Today is the first day Graham returned to work since my abduction, and because I don’t know how long this quiet time will last, I immediately hurry to my bedroom and retrieve Footloose’s ring from where I stashed it under my mattress. I’d hidden it from the doctors, the police, and Graham, and now I open up my laptop, studying the design I’d already committed to memory. It’s thickly woven silver with an intricate etching of a G inside some type of triangular emblem. Above it are the words MASTER MASON. I do an internet search for the term, immediately finding a slew of images of rings with similar designs and links to websites dedicated to Freemasonry.
I add the word Brampton to the search and find a link to the local chapter. The website is sparse, mostly text, briefly explaining who and what Freemasons are, and includes a contact form. There are a handful of links at the top, and I click on them in turn: About, Supplies, Volunteer. And there, pictured on the Volunteer page, promising rides to those who need help attending appointments for cancer treatment, is Footloose. He smiles at the camera, his light hair longer than I knew it, slightly tousled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He wears khakis and a white button-up shirt, the distinctive ring visible on his right hand. DANIEL NILSSEN, VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR, is typed beneath the picture.
For a second, my heart stops. The man in the woods, in my closet, in my nightmares, finally has a name. Daniel Nilssen.
I do a few searches for Daniel Nilssen in Brampton and the surrounding towns, but nothing comes up. This is all of him. His name and his smiling, helpful face. The mask he showed to the world. Gone forever. A volunteer coordinator, a jewelry store salesperson, a novelty stationery designer. The people you would never expect, never notice, never remember.
The Freemasons will wonder what happened to their brother, the police will waste their time searching for a serial killer, and only I will know the truth. I close the website, delete my search history, and flush the ring down the toilet.
* * *
Two weeks after our escape, Fiona is released from the hospital with huge fanfare. I watch the news from my couch, Graham at my side. It’s dark and cold outside, the early December wind rattling through the trees. Through the curtain, I can see the faint glow of Mr. Myer’s Christmas decorations, cheerful and abundant. The furnace rumbles from the basement, and heat seeps through the house, and despite the ordeal we’ve just been through, I feel…safe. Like it’s finally, completely over, and I’ve seen the proof for myself. No more Footloose. No more Becca. Just me.
On the television, I watch Fiona and her mother, their red hair pulled back in matching buns, blue eyes squinting against the afternoon sunshine. I knew there had been a press conference earlier today, but I’d chosen not to go. The police have been happy to take credit for Fiona’s rescue, and I’m happy to let them, as long as it keeps my name out of the papers.
“Fiona!” a reporter calls from the throng off-camera. “How does it feel to be going home?” The sun gleams against the white stucco of the hospital like a spotlight.
Fiona’s smile is shaky. “I can’t wait.”
“We’re so happy to have our daughter back.” Her mother wipes a tear from her pale cheek. “We’re not going to let her out of our sight.”
Something subtle shifts in Fiona’s stance, her eyes flickering to the ground in front of her, like she’s trying to compose herself, stay still, stay strong. Or maybe she’s trying not to roll her eyes. I only went to visit her once in the hospital, but she was weak and tired so we didn’t talk much. I held her hand, and she squeezed my fingers, and after a while I left.
The news has been vicious; equal parts heralding her safe return and harping on her sordid past. Sound bites play on repeat, her parents begging for her to come home, forgiving her for her sins and all the things she’s done wrong. Her drug use is highlighted along with her penchant for running away, a year spent in juvenile detention for petty theft and unsubstantiated rumors of an affair with a teacher. Even when she’s the victim, she’s the villain.
I really don’t want my side of the story made public.
“What are you looking forward to most, Fiona?” Another disembodied voice rises above the crowd. There are clicks and flashes as photos are taken, the dark head of a microphone slipping into the shot before being quickly pulled back.
“Peace,” she says softly. “And a fresh start.” Tears spill, and her lower lip quivers as she stares down at her hands.
“Okay,” her mother says, tugging her elbow. “That’s all for today. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Fiona!” someone calls as she’s led away to a waiting car. “Do you have anything you’d like to say? To the person who rescued you?”
Fiona’s father is in the driver’s seat of the gray sedan, and her mother holds open the back door, gesturing her daughter in first. Fiona pauses, her hands tucked into her pockets as the wind pushes strands of loose hair out of its knot. She looks into the camera, her blue gaze steady. “Carrie,” she says, “I need to talk to you.”
Beside me, Graham stiffens with surprise. He knows the whole story, of course, or at least the one I’ve been telling the police. But neither one of us knows why Fiona would want to talk to me or why she would make her request so publicly. After a lifetime of being at Becca’s beck and call, all I want is to be left alone.
I can almost hear Graham cycling through a dozen responses, trying to settle on the least offensive one. On television, Fiona and her mother duck into the car and close the door as a dozen reporters shout the same desperate question: Who’s Carrie?
“Why would she want to talk to you?” Graham finally asks the question I’m asking myself. We were separated almost immediately upon arriving at the hospital, and beyond my brief visit, there was nothing much to say. I’ve read about survivors of trauma using one another as a support system, finding comfort in people who’d been through the same ordeal, but Fiona and I had very different experiences. There’s nothing I can do for her. No answers I can—or will—give.
My phone rings on the coffee table, the sharp sound shattering the comfortable evening. I pick it up and see a local number on the display, not one I’m familiar with. I show it to Graham, who shrugs. I answer.
“Ms. Lawrence?” I recognize Greaves’s low voice. He’d interviewed me twice after our rescue, and neither time had given me the sense that he was completely satisfied with my version of events. Still, he couldn’t dispute Fiona’s story that a man had abducted her, put her in the cellar, and tortured another woman before my arrival.
“Yes,” I say. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry to call you this late.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “I’m relaying a message from Fiona McBride.”
My eyes flicker to the television, which Graham has muted. The news has changed to a story about an adoption drive at a local animal shelter, the homeless dogs and cats wearing Santa hats as they’re posed for photos.
“She’d like to meet with you,” Greaves continues when I don’t say anything. Fiona doesn’t have my contact information. She never asked, and I never offered.
“Did she say why?”
“She’s not adjusting well. It might help to see you.”
I hesitate, but I can’t think of a reason to say no. Because I’m too traumatized? Fiona had it worse. I was abducted for twelve hours while she’d been held for a month. I think about the reporters shouting after the departing car at the hospital. Who’s Carrie?
“Where?” I finally ask. “Where would we meet?”
Graham looks at me in surprise. He knows I just want to put this whole thing behind me. He thinks I’m not dealing with my grief. He’s never considered that I feel guilty.
“Here,” Greaves says. “At the station. She could be here tonight. She’s been very insistent.” He pauses. “Did you see the news today?”
“I just watched.”
“I think…” Another pause. “I offered to call you myself. To relay the message more…directly. I know you’re worried about your siste
r and would prefer to keep a low profile.” What he’s really saying is that Fiona will continue to ask about me publicly if I don’t meet with her privately. I tell myself this isn’t an echo of Becca’s manipulations, it’s a scared girl asking to meet with someone who might understand, but I can’t stop the way my skin prickles with irritation.
“Okay,” I say. “I can come.”
“Tonight?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“All right. I’ll arrange a room for you two to talk. You can tell the desk sergeant you’re here to follow up on your sister’s case.”
I hang up. Graham is staring at me again, trying to figure out what to say. He’s heard enough to know what’s going on.
“I have to go to the police station,” I say anyway.
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
His eyes are sad. “I want to.”
We don’t talk much on the ride over. The night is crisp and cold, the forecast promising snow later this week. Christmas decorations light up houses and businesses as we pass, falsely bright and cheery. The whole time I’m rehearsing my story, what I told the police and what I told Graham, making sure the details line up.
We hurry into the police station, the squat building well lit and strangely welcoming. There’s a different officer behind the glass partition today, and I tell him I’m here to meet Greaves. He nods and picks up the phone, and seconds later the sliding doors open to reveal Greaves on the other side. This time he’s wearing a navy suit and a red tie, looking like a politician.
“Dinner plans,” he explains.
“Do you have any news about my sister?” We follow him through the crowded squad room. No one’s listening, and I already know the answer anyway.
“We’re still investigating.” He leads me past his desk in the corner to a heavy metal door I hadn’t noticed the last time and swipes his ID. There’s a click, and then he gestures me and Graham into a long hallway that smells like sweat and coffee. The walls and floor are the same depressing beige, and doors with tiny windows are interspersed at even intervals. We reach the door at the end and stop. Through the glass, I see Fiona sitting alone inside, her red hair loose, obscuring her face. Her head is bowed, hands clasped on the small table in front of her, like she’s praying.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” Greaves says. Graham is ready to protest, but I shake my head. I don’t know what Fiona’s going to ask, and I don’t imagine they won’t be watching, but it’ll be easier to lie without him sitting right beside me.
Fiona looks up when I enter, the fluorescent lights overhead making her pale skin appear jaundiced. The scar on her face is no longer bandaged, standing out in a stark red gash on her cheek. There’s a large mirror on the far wall, and I picture Graham and Greaves on the other side, ears pressed against it.
I force my attention to Fiona and offer a small smile. “Hi.”
She wears a bulky winter coat and fingerless gloves, as though they might help to hide her fragility. Her eyes are watery when they meet mine, and after a second she stands, holding the back of the chair for support. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” I say, though I hadn’t wanted to. We hug awkwardly, and she smells like baby shampoo.
I take a seat, the metal feet of the chair scraping along the linoleum floor, and Fiona does the same. Two Styrofoam cups of water sit on the table, one marked with pink lip gloss. For lack of anything better to do, I pick up the clean one and take a sip.
“How are you doing?” I ask when Fiona doesn’t speak.
She runs a thumb along the rim of her cup. “Not good,” she says finally. “I feel like…like, they don’t get me.”
“Who? Your parents?”
She nods but says, “Everybody. Them. My friends. Neighbors. The police.”
“I’m sure it’s a hard time for everyone.”
“They watch me constantly. I can’t even take a piss without my mother hovering outside the door.”
I think of the way her mother said they were happy to have their daughter back, how they wouldn’t let her out of their sight. The way Fiona flinched at the words.
“They’re worried about you.”
She scoffs like that’s doubtful. “They want me to do a bunch of interviews. Someone even asked me to write a book. And I mean, we need the money. I need it. But I don’t want to write a book. That’s not going to help…” She gestures to her scarred face, the scars we can’t see. “This.”
“You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
“What about you? He took you, too. How’s your family treating you?”
My mouth opens and then closes. “It’s been a rough time,” I say, thinking about who’s on the other side of the glass. “My sister is…missing, and my parents don’t live here. My boyfriend has been great.” I don’t have to fake the tears I wipe away. “But it’s still hard.”
Fiona looks interested. “Your sister? Was it…him?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” Definitely.
She clears her throat and sips her water. “I’m sorry.”
“I guess we’re all adjusting.”
She laughs roughly. “God, don’t say that. That’s what my mom says. ‘It’s an adjustment period.’ Yeah, like you can adjust after something like that. Come back to your regular life, and after a few weeks it’ll be fine again. It will never be fine. It can’t be. There’s no way—” Her voice breaks, and a tear slips free. She swipes it away with the edge of her glove. “I wish I hadn’t gotten out,” she whispers. She says it so softly that I can barely hear it. Even if the room has microphones, they wouldn’t be able to pick up her voice. I picture Greaves on the other side of the mirror, trying desperately to make out the words.
“Don’t say that.” The response is automatic, just like the impulse to reach across and squeeze her hand. An encouragement, and a warning.
She shakes her head, more tears falling. “I know. I know I shouldn’t. I just feel like, like, there’s no one I can—” A hiccup. “No one I can talk to. The person I was before is gone. Everyone just sees all those stories they’re printing about me from the past and the ones they’re printing now. No one sees me.”
For the past weeks, Graham has been taking care of me. Buying groceries, making dinner, doing the laundry, taking out the trash. He’s held me when I cried, threw away the used tissues, and didn’t complain when I woke up screaming in the middle of the night and nearly gave him a black eye.
“You’re still you,” I tell her. “A little bit different, but the same. Just stronger.”
“Just deformed,” she says, waving at her scar.
I think of my chipped tooth. “Repaired,” I say. “Fortified.”
She stares at me like I’m insane and then laughs. And laughs. After a second, I laugh, too. Her scar is visible, and everyone knows how she got it. My scars are hidden but no less real. But they’re healing now.
“You’re funny,” she says when she finally calms. “That was funny.”
The words are simple and not really true, but they still touch me. They’re even better than Graham’s kindnesses these past weeks, the obligatory compliments and reassurances. They’re sincere. They’re new.
“Well,” I say, “I should get going. It was good to see you. To know you’re okay. Even if you don’t think you are.”
“I’m glad you came.”
We stand, and this time when we hug, it’s not awkward. We step apart when Greaves opens the door. Behind him, I see Graham and a flash of red hair. Fiona’s mother.
“You’ve been eating,” Fiona says as I move to go.
I pause. “What?”
She pats her stomach, the way Becca used to do when she saw me with a donut or a slice of pizza. “I haven’t been able to eat since…that day. I can’t keep anything down. But you can. That’s great.”
Her mom scurries in and ushers her out, darting me a look that’s half pit
y, half apology. Greaves studies his shoes, doing his best not to make eye contact. A hot wave of fury washes over me as I see myself in the mirrored wall, bloated in my winter coat.
“She didn’t mean it like that,” Graham says, putting an arm around my shoulders and pressing a kiss to my temple. “It was a compliment. She wants to be like you. A survivor.”
“She survived, too.”
“Because of you.”
He means it to be reassuring, but all I feel is a sour pang of regret. The words and the casual way Fiona flung them at me are too familiar. Too deliberate. Like one source of my pain died with Becca and another took its place.
An hour ago, I’d told myself her public plea wasn’t manipulative, it was just what it sounded like, a plea. But after a lifetime of experience, I know better. It was someone testing the waters, trying to see how much I’ll tolerate, how much they can dig in and torment me.
And the answer is nothing and not at all. That chapter of my life is closed, and I’ll do anything to make sure it stays that way.
Chapter 11
Despite the fact that Brampton’s finest have been unable to even identify him, finding Footloose’s house is not that difficult for me. I spend an hour searching online for stories of drunk drivers and eventually locate one mentioning the deaths of Emma and Rae-Anne Nilssen seven years prior. They’d been waiting at a bus stop when a twenty-two-year-old college student, returning home from a party, lost control of his car and jumped the curb, killing them instantly. He’d died two days later at the hospital.
A search for Rae-Anne, Footloose’s daughter, turns up a few archived social media posts from friends mourning her loss, including pictures from school dances where a group of young girls posed in front of a normal-looking house in a normal-looking neighborhood. Appearances can be deceiving.
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