by Wendy Walker
“Hangover?” he asked.
Nic felt her heart jump. Had he seen them last night? Nic and Reyes, walking up the creaky stairs to her room? Reyes hadn’t stayed—but Booth may not know that. He would have heard them talking as they walked the stairs. He would have heard two sets of feet. And then silence, perhaps, if Reyes descended more discreetly.
Booth studied several canisters of tea before choosing one. They were lined up perfectly on the shelf.
“It’s much better, you know? Loose leaf tea,” he said.
Nic watched him, lost in her thoughts. And her fears about what he was now thinking.
He filled the strainer. The water boiled and he poured it into the cups.
Milk and sugar were on the table, but he brought saucers and spoons.
Nic sipped the coffee as she looked around the room. Booth was busy fixing his tea just so—one and a half spoons of sugar. A long pour of milk. A meticulous stir.
“Do you live here all the time?” she asked. There weren’t many personal effects. And hardly enough closet space for a few days of clothing.
“Yes,” he answered. Then he understood why she was asking.
“I have a second room next door. I keep most of my things there. I know it’s an odd arrangement, but I don’t see much point in renovating. I don’t mind it, and who knows? One day we might get busy again and I’ll need these rooms for guests.”
Nic looked at him carefully. Did he really believe that? After a decade-long spiral into an economic graveyard? How deep into this fantasy was he?
But none of this was why she was here.
“Remember when I went for that run?”
Booth smiled, causing his glasses to slide down his nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger.
“Of course. You escaped the bears and wolves.”
Nic smiled. “Yes. But I also found the fence my father saw.”
“Oh right. The fence.”
She heard Reyes now, in her head, telling her not to do this. Not to speak to Booth about his neighbors or Daisy Hollander or anything else from the past.
What had he said? That Booth was wound tight as a drum.
Then—just wait for me. The house on Abel Hill Lane had not been on the search log—and it was not a registered address. It had no street number. He’d promised to run the utility searches first thing this morning, then take her back to Laguna to get her car. Then they would go to town hall. He said he would help her get through the red tape, whatever that meant. How much red tape could there be in Hastings? It was one parcel. Still, she’d promised to wait and go with him. They would find out who owned the place. Call them, ask about the night of the storm. They couldn’t search it without a warrant, but they could stop by. Knock on the door.
Still, Nic couldn’t sit around and do nothing all morning. Town hall was two miles down the road. She had no car. Roger Booth was here, right in front of her.
“It’s a tall, barbed wire fence,” she said, breaking her promise to Reyes. “And I think it belongs to the neighboring property—maybe one of the old plants.”
Booth’s face lit up then. He seemed happy to be entertaining someone in his apartment, and Nic felt a wave of pity.
“Oh—yes!” he said then. “I’m so silly! I remember now—my father speaking about this years ago. Not about the fence, exactly, but the investors who bought the land and old buildings from Ross Pharma—they were planning to make it some kind of mental facility for criminals, but they never got the permits they needed. The whole town fought it. I remember him saying he’d never let Hastings turn into a prison town. Their property must back right up to mine deep in the woods.”
“And you didn’t think of this when I asked you before?” It seemed very strange to Nic—how many fences could there be in this town? And how did he not know who owned the neighboring land?
Booth appeared to be embarrassed. “I … I’m not sure. You were going for a run in my woods and that made me nervous…”
He had looked nervous then. And now as well.
“Do they still own the property?”
Booth shrugged, set down his teacup. “I think they do. It’s never been for sale. They probably keep it for a tax write-off.”
“There’s a house on that property—with a driveway running down to Abel Hill Lane. But it’s not a registered address. Do you know anything about it?”
“The foreman who kept the grounds had a house. That must be it. Probably ran the separate driveway for some privacy. I heard it was kind of strange. A ranch but with a porch and false roof so it looks like a farmhouse from the front. I think they started a renovation but then didn’t finish after the permits for the facility were blocked.”
“Then it might be abandoned?” Nic said. “And then never searched, the owners never questioned about the night of the storm…”
Booth contemplated this.
“I know the buildings were searched. Reyes did it himself—with one of the state troopers. I heard them talking about it at the diner, how they were falling apart—those old redbrick buildings you can see from River Road. But the land—all of it? And the foreman’s house, I don’t know.”
Nic smiled politely. Booth picked up a spoon and stirred his cup. He added more sugar. He added sugar like a person who really didn’t like tea.
“Can I ask you something else?” she said then.
Booth crossed his legs and leaned away from her. But he still managed a polite, conversational smile.
“How well did you know Daisy Hollander?”
The air became thick between them. Booth froze with that smile on his face. Nic froze as well, acutely aware of the trigger she’d just pulled.
Reyes had been right.
“Daisy?” Booth said softly. “Why do you keep asking about her?”
Nic pushed her chair out and slowly got up.
“You know what,” she said. “Let’s finish this later—I forgot I needed to call my father.”
She started to walk away. When her back turned, she heard Booth’s chair scrape the wood floor. Then his feet shuffling.
He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. And just like that time in the shed, she felt a kind of strength that was belied by his appearance.
“Why are you here?” he asked her.
Nic shook her head back and forth. No words would come.
“Why are you asking about Daisy?”
Her fear seemed to startle him then. He stepped away and released her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Nic went for the door, but he was upon her again, holding it closed with one arm.
“No—wait. Please don’t go thinking … I’m not like this. I’m not like this.”
Nic stood perfectly still as he began to cry. His face was close to her shoulder, warm tears dripping onto her skin.
“You don’t understand,” he said then. “No one understands. No one knew the truth.”
Nic spoke softly but with conviction. “Let me open this door.”
Booth stepped back several feet, his head hanging in shame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not like this.”
Nic opened the door, her mind screaming at her to run from this room.
But instead, she turned around.
“What is the truth?” she asked.
Booth wept into his hands, his tall frame hunching over like an old woman.
“She was pregnant,” he said.
Nic stared at him, mesmerized by his despair.
“That’s why you kept looking for her?” she asked.
Booth sat down on the bed. The sobs slowed as he took deeper breaths. It seemed that he had been here before, to this place of anguish over his lost love. His lost child. And he also knew how to make it recede.
“It was mine,” he answered after a long moment. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I promised her—her family would have been furious. They were strict, you know? Their father used to whip them with a belt over a kitchen chair—and he would
wait to do it, sometimes days, to make them suffer from the fear. He’d whip them over nothing, over taking food from the cupboard or being too loud. There’s more—so many things. It was brutal, the way they lived.”
Nic remembered what Daisy’s sister had said about the locked cupboards and how Daisy found a way to get to the crackers—and how she did it in spite of the punishment that followed.
She leaned against the door. She did not move closer to Booth, but she felt safe somehow. And she wanted answers.
“Do you think Chief Watkins helped her leave?”
Booth seemed surprised that she knew to ask this question.
“They were very close. He got her that scholarship to summer camp. When she came back, things were different between us. She had met kids from all over the country. Gifted kids. Kids on their way to college. Kids who didn’t get bent over a chair in the kitchen and whipped for stealing food.”
“Kids who drank fancy tea?” she asked.
Booth smiled, sadly. “Yes. She thought it made her more like them, if she took on their likes, mimicked their behavior. There was a desperation about it, the way she wanted what they had. It still reminds me of her—the tea.”
Yes, Nic thought. The tea—it was here, but also at Veronica’s house.
“Where would he have taken her?” Nic asked. “A pregnant teenager with no money…”
Booth got up then and walked to a small dresser in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer and took something out. When he turned around, Nic stepped farther into the hallway, but then she saw it was a letter in his hand.
He held it out for her.
“I got this about a year after she left. I’d been a maniac—people are right about that. I went to Boston, tortured her poor sister there. I went to Woodstock, posted flyers with her picture. I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t believe that she just left with our baby without saying a word.”
Nic took the letter. It was folded into a small pink envelope that had yellowed around the edges. She pulled it out carefully. The paper was old, fragile.
It was a woman’s handwriting.
Nic read it to herself as Booth continued to tell the story.
Dear Roger,
I am sorry for what I’ve put you through. It has taken me all this time to find the courage to write. I feel ashamed for not facing you before I left, but I wanted a different life. I couldn’t be a mother. Please don’t look for me. I hope you can forgive me.
Daisy
“She doesn’t say where she went or who helped her get rid of the baby. I’ll never understand it. We were in love. And I could have given her things—my family had resources. We could have moved from here. I told her I would work and take care of the baby so she could go to college. I promised to take care of her and our child. And she believed me. I know she did.”
Nic finished the letter. It was short, and lacked any trace of the sentiments Booth claimed existed between them.
“There’s no postage or return address,” Nic said.
“It was left in my mailbox. Whoever helped her leave must have helped her get it to me. She didn’t want me to see where it was mailed from.”
“Her sister said she went to New York. Did you know that?” Nic asked then.
Booth waved her off. “She told me. But she didn’t know about the baby and I never told anyone. Until now.”
“But you don’t think she went to New York?”
He shook his head then. “She hated the city. She wanted to go north—to a place like Woodstock, a quiet place. People think I didn’t know her. But I did. You can’t hide love. Not the love we had.”
Nic felt it again—pity, sadness for this man. She had never been in love, but people could hide anything if they wanted to. Her father included.
“I should go,” Nic said.
“I’m sorry about before.” Booth spoke softly now. “I thought you knew something about Daisy. I thought maybe you weren’t telling me. It caught me off guard, how desperate I still am to know what happened to her.”
“I understand,” Nic said. And then, “Why don’t you just ask Chief Watkins? You’re not the only one who thinks he helped her leave.”
“I did. He swore he didn’t drive her, but he did say she’d asked him for a ride to Boston. What am I supposed to do? Put a gun to his head? I have to live in this town. Run a business here.”
He stopped her one last time as she began to leave.
“Has anyone told you?” he asked.
Nic shrugged. “Told me what?”
Now his eyes, dancing across her face, then over her breasts and hips. All the way down to her feet, then back up to meet her eyes.
“You look like her,” he said. His face was flushed with longing that had nowhere to go. “Something about you—your hair and the way you walk. I can’t put my finger on it,” he said. “But you remind me of Daisy.”
25
Day fifteen
Mick wakes soon after Alice tells me about the end that is coming. I fear that my quick, shallow breaths have shaken the bed. Some things must find their way out of the body. Some things cannot be contained. This fear that stirred from Alice’s warning was like that. Too big to hold inside.
I feel the hand that weighs heavily on my hip squeeze my flesh. It does not feel intentional, and it pulls away quickly as if consciousness has suddenly taken over. I wonder if he was dreaming about his wife. Alice’s first mommy. I wonder if they used to lie in bed like this and if he used to wake with his hands on her body and then fall into the physical pleasures of touch. Maybe more. Maybe they made love while Alice lay beside them, still asleep. Pretending to sleep. Maybe they went to another room to be alone.
Or maybe the first mommy tried as I now do, to lie perfectly still even as the air rushes in and out. Feeling nothing but the fear.
He moves out of the bed. He does not kiss Alice or give her a hug. Instead, he scoops her into his arms and carries her out of the room. He does this quickly as though wanting to remove himself from me.
I am relieved. I am despondent.
Yes, leave.
No, come back.
Want me. Desire me. Let me be enough. Don’t leave this house and find my daughter.
I do not move. I do not turn my head. I simply feel the arms slide across me until they are gone, and then the bed gets lighter behind me, and then the floorboards creak as he walks.
There is whispering outside the room.
Then the sound of the metal grate closing. Metal on metal as the key turns the lock.
I hear little feet stomping. A high-pitched voice whining. Alice is not happy about the locked grate.
The front door opens and closes. I hear a car in the driveway. Not the truck engine like before. It has been three days since I heard the truck. Not being able to see outside has made my hearing perceptive.
The car is light on the gravel. Turns with ease. I imagine it’s small. From there, I am out of guesses. I do not know this man. Mick. I do not know if he would drive a sports car or a fuel-efficient smart car. I don’t know if he’s rich or poor or where he goes all day and now most of the night.
I shift my head away from the camera and go to the bathroom. I have searched in here for a camera and have found nothing. Not even in the vent for the shower, or inside the light fixture. I have inspected every inch of this room and have allowed myself to believe I am right. I need to believe.
Still, I close the door and turn off the light before I let myself be free.
I sit on the floor and cover my face with my hands. Alice’s words fly through my mind. Ominous words carried on that sweet little voice.
I refuse to hate her, though I feel it creeping in. She is a victim as much as I am. As much as her first mommy, I have come to believe.
I am trying not to hate you, my little prison guard.
This is how it begins.
The end.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear her voice. I have fallen asleep on
the bathroom floor.
“Hello?” It’s Alice.
I push myself to sit. I have slept in a puddle of tears. Wet hair sticks to clammy skin. I am exhausted.
“Just a second,” I say. I manage to sound perky, though my voice cracks.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Not with the hatred. It is toxic. Hating a child, a victim. Poison.
“What have you been doing in there?” she asks.
I stand up and find the light switch. The light is bright and it burns my eyes, causing them to squint.
“I had a long bath,” I tell her.
“I didn’t hear the water,” she says.
God help me but it’s back. This hatred will kill me before Mick does. I have to make peace with it. With her.
I don’t push the hair from my face. I don’t wipe away the tears. I open the door and walk to the edge of my cell. And I let her see me.
She is startled.
“What’s wrong with you?’ she asks.
I sit on the floor and she sits down on the other side of the bars. I reach through them and take both her hands.
I pull from inside me everything I know about children, from being their teacher, from being their mother. It does no good to lie now. She is smart enough to put together the evidence and lying will unnerve her. Children need to trust grown-ups. The moment they realize we are liars is the moment they lose their childhood.
“Alice,” I say. “You’re right. I did not take a bath. I told you that because I was crying in the bathroom and I didn’t want you to know.”
Her empathy appetite is strong today so she starts to cry.
“I feel so bad for you. What made you cry for so long?”
I do not let go of her hands.
“Alice,” I begin, then pause. I think of how to say the things I want to say to her. The things I want to tell her so maybe she will understand. Maybe she will empathize with the person I really am—the mother taken from her own family, missing her own children and her own husband and her own home. Maybe she will understand, even from what little she knows of the world, that no one can be happy as a prisoner. I’ve seen the books in her playroom. I know the things she reads for her schoolwork. She has begun to learn about the world, and about human suffering. I think that maybe she can use that knowledge and apply it here, to our situation. The words begin to form. If I can make her see me, then maybe I can rid myself of this hatred.