Keep Her Safe

by Sophie Hannah

  She and Priddey were sitting out on the verandah of her small house in Scottsdale, drinking homemade lemonade that was so good, it almost made up for the endless dog talk. Stoppit, who looked a lot like an overgrown hairy rat, was asleep on Davis’s lap. Each time she moved, he woke up and growled, then fell instantly back to sleep. It was beyond Priddey why anyone would want a thing like that in their life.

  He tried again to steer the conversation in a useful direction. “So you said Riyonna was Stoppit’s . . . godmother?” It wasn’t what Davis had said, but Priddey was too embarrassed to repeat her exact words.

  “No, no. Ha ha! I’m not crazy. Oh, darn it! Sorry, darling.” She stroked the dog, who had snarled in response to her laughing, and continued in a whisper. “He’s such a friendly boy when he’s not tired, but if he’s trying to sleep and I disturb him, he makes his displeasure known.”

  “You were saying, about Riyonna?”

  “So I was.” Her voice was back at normal volume. “Well, I’m sure even a non-dog-owner like you would know that dogs don’t have godmothers. I mean, there’s no official religious ceremony or anything. That’s why I thought it’d be kinda neat to invent a new word: dogmother. Ri’s his dogmother. We made up our own little ceremony. It was so cool, really—you shoulda seen it. See, Stoppit absolutely adores tennis balls, but only when they’re brand-new and bright lemon-yellow . . .”

  “Excuse me, ma’am . . . Like I said, I really don’t have too much time, so if I could ask you again . . . You’re sure you haven’t seen or heard from Riyonna at all these past few days?”

  Before setting off from Swallowtail, Priddey had searched the internet for anyone connected to the Melody Chapa case who went by the name of “Dandy.” He’d found nothing. Then, still following Tarin Fry’s instructions, he’d started on Riyonna Briggs. Thanks to her lax Facebook security, he’d discovered Janelle Davis and was able to glean from comments and photos that she and Riyonna were close friends who went back years. Finding Davis had been easy enough. If only talking to her were the same.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “But I’ll tell you when I will hear from her: Wednesday. That’s Stoppit’s birthday, and Ri never misses a year. Last year she got him a water bowl with his name painted on it: Stoppit Nicodemus Davis.”

  Nicodemus? Unbelievable.

  “Wednesday’s my birthday, too,” said Priddey, holding back a sigh. Typical. The inflated furry rat was his spirit animal.

  “Really?” Davis emitted a squeal of delight. “Stoppit-poppet! Our visitor here has a birthday same day as you! Isn’t that an incredible coincidence?” The dog opened one eye and growled. “Oh, Janelle, you are such a terrible mother,” Davis admonished herself. “Each time the poor boy falls asleep, you wake him up. What kind of mama does that?”

  “So Riyonna’s due to come here Wednesday?” Priddey asked.

  “Oh, yeah. She wouldn’t miss a certain little boy’s birthday, not for the world. I’m not saying his name ’cuz he wakes up when I do. As to where Ri is right now . . .” Davis shrugged. “Maybe that pigheaded boss of hers went too far and pushed her over the limit. She could be off hunting for a new job, and not a minute too soon. I’ve been telling her for years she should get out. I’ve never met Dane Williamson, but he sounds like an asshole: nice as pie to anyone he needs to impress, awful to those lower down in the pecking order. I hate that type.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not more worried about Riyonna,” Priddey told her. “I’ve looked at your Facebook interactions. The two of you normally communicate several times a day, but there’s been nothing since October 11. That doesn’t strike you as strange?”

  “Well, I guess.” Davis looked momentarily confused. Then she narrowed her eyes and grinned. “Y’know what? Maybe Ri’s met a nice guy and she’s busy banging his brains out. That would be great. She’s had no action at all since breaking up with Deray—or, I should say, since he broke up with her. Cast her aside like she was garbage. That man well and truly broke her heart. Stoppit adored him, too, and missed him so much after he left—pined for months. But thinking about it, when Ri first met Deray, I couldn’t get ahold of her for about a week and a half. She was drifting above it all in a haze of loved-up bliss. I’ll bet that’s what’s going on now.”

  Stoppit, Nicodemus, Deray. Three unusual names . . .

  On a whim, Priddey said, “Miss Davis, do you know of anybody called Dandy, or with Dandy as a nickname?”

  “Dandy.” She frowned and chewed her lip. “Yeah.”

  “You do?”

  “Hold on, it’ll come to me. I’ve heard that name not too long ago. Dandy . . . Oh, I’ve got it!” She gave Priddey a knowing look. “Is that him?”

  “Who?”

  “Ri’s new man? Come on, spill!”

  “I have no idea who Dandy is. That’s why I asked you.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you, Detective. You have an inscrutable face. People must tell you that a lot.”

  “No. Never.”

  “Huh. Well, a few weeks ago, Ri and I and a certain little boy”—she nodded down at the dog—“were at a barbecue, and Ri took a call and acted kind of private about it, which was unusual for her. She doesn’t normally hide anything from me. But this time she said, ‘Hey, Dandy,’ and then hurried off to stand by a tree quite a way from where I was, like she didn’t want me to overhear the conversation. When she reappeared looking all fake-innocent, I said, ‘So who’s this Dandy, then?’ and she lied about it.” Davis laughed. “Ri never lies, but I swear she did that day. She said, ‘Not Dandy. Andy—from work,’ and I said, ‘Oh, yeah? So how come I’ve never heard you mention an Andy-at-work?’ and she sorta dodged the question. I didn’t push it. Figured she’d tell me in her own time. But now it’s all falling into place. She’s got a new man in her life—Dandy—and she’s gone off somewhere with him. Like I said: she’ll be back by Wednesday. No way she’d miss a very important birthday party.”

  “And you know nothing about Dandy?”

  “Nothing at all. I just heard her say the name. That’s literally all I can tell you.”

  “How long have you and Riyonna been friends?”

  “Long time. Since childhood. We lived on the same street in Philadelphia, went to the same—”

  Stoppit raised his head and snarled loudly.

  “Ssht!” Davis tapped his head gently with the flat of her hand.

  Philadelphia. The word rolled around Priddey’s mind. Melody Chapa had been born in Philadelphia, lived in Philadelphia, been murdered in Philadelphia. “So how come you and Riyonna both ended up in Arizona?”

  “My ex got a job here. I followed him and then, a couple of years later, Ri followed me. She’d been to visit a few times and loved it, loved the climate, and then—” Abruptly, Davis broke off.

  “What?” said Priddey. “You were going to say something else.”

  “I told you already: she moved out here a few years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “When she moved? Let’s see, it was after Chad and I broke up, and around the same time I thought of getting a dog, and Ri and Deray got married Fall 2014, so . . . it must have been Fall of 2013. October, I think.”

  “Miss Davis, I’d appreciate it if you could tell me whatever it was you decided not to say before. If Riyonna’s in any kind of trouble, it might help us to find her.”

  “Well, she doesn’t like to talk about it, but I guess that doesn’t mean you and I can’t. It’s not like it’s a secret. Ri did jury service in Philadelphia—years ago, this was. Like, fifteen years or something, I don’t remember precisely. It was a murder case: man who’d strangled his wife—and before you ask, that’s all I know. Ri told me no other identifying details. Really did not want to talk about it. But I know she found it traumatic. She was one hundred percent certain the guy was guilty, but the defense team charmed the other jurors and he got acquitted. It was unbearable to watch, she said, unbearable to be part of, though obviously it wasn’t
her fault. She and only one other woman had said ‘guilty’ from the start and stood their ground. Others had been all for convicting him at first, but then allowed themselves to be talked around.”

  “And Riyonna found this experience upsetting?”

  “Oh, boy! She kept going over and over it, blaming herself, saying she didn’t do enough to persuade the other jurors—though it was clear to me she’d done all she could. She’s too sensitive for her own good, really.”

  “And this was around fifteen years ago?”

  “That’s right,” said Davis.

  “Then I don’t understand,” Priddey said. “If it was part of why she wanted to leave Philadelphia, why’d she only move to Arizona four years ago? Why wait ten years?”

  “Oh, I see. No, she was okay at first. Then she got called for jury service a second time. You can imagine the effect that had on her.”

  Jury service in 2013. The trial of Annette and Naldo Chapa? Priddey wondered.

  “She called me in tears, asked if she could move in with me for a while. I said sure, why not? That enabled her to excuse herself from jury service on the grounds that she had an arrangement to move to Arizona, like, the following week. She didn’t tell them when she’d made that arrangement or why—asked me to pretend we’d planned it months earlier.”

  “So she didn’t actually do a second stint of jury service?” Priddey abandoned his promising theory.

  “No. She couldn’t have handled that at all. She handed in her notice that very day and came out here. Boy, all these serious questions.” Janelle Davis shuddered. “I’m getting a little concerned. Ri’s okay, right? I mean, she’s not in danger from some psycho guy who should have been locked up years ago, is she? I’ve gotta tell you, her romantic judgment has never been the best.”

  “We have no reason to think she’s come to harm,” said Priddey. “We just need to find her.”

  “Soon as you do, will you have her call me?”

  “I’ll pass on the message.”

  “I guess you’d better remind her about a certain little boy’s birthday, too, if you do find her.” Davis pointed at Stoppit. “Like I say, she wouldn’t normally forget, but if something freaky’s going on in her life, who knows?”

  “Right.” Time to finish off that lemonade and leave.

  “He’ll know if she’s not there for his party,” Davis muttered more to herself than to Priddey. “He knows all our special occasion traditions and he knows Ri’s always there. What will I do if she hasn’t showed up by Wednesday?”

  “Leon Reville,” I repeat. “So . . . what, you’re Jeff Reville’s brother? Kristie’s brother-in-law?”

  “Jeff’s cousin.” He puts the gun down and covers his face with his hands. He might be crying.

  Things are starting to make sense. I think it through out loud. “Kristie and Jeff lived next door to the Chapas, who were psychologically abusive parents. They could see that if they didn’t take action, Annette and Naldo would end up killing Melody. They couldn’t go to the authorities because the kind of mental torture I’ve been reading about in Melody’s book is very hard to prove . . . and seven-year-old Melody would probably have been too scared to speak out against her parents. So Kristie and Jeff roped you in and made a plan: make Melody disappear, fake her murder. Allow suspicion to fall first on Kristie—that was clever. But then have proof emerge that it was Annette and Naldo Chapa and, as if by magic, they get carted off to prison for the rest of their natural lives.”

  Nothing from Leon. He’s still got his face covered up.

  “Well? Am I right?” I’m not sure I need an answer. How can I be wrong? There’s nothing else that could explain everything.

  Finally, he moves his hands and looks at me. “You’re right,” he says, almost inaudibly.

  Time to fake some kindness.

  “Leon, listen. You wish I hadn’t walked into your hotel room? I wish the same thing. It’s not my fault I did and it’s not your fault, either. We’ve ended up where we are by accident, but it can still be okay. Nobody needs to know about any of this. I swear to you: I’ll tell nobody about you or these last few days. I’ll say I don’t remember where I’ve been, that I was wrong about seeing Melody. All I want in return is to send a message to my kids on Instagram saying I’m safe and well. You can type it for me. I won’t touch the computer.”

  His eyes flit around the trailer. I don’t think he’s been listening.

  “If you do that for me, I’ll be grateful, won’t I? Leon, look at me. Think about the kind of person you know I am. I’m just a mum who loves her kids and wants to get back to them. I don’t want any trouble. Why would I? I don’t want anything bad to happen to Melody.”

  He’s looking at me more steadily now.

  “Do I think that what you, Kristie and Jeff did was the right thing to do? No. I have to be honest and admit that I don’t.”

  “If we hadn’t done it, they’d have killed her. Haven’t you read enough of Kr—” He stops, but it’s too late.

  “Kristie’s book? So Kristie Reville wrote it?”

  We wait.

  “The story belongs to Melody,” Leon says eventually. “It’s hers. Kristie only wrote it down. She converted it into what it is now.”

  I knew it. Not only from the too-polished writing style, but also the choice of words. The paper I found in the crystal grotto pot said “Do Mom and Dad love me?” In the book, it’s always “My parents” or “My mother and father.”

  “If it was that bad for Melody at home, you could have made the police or social services take it seriously. I can’t believe that was impossible. Did any of you even try?”

  “You’re naïve if you believe that, Cara. Seriously.”

  “Look, I might not agree with what you did, but I agree that Melody’s better off if she never has to see her parents again.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Which is why I won’t breathe a word about this to anyone once you let me go.”

  “Let you go?” He looks confused. “Shit, Cara, I can’t . . . I thought you just wanted to send a message to your kids?”

  “That first. Then you’re going to let me walk out of here. You’re going to set me free. And you’ll tell Jeff and Kristie, and Melody, that none of you has anything to fear from me. Because that’s the truth. If you’re worried about admitting you let me go, you can say I escaped. Maybe you could say I threatened you—if you didn’t let me go, I wouldn’t tell you the thing you need to know to keep all three of you out of prison—you, Jeff and Kristie.”

  “You did threaten me,” Leon says in a dull voice.

  “Leon, if you do this for me—help me tell my kids I’m okay and then let me go—I swear I’ll tell you what you need to know. You have to trust me. Please?”

  He stands. Picks up the gun, doesn’t point it at me. “The message . . . yeah, I can do that, I guess. But I can’t let you go, Cara.”

  Shit. Shit shit shit. “Thank you,” I say. For now, the message is enough. It’s progress—significant progress. Be patient, Cara.

  “No messages can be sent from this computer, though, ’cause it’s registered in my name. I’ve got an iPad that can’t be traced back to me. I’ll go get it.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate this, Leon.”

  A few seconds later I’m alone in the trailer. Locked in. My ankles are bound but my wrists are untied. He forgot to take the precaution of tying them before he left.

  Nothing I can do but sit tight. Even if I could somehow use my hands to get out of here, I wouldn’t be able to do it in time. Not before he’s back with the iPad.

  Think. Work it out. There has to be a way.

  I thought he’d agree to let me go, but maybe this is better. I have nothing to tell him that will help him. If he’d agreed to set me free in exchange for useful information, he would soon have discovered my lie. That was a stupid, crazy plan, born out of desperation.

  Now, on the other hand . . .

  I hear the
key again. The door opens. Dandy the lion is back with the iPad. I was expecting one the same size as the one I had at Swallowtail, but this is twice the size. Not a Mini. Where did he get it from? His car, outside?

  “Okay, so what do I do?” He’s holding the iPad in his left hand. The gun’s sticking out of his pocket. “Instagram, right?”

  He walks over and sits down next to me.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I start to cry. It’s partly relief and partly horror at my own reaction. My gratitude is real.

  “Look away while I type in my code.”

  I avert my eyes. The gun’s still in his pocket, but the wrong one. I’d have to reach around him to grab it.

  “Okay, you can look now. Here’s Instagram. I’ll need your ID and password.”

  “Discendo79’s my user name.” I spell it out. “Password’s my name then 79—all letters lowercase.”

  “Here we are,” says Leon.

  Now. Now is my chance. If I don’t take it, I might not get another.

  I stiffen my body and gasp.

  “What?” he says. “What is it?”

  “Did you hear that? Outside?”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “A voice. It sounded so close.”

  “I didn’t hear it.”

  “How could you not hear it? It must have come from right outside. Are they here?” I try to sound as frightened as I can. “They’re here, aren’t they? Jeff and Kristie—they’re here to kill me. You called them! You’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

  “Cara, calm down.”

  “I heard a voice, Leon. I didn’t imagine it. I heard someone say, ‘Helen.’”

  “Helen?”

  Oh, shit. Shit, shit. I said the wrong name. Not Helen. Something similar . . . Fear and adrenaline are messing with my memory.

  “No . . .” I can still save this. I have to. My heart feels as if it’s swollen to twice its usual size and is pushing to burst out of my throat.