonial. Black shutters, covered farmer’s porch, a winding brick walkway that curved through an attractive front flower bed. This late in the season, the bed still offered up some ragged pansies and those cabbage-looking things Wyatt never knew what to call. Meaning someone had taken the time and effort to update the plantings in the fall. Nicky Frank? Her husband, Thomas?

Many things to learn, which was why Kevin and Wyatt decided to start the morning with a personal house call.

Tessa’s comments from yesterday were still weighing heavily on Wyatt. How much did they really know about Nicky Frank, having never talked to her directly? Including but not limited to, how much did she remember from her past three “accidents”? Because cars rarely went sailing off the road while in neutral. Coulda happened, he supposed. Driver falls asleep, knocks the car out of gear while coasting down a steep grade, but it didn’t feel probable. Which made Wyatt wonder about the scotch as well. Had Nicky been drinking of her own accord? Or had someone been doing their best to make sure a woman with a known brain injury and doctor’s orders not to imbibe didn’t wake up at the wheel?

Sometimes when working a case you had a strong lead, and sometimes you mostly had a hunch. Good news about being the sergeant—Wyatt got to follow his hunches. Countywide search for a girl who still had no record of even existing notwithstanding. Yeah, the sheriff had had words with him on that one. But even the boss agreed, something about this couple, the wife’s series of accidents, the enduring delusion of a missing girl, seemed off.

Wyatt did the honors of knocking. Front door was dark cranberry and appeared freshly painted. Looked to him like when the Franks bought the home six months ago, they’d spent some time and energy sprucing up the place. A sign they were finally settling down? Because Kevin had run the couple’s background last night, and to say they moved a lot would be an understatement. Two years was the longest they’d stayed in one spot. Otherwise, their MO seemed to be here today, gone tomorrow.

Chasing business, a husband covering his tracks or a couple that was just restless? More questions to consider.

Wyatt liked a challenge.

Hence his relationship with Tessa.

He knocked again, louder this time, more insistent. Finally, the sound of footsteps moving through the house. A second later, the door opened and a rumpled-looking Thomas Frank stood there.

“Morning,” Wyatt said brightly.

The man, barefoot and in sweats, stared back at him. “What time is it?”

“Eight A.M.”

“Isn’t that a little early for house calls?”

“We brought coffee.”

Thomas scowled.

“Sir,” Kevin spoke up, pressing the point. “We have some questions for your wife.”

“She’s asleep; she needs to rest—”

“It’s okay.” Behind Thomas, Nicky appeared on the staircase. She was also dressed casually—yoga pants, an oversize sweater—and her hair was wet, as if she’d recently showered.

Even from this distance, Wyatt could make out the harsh lines of stitches slashing across her forehead, left eye, right jawline, let alone the myriad of bruises and abrasions marring her skin. Yesterday, she’d looked bad. A day later, she appeared even worse; probably would until the bruises ran their course. But the woman was standing. Head up. Eyes clear.

Wyatt felt that thrum, big-game hunter on the prowl. This morning was looking good.

Thomas retreated, reluctantly allowing the two officers into his house. Wyatt and Kevin didn’t hesitate but moved fully into the home, closing the door behind them. Wyatt’s first impression was that the house was nice in a clean, modern sort of way, but curiously sterile. Less a home, more a set piece. Here is the Pottery Barn sofa; here is the appropriately scaled coffee table; here is the soft and comfy area rug. Not until they hit the kitchen, which led into a shockingly bright-painted sunroom, did he have any sense of personality. Then, to judge by the way Thomas avoided looking at the brightly painted walls, Wyatt would guess the room represented Nicky’s sense of style and not her husband’s.

Kevin set down the cardboard carrier bearing four coffees on the kitchen counter. Thomas sighed, accepted the bribe. But Nicky poured herself a glass of water.

“Do I drink coffee?” she asked her husband, her tone genuinely curious.

“You prefer tea,” Thomas supplied.

“But I love the smell.”

Thomas looked up at his wife. “You don’t have to talk to them, you know. You didn’t meet the legal threshold for impairment, remember?” He shot them a look, as if it was important for them to know that he knew. “Not to mention Dr. Celik said you need to rest. If you’re feeling tired, you should go lie down. I can handle this.”

Big, strong caretaker, Wyatt wondered, or just a husband who really didn’t want his wife to talk to the cops?

What made it really interesting was that he could tell Nicky was wondering the same thing.

“We have only a few questions,” Wyatt offered up. “Whether the driver is intoxicated or not, we’re still duty bound to investigate all accidents. Routine inquiry and all. Won’t take much time.”

“I don’t mind,” Nicky said. “We can go into the sunroom. If I need anything, I’ll let you know.”

Thomas still didn’t look happy, but he took his coffee and walked away.

According to the background info, Thomas did indeed own and operate his own company, Ambix Productions. Last year, he’d made a quarter million, which would explain the nice house, fancy cars. The Franks currently had forty thousand sitting in the bank, a decent nest egg if the wife continued being unable to work. So hardly a couple on the edge of financial ruin, as Thomas had seemed to imply at the hospital. Maybe he was a conscientious guy, or a workaholic. No doubt his wife’s string of injuries had cut into his hours, and not just for a week or two, but apparently for the past six months.

Meaning he had good reason to be overprotective of his wife? Or again, more fun secrets and lies? Days like this, Wyatt honestly loved his job.

With Thomas gone, Nicky escorted Wyatt and Kevin into the bright sunroom. She moved gingerly, Wyatt noticed, still a woman with substantial aches and pains, but she seemed to be in good spirits.

“I like this room,” she said now, as she took a seat in one of the cushioned patio chairs. Wyatt and Kevin made themselves comfortable in two more matching wicker chairs, situated across from her. “This is my room,” she continued, curling a leg beneath her. “And the yellow bedroom upstairs; that’s my room, too.”

“You recognize your home?” Wyatt asked. “Feel comfortable here?”

“Yes. As long as I don’t think too hard. If I just do things, you know, reach for a plate, I’ll find it immediately. On the other hand, if I stop and try to remember where plates might be . . . That’s when it gets more complicated.”

“You’re working off muscle memory,” Kevin spoke up.

Nicky shrugged. Her dark hair was starting to dry, curl around her face. She was an attractive woman, Wyatt noted, or would be once the bruises and lacerations healed.

“Whatever works,” she said. “I think, given the state of my head, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Any headaches today?”

“No. I’m just . . . sore. Everywhere. Like my whole body went through the spin cycle or something. The doctor provided some pain pills, but I think in the short term, Advil will be my friend.”

“How is Vero?” Wyatt tried out. “She feeling better, too?”

Across from him, Nicky stilled, regarded him frankly. “Do you think I’m crazy, Sergeant?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“I don’t have a daughter.”

“And yet yesterday—”

“I’d just been in a major accident, whacked my head. Yet again. Clearly I was dazed and confused.”

“Have you ever had a child?”

“No. I’m infertile. Children have never been an option for us.” She smiled thinly. “Funny, I can barely remember my husband’s name. But my own barrenness—that’s a memory I can’t escape.”

Wyatt paused, not sure what to make of this confession. She couldn’t have children, but maybe secretly still wanted one, so under duress, her subconscious made one up? Possible, he supposed. But getting well beyond the bounds of policing.

“Why the name Vero?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Family name? Your mom, sister, great-aunt, somebody’s?”

“I don’t have a family.”

“No one at all?” Wyatt interjected.

She gazed at him clear-eyed. “No. No one at all. It’s just Thomas and me. Trust me, it’s enough.”

Okay. Wyatt made another note. Tessa’s concerns from yesterday were making more and more sense to him. Because clearly, Nicky Frank lived a very isolated life. Just her and her husband. Except her husband wasn’t the one who kept having “accidents.”

“What do you remember from Wednesday night?” Wyatt asked.

“The night of the wreck.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t. Nothing at all. I try to picture it . . . My mind is blank.”

Wyatt glanced at Kevin, who responded with a nod.

“Mrs. Frank,” Kevin spoke up. “Mind trying something with me? It’s a guided memory exercise. Might help jog something for you.”

“What does it involve?”

“Just relax and sit there. I’m going to try to walk you through the evening in more detail, focusing on your senses. You know, what you smelled, heard, that sort of thing. It’s like coming at the memory sideways versus head-on. Sometimes, that makes a difference.”

“It’s not hypnosis, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“Because I have enough issues with my brain. I don’t need anyone tampering with it.”

“No tampering, no suggestions. I’m just going to ask you a series of questions, and you answer with what first comes to mind.”

Nicky pursed her lips, continued to regard them uncertainly. But then, a short, faint nod. She was going for it.

“All right. Just close your eyes. Breathe deep. It’s Wednesday night. Five o’clock. Where are you?”

“I’m at home.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Jeans. Black turtleneck. Gray fleece.”

“How do the clothes feel?”

“Soft. Comfortable. It’s one of my favorite outfits.”

“What are you doing in the house?”

“I’m . . . starting dinner. Chicken breasts. I marinated them this morning in Italian dressing. Now I need to cook them. I think I will sear the outside, then finish them in the oven. I should make rice, too. Maybe steam some broccoli.” She pauses. “I have a headache.”

“Do you take something for it?”

“I already did. Four Advil. But it’s not enough. The smell of the chicken . . . it’s making me nauseous.”

“What do you do?”

“I need to lie down. Sometimes, I wrap a towel around an ice pack and place it over my eyes. It helps.”

“Now?”

“I get the chicken in the oven. I set a timer so it doesn’t burn. I give up on the broccoli, but the rice is safe in the cooker. I don’t need to worry about that. I get my ice pack, head for the sofa.”

“Where is your husband?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe in the work shed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. You lie down with your ice pack.”

“I think I fall asleep. It’s dark and cold and comforting. I close my eyes. I like to sleep. When I sleep, Vero comes to me. She’s happy, wearing her favorite flowered dress. She wants to dance, so I take her arms and we swing round and round. Except we are in the small room now, with the ratty blue rug and the tightly shuttered windows and the twin beds pressed so close together they might as well be one. The end is coming. This is our good-bye room. I know every time I look at the carpet. I should stop. It’s so hard to keep seeing her like this. But I love her. I’ve always loved her. And I’m sorry. I never knew just how sorry a person could be, until it’s like a weight and it’s sinking you, and oh my God, the footsteps again. Down the hall. We both need to escape. Except only one of us ever makes it. Always me, never Vero.”

“Nicky . . .” Wyatt studied the woman intently. Her eyes were still closed. She wasn’t looking at them, but lost in her memory of a memory. And she was crying. Whether she was aware of it or not, tears were streaming down her face.

“You wake up?” Kevin asked softly.

“The timer goes off. Chicken. All done.”

“What do you do?”

“Thomas. He’s standing in the living room. He’s staring at me. Maybe I called out; maybe I said her name. I shouldn’t have done that. I get the chicken out of the oven. I put it on plates. I dish up rice. I set the table. Thomas watches me. He tells me I did good. One of my first successful dinners. We eat in silence. We didn’t used to eat like that, you know. We used to talk and talk and talk. We used to love each other.”

Wyatt and Kevin exchanged a glance.

“What do you do after dinner?” Kevin asked.

“I wash the dishes.”

“What about Thomas?”

“He has to work. His job is very important. He works. I clean the kitchen. But I drop one of the plates. It breaks on the floor. My hands are shaking. I’m tired. Weak. I used to be better than this, but now I’m tired all the time. Thomas is very patient with me. He has so much work to do, let alone the burden of babysitting his wife. I clean up the plate carefully, put the pieces in the outside trash, where hopefully he won’t notice them. I don’t want him to be upset.”

“What happens when Thomas is upset?” Kevin pushed.

“I don’t want Thomas upset,” Nicky repeated.

“After you clean up the plate, what do you do?”

Nicky fell silent. Her eyes were still closed, the tears now drying on her cheeks. “I shouldn’t do it,” she whispered. “It’s bad. I shouldn’t do it. He’ll be angry. I shouldn’t do it.”

“Do what, Nicky?”

“Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m leaving him.”

*   *   *

“BUT I DON’T,” she picked up, thirty seconds later. “I can’t. I need him. He’s all that keeps me safe.”

“Keeps you safe from what?” Kevin asked.

“You have no idea.”

“Do you and your husband have enemies? Has someone threatened you?”

“Blood drips from the thorns. Those awful roses, climbing up the wall.”

“Nicky—”

“You don’t understand just how bad I am.”

She spoke clearly, but once again Wyatt felt a twinge. She sounded more and more like an abused wife to him, a woman conditioned to think of herself badly, to feel as if she was constantly failing her husband.

“I’m tired now,” she said quietly. “My head hurts.”

“Just one minute more,” Wyatt pushed. “Does your head hurt now, like it did that night?”

“Yes. I should get ice. Lie down.”

“What were you wearing again?” Kevin backtracked, a strategy to ground her in the interview once more.

“Jeans. Black turtleneck. My favorite gray fleece.”

“You’re comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Lying on the sofa. But your head hurts.”

“Yes.”

“When do you get your coat?”

A pause. Eyes closed, Nicky frowns. “Coat?”

“Or did you grab your car keys first?” Wyatt prodded. He made a mental note to check with the hospital. The staff had bagged the clothing Nicky had been wearing that night. Just because they didn’t have grounds to seize the clothes didn’t mean they couldn’t ask the nurses or EMTs about them. Had Nicky come in wearing a coat? Because there hadn’t been one in the car.

But Nicky was shaking her head. “I’m resting on the sofa.”

“When do you get up again?”

“Vero,” she whispers.

“Vero?”

“I tried to fly. Just like Vero. But little girls were never meant to fly, you know. She crashed. I crashed. And now I have to find her. It’s the whole reason I came back from the dead.”

“You got in the car to find her?” Kevin asked.

“No, I got out of the car to find her.”

“Where were you driving to, Nicky?”

“Driving?”

“You’re in the car, you’re heading out into the night.”

But Nicky shook her head. She opened her eyes, stared at them directly. “I’m not driving,” she said. “I’m resting on the sofa.”

Wyatt studied her intently as the first piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “So who brought you the scotch?”

But Nicky wouldn’t answer.

Chapter 12

I THOUGHT THEY only had a few questions for you.”

I study my husband. The detectives have left, Thomas reemerging in their wake. I think of what the detectives didn’t tell me; for example, approaching a memory sideways is like brushing against sinister shapes in a darkened corridor. My memories feel cold even to me. As if they don’t want to be disturbed.

“Do we have friends?”

Thomas regards me curiously. He has showered while I was talking to the police. His hair is damp against his neck. It makes me want to touch it with my fingertips.

“Not yet,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“We just moved here; then you fell down the stairs, and . . . Feels like we’ve been meeting with specialists ever since.”

“I don’t remember falling down the stairs.”

“Doc said that was common with concussions.”

“I don’t remember doing the laundry.”

He shrugs. “It’s your chore. You didn’t like me doing it, said I ruined your delicates.”

The words strike a chord in my mind. Yes, I said that. And yes, laundry is my job. Yet I can’t picture the washer and dryer. Maybe it’s like the plates in the kitchen. I can’t try to remember where they are; I have to simply reach for one.

“Am I allowed in your workshop?”

Thomas’s lips curve into a crooked smile. He leans close, whispers in my ear: “Why? Worried I keep the bodies of my dead wives in there?”

I tell him seriously, “Yes.”

“Come on, then. I’ll take you to the work shed. You can behold the brilliance for yourself.”

He’s already dressed in jeans and a button-up blue flannel shirt. Now he throws a tan vest over the top and walks to the back door off the sunroom. For the first time, I notice the work boots placed neatly beside the door. He slides them on, while gesturing to my own bare feet. Belatedly, I retreat to the entryway, where I open up the hall closet and pull out a pair of rubber-soled L.L. Bean slippers without thinking about it. Another muscle memory, from six months of living in this house, setting these patterns.

It’s cold outside. I shiver from the damp as we both step through the door. The sky is gray, the ground still wet from days of rain. Late fall in New England is not beautiful. The trees are skeletal, the grass brown. November isn’t a season as much as it’s a transition; from the fiery reds of October to the soft white of December.

We should spend November in Arizona, I think, and almost immediately know that we talked about it. I had brought it up, after one of my crying jags, when the short days and gray skies felt like more than I could bear.

But clearly we hadn’t gone. Maybe because of my concussions. I was high maintenance even then.

The work shed is bigger than I pictured. Certainly larger than a garden shed, closer to a single-car garage. It has aluminum-gray sides, like a prefab building plopped down on the back of the property. We don’t have any visible neighbors to be horrified by the unattractive sight, just us, and I guess we didn’t mind, because we’re the ones who put it here. Thomas poured the slab himself; he’s handy that way. Then men came with the panels, and in a matter of days it was done. Basic but insulated, with a gas heater and full electricity. No plumbing; Thomas comes into the house for that.

In the spring, I wanted to plant shrubs or build a berm covered in bushes and flowers to soften the view of the ugly shed from the house. Another project Thomas and I had talked about. Another project that now, given my series of “accidents,” we’ll probably never get done.

Sergeant Wyatt had implied that I was isolated, maybe even at risk from my husband. How many concussions could one wife have, and six months later why didn’t we have friends? Even the beginnings of a relationship with our neighbors?

But we don’t. I knew that even before I asked Thomas; it’s just him and me and has been for a very long time. We tell each other we are happy but I think we’re lying. And maybe not even to each other, but to ourselves, because that’s the easiest lie to tell, and the most difficult to unravel later.

The door of the workshop has a deadbolt lock. Thomas pulls the key out of his pocket, does the honors. I think the deadbolt is overkill, until I see all the materials inside.

Don’t think where the plate is; just reach for the plate, I tell myself. But the logic doesn’t work here. There is no muscle memory to call upon; I step inside the musty depths and immediately lose all sense of bearing. This is Thomas’s domain, not my own, and already I feel confused and faintly anxious.

Thomas snaps on the overhead lights. I wince, putting up a hand reflexively to block the intensity. Thomas catches the gesture and flips another switch, eliminating half of the lights. Only then can I lower my hand, take it all in.

The space feels surprisingly large, the rafters exposed, roof vaulted. Straight ahead is a row of folding tables, placed end to end. Workspace, like a countertop for production designers.

The walls are lined with pegboard and metal shelving units, the pegboard dripping with various tools, the shelving units weighed down with pieces of wood, plastic pipes, other raw materials. The perimeter of the shed is too much for me. Too jumbled, too busy. Instead I find myself focused on a single piece of machinery, new, about the size of an extremely large printer and set in a place of honor on its own table. When I approach the machine, I smell plastic and feel a curious sense of dread.

We fought about this. He wanted it; I didn’t. Apparently I lost, because here it is and I’m still resentful.

“What is it?” I ask.

Thomas is regarding me closely. Does he wonder if I remember the machine’s history? Is he debating how much to tell me even now? After all, if the wife can’t remember the argument, who’s he to refresh her rage?

“It’s a three-D printer,” he says at last.

I nod, and several more pieces of memory click into place. “You create a digital design of the custom object, any object, then feed it to the printer and it builds a three-dimensional replica in plastic.”

“That’s right.”

“Like a fake knife for a movie set?”

“I could, but there are already companies that specialize in weapons. Common items such as those most prop guys just order out of catalogues. I might design a custom trophy, say, for a scene where the underdog finally wins. Mold the top out of plastic, mount it on a custom wooden base; then you would apply gold leaf as the finishing touch. Then later, as part of the movie promotion, we might create dozens of tiny replicas to give out to studio heads, critics, whomever.”

I nod. What he says makes perfect sense. So why am I sure he’s lying to me?

I hear myself say: “Three-D printers can be used to build plastic guns.”

“True.”

“Do you do that for movies?”

“Again, common set pieces such as fake guns are cheaper to get out of catalogues.”

I look at him. “Do you make real guns?”

“Why? Just like Hollywood props, real guns are cheaper when ordered out of catalogues . . . or purchased on a street corner.”

“But a plastic gun would be untraceable.”

“I believe street dealers are pretty good at filing down serial numbers or removing them with acid.”

“You researched this.”

“Because these were the arguments you brought up when I first suggested buying the machine. Three-D printing is changing the world, from manufacturing to medical science to, yes, movie props. I’m trying to keep us cutting-edge. But you see danger everywhere.”

He’s right; I do. Which makes me wonder what happened to trigger such an acute sense of paranoia.

“Do you like your job?” I ask him now. I’m curious for his answer.

“Yes. It’s creative, tangible, flexible. We can live anywhere, work any hours we want. We are very lucky to be able to do this.”

“Do I like our job?”

He shrugs, no longer meeting my eyes, which makes me suspicious. “You like painting, and part of this job is painting. But lately . . .” He glances up, studies me. “What do you think, Nicky?”

“I want to quit,” I hear myself say. “I want out.”

“In order to do what?”

I open my mouth, but I can’t find the words. “I don’t know. I just want . . . out.”

“We moved here for a fresh start. We’d been living in Atlanta, but you said you missed snow. So we did some online research, came up with New Hampshire. Soon there will be plenty of snow here. The question is, will that finally make you happy?”

“Why don’t I remember falling down the basement stairs?”

“The concussion wiped it from your mind.”

“And I fell outside, months later? Shouldn’t I remember that?”

“Another concussion, another blank spot in your mind.”

“I don’t remember driving around last night. I don’t remember putting on my coat, grabbing the keys or climbing behind the wheel. I’m not that stupid, Thomas. I should remember at least one step of the process.”

“Maybe not. The doctor said there are no hard-and-fast rules with post-concussive syndrome.”

“Did you get me drunk?”

“What?” For the first time, he draws up short.

“Did you pour me the first glass of scotch? That’s what the detectives want to know. Did you get me drunk and then put me in the car?”

“Of course not!”

“Who, then? It’s not like we have any friends.”

Thomas’s temper has flared. He rakes his hand through his hair, takes an agitated step forward. “No one poured you a glass of scotch. I never even saw the bottle in the house. You must have purchased it on your own. After you left. Because whether you remember driving off or not, you weren’t here, Nicky. I searched high and low through the house for you. You were gone, and so was the car.”

“I don’t remember—”

“August 24, 1993. We walked to Café Du Monde for fresh beignets. You hadn’t tried them yet, so I fed you half a dozen. And then, when you were still laughing and saying they were the best thing you’d ever had, I kissed you. Our first kiss. It tasted like cinnamon and powdered sugar. I’ve never gotten tired of kissing you since. Do you remember?”

He takes a step closer to me. His eyes are dark, riveting. I say, “Yes.”

“Three nights later, in a small hovel of an apartment, single mattress on the floor, not even a TV set for entertainment, we make love for the first time. Afterward you cried, and I panicked, thinking I’d hurt you. You just cried harder and told me to hold you, so that’s what I did. Sometimes you still cry after sex. So I still hold you, just like I did that night. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“September 1, 1993. Production has wrapped and the movie is done. This is it. What happens next? I ask you. But you won’t answer me. You won’t even look at me. So I grab you by both arms. Stop, you say. You’re hurting me. But I don’t. I lift your chin; I force you to look me in the eye. I love you, I tell you. I love you and I need you. Stay with me, and I’ll give you the world. Anything you want. Just be mine. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“I will keep you safe, even if it costs me my own life. I promised you that. Do you remember?”

I can’t look at him anymore, but there is no way to turn away. He has me pinned against one of the folding tables, and he is right before me. So close I can feel the heat of his body, smell once again the scent of his skin. I feel weak in the knees.

But I also feel trapped.

And just for a second, I want to hit him.

I get my chin up. “We don’t have pets; we don’t have friends; we move all the time.”

“Your requirement, not mine. September 2, 1993. We leave New Orleans. You need to go away, you say. No explanation. You need a new name, you say. No explanation. I should try out a new name, too. Neither of us mentions all the times you wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Neither of us talks about your increasing skittishness, constantly locking doors, checking over your shoulder, breaking out into a cold sweat. You needed to go, so we did. You needed to try on a new identity, so we did. For you, Nicky, I spent the next two years changing out cities and inventing new names on nearly a weekly basis until the worst of the panic left and you finally settled in as my wife. Because that was how much I loved you. Do you remember?”

Loved, I think, noting the past tense.

But he is still bearing down on me, still waiting for an answer. Do I remember, do I remember, do I remember? The moment when this one man agreed to go anywhere, be anyone, for me? The moment I begged this one man to go, and he agreed to follow?

The smell of beignets. The taste of powdered sugar. Thomas, younger, but just as somber, just as intent.

I look at him now. I see him now.

And I whisper, “Yes.”