Keep Her Safe

by Sophie Hannah

  “The two-tailed swallowtail, state butterfly of Arizona.” Tarin gestured toward the sculpture. “I’m from Kansas. We don’t have a state butterfly. We do have a state insect: the western honeybee. But I mean, who wants some asshole insect that stings? I’d rather have a butterfly.”

  Priddey came straight to the point. “Mrs. Fry, have you been impersonating a detective?”

  “No.”

  “No? Are you sure?”

  “You’re using the wrong tense: past continuous or pluperfect or whatever, instead of perfect. I haven’t been impersonating a detective, no—not for a prolonged period or on a regular basis. Now, if you were to ask me if I have ever, in the recent past—”

  “Did you impersonate an Arizona detective? Yes or no?”

  “Once, briefly, yes. And it’s damned lucky for you that I did.”

  Understanding that no contrition would be forthcoming, nor any fear of consequences displayed, Priddey moved on. “You used deception to gain access to room 324, by impersonating a police officer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And . . . now you’re hiding in a maze?”

  “Hiding? If I’d wanted to hide, you’d never have found me. I came here to think, not to hide.” Tarin giggled suddenly. “Wanna know what’s funny? The maid who let me in, she should have known I wasn’t a cop. She’d seen me before. I could see her thinking, ‘Isn’t that the lady from the room over there?’ A few days ago she came in and tried to start cleaning too early and I had to shoo her out. But, push come to shove, she nodded and let me in because I seemed so certain I was a detective. Just goes to show, huh? Lie with supreme confidence and idiots will believe you, even when the evidence of their own eyes contradicts what you’re telling them.”

  Priddey sensed she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I guess that’s true,” he said eventually.

  “You really don’t care, do you? Smarmy Sanders only cares about getting onto the Bonnie Juno slander show, and you’re either some kind of weird Buddhist or lacking a brain lobe. I might not have the badge, but I’m more of a detective than either of you. Who stopped a maid who’d just vacuumed up a truckload of potential evidence in room 324, and took the bag off of her? Not you or Sanders, and not Bonnie Juno, either. You all think Cara’s fine, she just ran away when her husband showed up, and it has nothing to do with the Melody Chapa mess. You’re wrong. She’s in danger. If you don’t want to do anything about it, can you put me in touch with someone who might?”

  Priddey thought about Lynn Kirschmeier. She’d be perfect. She was FBI Phoenix, and nothing would take the shine off Bryce Sanders’s sunny temperament like her unexpected arrival on the scene. Trouble was, the last thing Priddey wanted was to be in touch with Lynn again, and that was Sanders’s fault, like so much else.

  Lynn could easily have heard about Cara Burrows’s disappearance on Justice with Bonnie. That could be the official line, if Priddey brought her in without getting the okay from Sanders first. Priddey knew Lynn would never tell Sanders she’d gotten the tip-off from him.

  “What did you find in Room 324?” he asked Tarin Fry.

  “Apart from the vacuum cleaner bag I took into evidence? Nothing. Strong chance you’ll find Melody’s DNA in there if you can be bothered looking.”

  “You didn’t find a piece of paper, then? One that your daughter later caught you looking at, in the bathroom—prompting you to stuff it up your sleeve?”

  Tarin Fry looked thrilled at the mention of her daughter. “Zellie’s spoken to you?”

  “According to her, you were lying when you said you saw Melody Chapa yourself. You only said it because you believe Cara Burrows and Mrs. McNair saw Melody, and you wanted to . . . lend support to the idea that she’s alive.”

  Tarin laughed and clapped her hands together. “Well, good for Zellie! I raised that girl right. She has a mind of her own.”

  “Is what she told me true?”

  Tarin squinted at him. Then she made an irritated tutting noise and said, “You know what? I’m going to trust you, and if you let me down, I’m going to make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. But as for Sanders and Bonnie Juno? I’ll never trust them, so anything I say to you is confidential. You don’t pass it on. Deal?”

  “I’m not supposed to withhold information from Detective Sanders. He has seniority.”

  “And yet you hate him so profoundly,” said Tarin.

  Priddey felt the muscles in his face tighten. How did this woman know so much?

  “I’m a florist,” she answered his unasked question. “Think about when people buy flowers. Weddings. Funerals. Anniversaries. Buyers of flowers are emotional, and I see all the emotions, believe me. So now I recognize them, and when people try to hide them, too. It’s not hard. The look on your face when you say Sanders’s name and talk about how you have to defer to his authority? You’re the guy buying an expensive wreath for the funeral of the man who married the only woman you ever loved, hoping that if you spend more than you can afford, no one’ll guess how much you’re looking forward to dancing all over your rival’s grave.”

  Tarin opened her bag, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Priddey. “Here.”

  He opened it up. It was a scruffy but, at the same time, impressively detailed line drawing of a man, in pencil. Above the image, someone had scrawled in childish handwriting “Doodle Da . . .” The rest of the second word was blurred; someone had spilled a dark substance on the paper or dropped it into something.

  “What’s this?”

  “It was in the trash from room 324. The piece of paper Zellie saw me stuffing up my sleeve. That’s Coke all over it, and the word you can’t read is ‘Dandy.’”

  “How do you know that?”

  “When Cara walked into that room on her first night here, with the man and the girl in it, she heard the girl say, ‘I spilled Coke on Poggy and Doodle Dandy.’”

  Priddey allowed his disbelief to show on his face. “You’ve said nothing until now about Doodle Dandy.”

  “I know. I didn’t mention it because I thought it was an unnecessary distraction. Poggy was the important part, and I didn’t want to muddy the water. It doesn’t matter. The point is: here’s Doodle Dandy. And I found him in room 324’s trash—which proves that’s the room Cara was in, where she met Melody Chapa, alias Hope Katz. I’d bet good money that Dandy’s the name of the guy—Melody’s chaperone, aka Robert Katz.”

  “Based on what?” Priddey asked.

  “My Zellie’s been taking an art class since we got here. They’ve done drawing, painting, mosaic making . . . Guess what they did first of all?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Doodling. Which means this comes from art class, right? Kids have no imagination anymore. Their titles are all ‘Watercolor Mom,’ ‘Spray-Paint Dad.’ They’re plastered all over the art studio walls. Except Zellie—she called her painting of me ‘Irreversible Decline.’ Ha!”

  “And you think Doodle Dandy’s meant literally—a doodle of Dandy?” Priddey was skeptical. “How many guys are named Dandy?”

  “There only needs to be one,” said Tarin impatiently. “Look for anyone associated with Melody with Dandy as a first name, last name or nickname.”

  Was that an order? To Priddey, Dandy sounded like a small child’s mispronunciation of “Daddy.” But that was impossible if the girl who did the drawing was Melody Chapa. Her daddy was in jail.

  “Also, this means Melody was in that art class, at least for the doodling part,” Tarin went on. “Zellie says lots of kids dropped out early, once they saw how demanding it was going to be. Ask the teacher. I bet you’ll find the name ‘Hope Katz’ on that list. Also . . . I’ve been thinking about Riyonna Briggs.”

  “What about her?”

  “Try to find her and talk to her. If you can’t find her, investigate her—without telling Sanders, Bonnie Juno, Dane Williamson or anybody who might try and send you off in a different direction. I think that’s how yo
u’ll find Cara, via Riyonna.” Tarin Fry laid her hand over her stomach. “Gut feeling.”

  Priddey said, “I’m not clear whether you think Riyonna Briggs is in danger or if you’re implying she’s responsible for the disappearance of Cara Burrows.”

  “I’m not clear either. Luckily there’s a way to get clear when you’re not—it’s called investigation. It’s called detective work. I suggest you give it a try.” Tarin Fry stood up and walked purposefully across the courtyard, like a woman who knew exactly where she was going.

  14

  October 15, 2017

  The sound of the key turning, the door opening: scrape, click, creak. I’ve taught myself to keep still when I hear these familiar noises. They don’t mean I’m going anywhere, or that anything will change. It seems odd that I used to say to myself, “Stay calm. Don’t get your hopes up.” This morning, after my fourth night in this godawful place, there’s no adrenaline rush, no pounding heart. Nothing.

  “Cara?”

  I don’t look up. What’s the point of asking more questions, starting yet another conversation? He’s never going to let me go.

  I’ve tried everything I can think of—everything apart from making him believe I’ve given up hope.

  I haven’t. But one day I might have to, and if I do, this pretense—my practice run—will have gone some way toward preparing me for the worst.

  “Cara? You okay? I brought you some breakfast. Delicious and nutritious. Seriously, this stuff’s good for you—the baby, too. I was given strict orders: no more bacon and sausage.”

  This sets my heart going faster. Then I feel like a fool. Whoever wants me alive and healthy today might change their mind by tomorrow. Or maybe they only want to reassure me so that I’ll be off my guard.

  This morning my kidnapper is bare-chested, wearing only jeans and Nikes. My throat closes up when I see those familiar swirls of dark chest hair. This is the second time I’ve seen him half naked. Last time it wasn’t his fault, but this time it is.

  Last time I was sure it would never happen again.

  How dare he come in here like this, as if we’re a happily cohabiting couple? It’s no big deal to him. He won’t even have thought about it. In his mind, he is dressed enough.

  Not in mine.

  He’s holding a tray in his hands. There’s a glass of orange juice, and a plate with a white shapeless blob and a green shapeless blob on it. “What is that?” I say.

  “Egg white omelet and wilted spinach.”

  It looks disgusting. Like a grotesque parody of the eggs florentine I had in my casita the other day. Before this happened.

  I can’t bear to think about before. This is my life now: this trailer and a man I hate and wish dead.

  “Can I have a bacon sandwich instead? I don’t think I can eat that.”

  “Cara, this is really good for you. And the baby.”

  “I’d be sick if I tried to swallow it.”

  “Listen, you’re not the only item on anybody’s agenda,” he snaps. “Know what I mean? This is today’s breakfast—take it or leave it.”

  “I’m sorry, do you have other women tied up in trailers all over Arizona? That would be a pretty extensive catering operation, I can see that.”

  “Funny,” he says, tight-lipped. I imagine that, silently, he’s congratulating himself on his restraint.

  What’s funny is that it turns out I can be viciously sarcastic and not care at all. Tears fill my eyes as it occurs to me that if I could have laid into Patrick in the same way, even only once, I might not have felt the need to flee the country. And then none of this would be happening to me or to my family.

  No point wishing. You can’t undo the past.

  “Let’s try to get along, shall we?” says the man in a sulky voice. “We have until now, however difficult the circumstances.”

  “I agree. Let’s not spoil an enjoyable incarceration.”

  He puts the tray down on the table. “Why’re you being like this all of a sudden?”

  “I’m being like this because, given the options available to me, it’s the only way I have to exercise my freedom. And if you couldn’t work that out without my help, you can’t be all that bright.” If he’s stupid and unimaginative, there has to be something I can do, some way I can outwit him.

  He takes the gun out of his back pocket, puts it down next to the tray and helps me to sit up. I flinch as he unties my wrists and his skin touches mine.

  “Go ahead, exercise your freedom,” he says. “I won’t take it personally.”

  “My body needs exercise, too,” I say. “After breakfast, can we go for a walk? With the gun if that’s the only way, just . . . anything. I need to move. Properly, not just walking little circles around this room.”

  “Sorry.” He picks up the gun and points it at me. “You can’t go outside. Too risky. Eat your food.”

  “When will I be able to go out? Ever? You can’t just keep me locked in here! I have to be allowed to go outside. Even prisoners are.”

  “I’m sorry, Cara.”

  “There’s no knife or fork.”

  “What? Oh. Sorry.” He pulls a white plastic fork out of his pocket, the same one the gun came from, and throws it across to me. It lands on the tray.

  The omelet is still warm, though barely. And yet he carried it into the trailer uncovered; no plastic wrapping, no solid silver dome lid like at Swallowtail, to keep hot food hot. That has to mean . . .

  How did I not work this out sooner? He’s got two trailers. I’m in one, and he sleeps in the other. With Melody, probably—like in the hotel room. I never hear the sound of a car before he comes in, so his trailer must be within walking distance. That’s where he cooks my food, or maybe Melody cooks it. Maybe it’s not a trailer but an isolated house, and I’m somewhere on its land.

  I’m not sure if it helps me to know this, assuming I’m right. Still, it feels good to have even the tiniest bit more information.

  After a few mouthfuls of flavorless egg white and a few sips of orange juice, I have the energy for more conversation. “Freshly squeezed,” I say, nodding at the glass. “Nice touch. If I ever get to rate this kidnapping on TripAdvisor, I’ll give it four stars now instead of three.”

  He stares into the distance as if I haven’t spoken.

  “We have to work something out,” I tell him. “I need exercise. I need to get out of this small, enclosed space. So how about this: we wait till it’s dark—middle of the night—and then you come and get me and we drive out to somewhere really isolated and just walk around for an hour or so? Then we come back. You can keep me tied up while you drive and have the gun on me the whole rest of the time, while we’re walking. I don’t see any risk to that. Do you?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  I want to scream.

  Keep calm, Cara.

  I close my eyes so as not to have to see the gun pointed at me, rising and dipping in his unsteady hand. I try to imagine myself somewhere else. Not home—that’s too painful. I mustn’t think about how it would feel to be home.

  Swallowtail: that big beautiful blue swimming pool . . . Smooth, long strokes, one side to the other. Or maybe I’ll yell, “Marco! Polo!” at the top of my lungs like the girl with the thick sausage braids.

  Wait.

  What was that? Something passed through my mind so quickly, I missed it—like a ghost glimpsed in a mirror that’s gone before you’ve turned round.

  Something to do with the girl with the braids . . .

  “Cara, eat. You won’t have the strength to walk anywhere if you don’t get some food inside you.”

  Walking, running . . .

  I think of Lilith McNair, what I heard her say. “I saw her running. Melody, running. How come she can run all of a sudden? Can my cousin Isaac run? Let me tell ya, he can’t even walk!” Mrs. McNair’s cousin Isaac, who died of lymphoma . . .

  Unless he didn’t die. Nothing she said or wrote online made it clear he was dead. I just assumed
it. It’s equally possible he’s still alive, but very sick. Yes, that would work.

  Putting that together with the girl in the swimming pool . . .

  Oh, God. Am I right? I so desperately want to be right. I could do something with this, but how can I know if it’s true?

  “Cara?” I hear the click of the gun’s safety catch. Whatever’s showing on my face, it’s worried my jailer. Good. Let him be scared. Let him be terrified, in the way that only those who know they’re doing something terribly wrong can be.

  The Marco Polo girl’s sausage braids were flying around like two thick ropes, all over the pool that day. No member of the resort staff batted an eyelid. Everyone I saw in the Swallowtail pools had their hair uncovered.

  Which means there’s no rule saying bathing caps must be worn. Yet in the room Riyonna sent me to by mistake, Melody’s room, I saw one of those horrible rubber swimming caps. At least that’s what I thought it was.

  Not exactly pink, not quite beige. Skin colored.

  “Cara, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

  No one would wear one of those things by choice. Only someone incredibly precious about the condition of their hair, and I can’t believe Melody Chapa would have worried about chlorine damage. What she cared about was covering up the brown mark near her hairline that might have given away her identity, the mark she hid by rubbing her forehead the whole time I was looking at her. That rubber cap would have hidden it very effectively when she was out and about at the resort.

  It would also have drawn attention to her as The One Doing Things Differently. In a pool full of uncovered hair, one girl wearing a bathing cap would stand out. Melody, who was officially dead, couldn’t be allowed to attract attention in that way, so somebody came up with an ingenious idea: reinvent her as Hayley the terminal cancer victim. Hope Katz might have been her fake name for room-booking purposes, but around the resort, in the Art for Beginners class with Zellie Fry, Melody played the part of poor tragic Hayley, who always made sure to wear her flesh-colored rubber skull, the one that made everyone believe she’d lost all her hair to chemotherapy. Wrap a scarf around her head so no one could see the join—easy.