by Lisa Gardner
“I came back for you,” Walt is saying. “I knew he’d never let you go. I couldn’t bear it. I knew it wasn’t enough for me to do no evil. I had to save you, too, or the woods would never let me sleep at night. So I waited till I knew he was away. Headed out on a delivery with his rig. I was gonna rescue you. Break apart that damn box with my own two hands if I had to.” Walt took in a deep, ragged breath. “But I was already too late. The cellar was empty. You, the box, my boy, were gone.
“I never saw him again, till one day, I heard he died in some motel raid by the feds. I didn’t cry. Not then, not now. I raised evil, my biggest sin, my deepest regret. My own son, Jacob, who I’d turned into the meanest son of a bitch of ’em all.”
CHAPTER 25
D.D.
COOK TURNED OUT TO BE a burly woman wearing a grease splattered apron and hairnet. She had rounded up the other two workers, Mayor Howard’s niece, wearing her light-blue maid’s uniform, and another young woman with exotic features and gorgeous brown hair. The second woman also wore a maid’s uniform and kept her gaze fixed on a spot slightly above D.D.’s shoulder.
“This here is Hélène,” the cook said, pointing at the dark-skinned beauty. D.D. would peg the maid’s age somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three. Not as young as the niece, but still . . .
“This is Girl.” The cook pointed to the mayor’s niece.
“Girl?” D.D. interrupted. “You call her Girl?”
“She don’t mind.” The cook stared D.D. right in the eye. She had her thick arms crossed over her chest. A show of aggression. She also remained standing, while having the younger helpers sit. A show of power. She was in charge and she wanted everyone in the room to know it.
Beside D.D., Kimberly cleared her throat, a subtle hint for D.D. to move on. Why start with open warfare when you could build up to it?
D.D. pulled out her small notepad. “I’m going to need your full legal names and photo IDs.”
“Why?” Cook asked.
“Because I said so.”
“I got breakfast to prep.”
“Don’t worry, once the guests hear the news, they won’t be hungry.”
The cook glared at D.D. The two younger girls sat in silence on the wooden bench. D.D. didn’t like it. In her experience, employees talked. Especially the younger generation who barely recognized authority figures and had plenty to say about anyone who thought they were above them.
This . . . this was creepy.
Kimberly moved away from D.D.’s side. She drifted along the edge of the massive stainless-steel prep table, which was covered in flour and a pale mound of dough. The FBI agent conducted a brief inspection of the heavy door for the walk-in fridge, followed by a cursory exam of the commercial-grade dishwasher, complete with a stainless-steel hood and plastic conveyor belt for marching lines of dirty plates quickly and efficiently through boiling-hot spray.
She was drawing attention away, making it difficult for the cook and her younger charges to know where to focus.
“Legal name,” D.D. spoke up sternly. She bore her gaze into the cook. As the boss woman did, so the others would follow.
“I like Cook. Been Cook for thirty years and four marriages, God rest their miserable souls.”
Four marriages, D.D. thought. Four men had endured this delightful attitude?
“Well, Cook, I hear they’re always looking for help in county lockup. Though I don’t think you get to start out running the kitchen. You’ll have to work up to the position. You may find the auditioning process . . . different . . . than what you’re used to.”
The cook glared at her.
“I have all day. Do you?”
“Mary!” she said at last. “My legal name is Mary Theresa Josephina Smith.”
“Seriously?”
“Shut up!”
The older maid, Hélène, shifted slightly, the first sign of life from the woman. Repressing a smile at her boss’s expense or flinching from fear of future reprisal? Too hard to tell.
“Photo ID?” D.D. demanded.
“In my room. I’ll fetch it later.”
D.D. turned to Mayor Howard’s niece. “Your name?”
“She can’t talk,” Cook said.
“Does she have photo ID?” D.D. hated addressing her questions back to the cook. It felt disrespectful, especially as she was convinced the girl understood everything just fine.
The cook shrugged. “No driver’s license, since she can’t drive. But there’s probably a birth certificate. Mrs. Counsel . . .” For the first time, the cook wavered. If D.D. hadn’t believed the woman was carved of granite, she would’ve thought the cook was upset. “Mrs. Counsel kept track of those sort of things. She took care of everyone.”
D.D. wasn’t sure what to make of that. Genuine care? Or control? Because employees who didn’t have access to their own ID raised red flags in the law enforcement world.
“She has my papers,” Hélène spoke up suddenly. Her voice was hoarse, as if she didn’t use it much. D.D. realized Mayor Howard’s niece had turned slightly, the side of her hand lightly touching Hélène’s. Lending strength? A show of unity? D.D. quickly returned her attention to Hélène’s face, before she gave them away.
“Do you know where she keeps them?” D.D. asked.
“No. My full name is Hélène Tellier,” the woman delivered with an exotic lilt that spoke of faraway lands and hot, sandy beaches.
“Why did Mrs. Counsel have your papers?” Kimberly spoke up. She had moved all the way behind them, forcing the three interview subjects to twist awkwardly. The cook glowered, clearly not liking such tricks in her own kitchen.
“Our rooms . . .” Hélène didn’t seem to know what to say. She glanced timidly at the cook. “Our rooms are simple. We don’t have any place to store . . . valuables.”
“Your rooms aren’t safe?” D.D. pressed.
Hélène shook her head quickly, then gave up and stared at her feet. Another small movement: the niece covering the trembling maid’s hand with her own.
“All right.” D.D. squatted down until she was eye level with the silent niece. “I’m not calling you Girl. Do you have a name? Maybe we can find it in Mrs. Counsel’s papers.”
The girl shrugged, as if D.D.’s guess was as good as anyone’s.
“Do you remember your family?” D.D. asked softly. “Your mother, your father?”
Another small shrug. D.D. glanced to where the girl’s hands rested on the bench. But the girl didn’t offer any fingers in coded reply. She just looked sad and hopeless. A child resigned to her fate.
“Bonita,” D.D. said softly. “It’s the Spanish word for pretty. What do you think? I’ll call you Bonita.”
Another harrumph from the cook.
The girl kept her gaze on D.D. She reached up and lightly touched her own face, brushing her hand across the ridged scar furrowing into her hairline, then her drooping left eyelid, sagging lip.
D.D. didn’t need a code to understand what the girl was trying to say. She captured the girl’s hand between her own.
“Bonita,” she said firmly, then held the girl’s gaze until she finally nodded.
D.D. straightened to standing. “I will need to see the records Mrs. Counsel had for all of you. This is a murder investigation. All details matter.”
“Murder investigation?” The cook’s arms fell to her sides in clear shock. “But the mayor—”
“What did you hear last night?” Kimberly, ambushing beautifully from behind.
“We didn’t, of course—”
“The mayor and his wife fight?”
“No, never. Two most loving—”
“Did you know about the kidney transplant? Tell us about Mrs. Counsel’s kidney transplant.” Kimberly, her voice stern.
“What? I mean, of course. The operation was a long time ago. Aft
erwards, I worked with Mrs. Counsel to prepare a renal friendly diet. No pesticides, no red meats, or added salt and sugar,” the cook rattled off, seeming to check off each item on her fingers. “High in fiber, lots of beans and leafy green vegetables. I’m a real cook, you know. Got a degree from a culinary institute and everything. I could work at some fancy restaurant if I wanted to. But I like it here. And the mayor, Mrs. Counsel, they take care of their own.”
“So you heard nothing last night?” D.D., forcing the cook to turn back around to address her. “No sounds of disturbance, perhaps an altercation?”
“Absolutely not.”
D.D. caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The girl—Bonita—finally shifting her hand to reveal one finger. Which meant yes. As in yes, the cook had heard something and was lying? Or as in yes, Bonita hadn’t heard anything either?
For this system to work, D.D. realized, she had to do a better job with the questions.
“Did you notice a change in Mrs. Counsel’s behavior over the past few weeks?” she addressed the cook.
“No,” the woman said.
Yes, Bonita signed.
“Were you awake last night?”
“Nope,” the cook declared.
Yes, Bonita signed.
“What time did you go to bed?” D.D. zeroed in on the woman.
“Nine P.M. I have early mornings, prepping breakfast for the guests.”
Bonita hesitated. Maybe she didn’t know what time the cook went to bed.
“What time did you get up?” D.D. continued smoothly.
“When I heard the sirens. Four A.M.? Something like that?”
“And when did you hear the disturbance before that?”
“Two A.M.—” The cook caught herself. Too late she saw D.D.’s trap. “I’m a light sleeper,” the woman corrected quickly. “Maybe something woke me around two. But I didn’t hear nothin’ more. I peed, went back to bed.”
“You sound like you were close to Mrs. Counsel. That you cared about her.”
“She and her husband are good people. Ask anyone.”
Nothing from Bonita.
“Did you suspect she was a suicide risk?” D.D. asked.
“Never.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“’Round eight. She came to the kitchen to discuss the morning menu.”
“Did she seem off?”
“No.”
“Preoccupied?”
“No.”
“What’s for breakfast?” Kimberly spoke up from behind.
The cook growled, clearly tiring of this game.
“Biscuits with sausage gravy. The mayor’s favorite.”
“Who made that decision?”
“Mrs. Counsel.”
“Who wasn’t preoccupied or distracted?”
“I said she wasn’t!”
“Though she killed herself just hours later.”
“She wouldn’t do such a thing—” Again, the cook seemed to realize the trap. “I mean, I never saw any signs.”
“What do you think happened?” D.D. asked curiously.
Her change in tone seemed to catch the cook off guard. “What do you mean? I heard she was found hanging. There was a note. Suicide is suicide. What else could’ve happened?”
“What else indeed,” Kimberly commented from behind.
“Do you believe Mrs. Counsel committed suicide?” D.D. repeated. “Just hours after talking to you and ordering breakfast.”
“Sure,” the cook snapped.
No, Bonita signed. While Hélène made an agitated sound in her throat. The cook glared at both maids. They immediately turned their attention to the floor.
“Who else was here last night?” said Kimberly, now by the walk-in fridge.
“Eight guests. Mayor Howard. The girls and me.”
“Where does the help sleep?” Kimberly again.
“We have rooms in the basement. Nice rooms.” The cook shot Hélène a look.
“Do you each have your own room?”
“Yeah, they’re good rooms.”
“And in the summer? Clearly this place requires more than two maids during high season?”
“This house was built in the day and age of live-in servants. There’s plenty of space.”
“I want to see your rooms,” D.D. said.
“Ask the mayor. It’s his house.”
“How long have you worked here, Hélène?” Kimberly spoke up.
The maid didn’t seem to know how to answer. D.D. squatted back down. “It’s okay. If you have any concerns about your security, you may walk out with us right now. I will personally guarantee your safety.” She looked at Bonita as she said this.
“Now see here, I don’t like what you’re implying—”
“Hélène.”
“I started in January,” the woman whispered.
“Do you have your own room?”
“Yes.”
“Bathroom?”
“We share. Four girls to a bath. It is better . . . better than what I had back home.”
“What did you think of Mrs. Counsel?”
“She took care of us.”
“Did you talk to her last night?”
“I cleared the dinner dishes for her and the mayor.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“No.”
“How did she and the mayor seem?”
Awkward shrug. “It is my job to clear the dishes.”
Was it D.D.’s imagination, or did the cook’s posture just relax?
“After clearing the dishes, what did you do?”
“I went to bed.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Just . . . sirens. After four. I came upstairs. The mayor. He was very upset. He was . . . he was crying.”
D.D. nodded slowly. So the mayor was genuinely distraught over the loss of his wife.
D.D. switched her attention to Bonita. “Did you see Mrs. Counsel last night?”
“She can’t talk!” the cook exploded.
“She can indicate yes or no.”
“She’s stupid—”
“You will shut up or I will remove you from this room!” Kimberly clipped out sharply.
The cook thinned her lips mutinously, but fell silent.
“Bonita, did you see Mrs. Counsel last night?”
A faint nod.
“After dinner?”
Head shake.
“She took them dinner,” Hélène volunteered. “She serves, I clear.”
Another nod.
“Did you hear anything in the middle of the night?”
Bonita hesitated. She shook her head no, but at her side, her hand stirred. One finger, meaning yes. Hélène jolted slightly, as if realizing for the first time something might be going on. The older maid quickly glanced away.
“Did you hear any sounds of arguing?”
Another head shake. Finger nod.
“Violence?” D.D. asked intently.
Head no. Finger yes.
D.D. blinked her eyes, trying to figure out how to ask her next question. “Do you believe Mrs. Counsel hanged herself?”
“Oh for God’s sake!” the cook exploded.
Kimberly strode forward, placed a restraining hand on the woman’s shoulder. “One more word . . .”
D.D. kept her eyes on Bonita. The girl looked at the cook. She made a helpless sort of shrug. Playing a role D.D. was starting to recognize. They thought she was stupid and she let them. While down at her side . . .
Two fingers for no.
Bonita had heard something in the middle of the night. There had been an argument, some kind of altercation. Mrs. Counsel hadn’t hanged herself.
“All right.”
D.D. rose smoothly to standing.
She addressed the cook. “Thank you for your time. That will be all for now. Good luck with breakfast.”
Kimberly didn’t say a word, simply followed D.D. back out through the kitchen doors.
“What did you learn?” Kimberly asked the moment they were clear of the room.
“Mrs. Counsel didn’t commit suicide and we gotta get both of those girls out of here, right now.”
CHAPTER 26
FLORA
WALT DAVIES IS JACOB’S FATHER. My mind feels shattered by the information. And yet it makes perfect sense. The way the two men move, how they carry themselves. Their shared paranoia but also their natural technical aptitude. Walt has built an entire state-of-the-art microgreens operation in an abandoned barn, while Jacob spent years custom fitting houses and long-haul rigs to hide kidnapped girls.
They are both clever; they are both crazy.
I’m aware of Keith watching me, waiting for my next move, while across the barn Walt continues to fuss over a tray of tiny sprouts. Is he afraid of me, of what I’ll do next?
Is he telling the truth when he says that he tried to come back for me? That he believed what his son was doing was wrong and he wanted to rescue me?
This is a man who says the trees scream and the woods are alive with ghosts.
Then again, maybe they are.
I know what must happen next. The whole reason we came to Georgia. Because the only way forward is back. My only end, where it all started eight years before.
“Do you know where he held me?” I ask Walt.
He nods, still stroking pea shoots.
“Was it on this property?”
“Nah. I didn’t know he was even in the area. Till one night, at Stickneys Pub, he found me.”
“I want to go there,” I say.
He knows I don’t mean the tavern. “You won’t like it,” he says softly.
“Take me anyway.”
* * *
—
WE DON’T CLIMB INTO WALT’S truck. As Keith and I had theorized yesterday, the preferred mode of travel for the locals was the ATV trails. Walt has his four-wheeler, and we fetch our own to follow him, the subterfuge of having run out of gas no longer being necessary.