Keep Her Safe

by Sophie Hannah

“What I don’t know is where she is now,” Juno steamrollered on. “I can’t find Detective Sanders or Dane Williamson. Agents Kirschmeier and Turriff are treating me like I don’t exist! Clearly they never switch on their televisions!”

  “I don’t think media liaison is their priority at the moment,” said Priddey. “Having said that, I know that no one’s deliberately trying to exclude you. I’m on my way to the Rutherford B. Hayes Room now, a little late. I’m surprised you’re not there already.”

  “The Rutherford Behave room?” Juno flinched as if he’d said something obscene. “What is that?”

  “Rutherford B. Hayes. Former president of the United States.”

  “What the hell does he have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. Just, there’s a meeting room here named after him and that’s where I’m headed now.”

  “I see,” Juno said through gritted teeth. “So you’re on your way to a cozy heads-up that no one’s told me about. The feds arrive and all of a sudden I’m out in the cold!”

  “Not at all.” As long as Juno wasn’t angling in on Cara Burrows, Priddey was happy to reassure and placate. “Agent Kirschmeier wants and expects you to be there. No cameras, obviously.”

  “Why obviously? And if Kirschmeier wants me so much, how come no one said anything to me about any meeting? I know when people are avoiding me! And I know why: you’re all terrified of hearing how wrong you are. You think Annette and Naldo Chapa can’t be behind all this? You really believe that?”

  So she was still pushing that angle. The woman was incredible. Annette and Naldo Chapa: faking their daughter’s death for seven years in order to make sure their convictions for her murder stick. It made zero sense.

  Don’t take the bait. She wants you to ask why they’d ever do that, so she can spout more crap.

  “No one’s avoiding you, ma’am. Come with me now and you’ll see.” Priddey tried to lead the way and failed. Leaders need at least one person following them.

  Juno stood firm. “Wait a second. It’s Cara I’m most interested in. Where is she right now?”

  She was with her husband in a casita that the resort reserved for important visitors. Her children were on their way over from England with their grandmother. Priddey had no intention of telling Bonnie Juno any of this. Cara Burrows needed time alone with her family more than she needed to help boost the ratings of, as Lynn had called it last night, Distorting Justice with Bonnie.

  “Something funny, Detective?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I need an interview with Cara on tonight’s show. Which means Heidi needs to prep her for it, and—”

  “No. Sorry. No interviews with Cara Burrows.”

  “What? Are you insane? Without her, there’s a gaping hole in the story!”

  “It’ll have to be filled some other way.”

  “Detective, you are trying. My. Patience.”

  Althea, Priddey’s wife, described it as his superpower: the ability to say nothing and look neutral for as long as it took for his opponent to run out of steam.

  “I was so wrong about you!” Juno exploded. “I never had you down as a bully, but listen to you now! Without letting Cara decide for herself if she wants to talk to me, you’re taking all autonomy away from her and making that choice on her behalf. How’re you any better than her abductor, I’d like to know?”

  “Mrs. Burrows has made it clear to Agents Kirschmeier and Turriff that she wishes to be left alone with her family.”

  As if the mention of his name had summoned him, Turriff appeared at that moment. He was walking purposefully toward them. “Come on,” said Priddey. This time Juno followed.

  “We’re waiting for you both,” Turriff called over as they approached.

  “See?” said Priddey. “Like I said: you’re invited. No one’s avoiding you.”

  “Cara Burrows is,” said Juno sulkily. “She has a duty here. I don’t think she realizes—”

  “There’s been a development,” Turriff cut her off. He looked only at Priddey as he said, “We’ve got them: Leon Reville and Melody. They’ve been found.”

  Melody Chapa was drinking warm milk in the living room of a house somewhere in Phoenix. Near Phoenix, anyway. She didn’t know precisely where she was, and it was making her feel funny. In the past seven years she’d been moved around a lot, but Dandy had always shown her each new place on a map first. She’d liked that. Maps were amazing. When she grew up, she wanted to be a cartographer. She didn’t know exactly what the job involved, but it sounded serious and important, and if it meant looking at maps, she knew she’d enjoy it.

  The house had a white-painted front, a pillared porch and a fat garage that stuck out awkwardly at the side. Melody thought it was ugly. From what she’d managed to figure out, it belonged to the FBI. Or they were allowed to use it. There was a woman in the house named Jennifer who was nice, but nobody seemed to think she was important, or at least the two agents didn’t—Lynn and Jomo.

  Maybe this house was Jennifer’s home. She hadn’t asked any difficult questions yet, and it didn’t seem as if she was going to. She was something to do with the FBI, too, but she was also a kind of babysitter. She looked like a grandma. She had brought a blanket, even though it was hot. Who would want a blanket?

  Melody hadn’t wanted to be rude and say “No thanks,” so she’d laid Poggy down on the tiled floor and covered him with it. Jennifer seemed to think that was an okay thing to do. She hadn’t objected.

  The milk tasted disgusting. Melody regretted choosing it over orange juice. She’d thought she liked milk, but this was the first time she’d had it warm. What would Jennifer think if she left most of it?

  Melody was scared about lots of things, but the thing that frightened her most was not knowing what people were going to think about her from now on. By “people” she meant strangers, and that was everyone in the world apart from a handful of people. She’d always known what Dandy thought of her, since the first day she met him. “You’re a brave girl, Melody,” he said to her. “Nothing that’s happened is your fault.” He had repeated those lines many times since their first meeting, when she was seven years old.

  Melody also knew what Kristie and Jeff thought of her: that she was perfect and brilliant in every way. This was obviously not true, though it was sometimes nice to hear.

  What Melody thought and felt about all of them was harder to determine, but she’d never cared about that. Her own emotions and opinions weren’t a threat to anybody, whereas those of others could definitely harm her. Like Zellie from the art group who’d said one of Melody’s paintings was “cloying,” whatever that meant. And like Kristie, who said, “I love you so much, Favorite Child, and much more.”

  Melody had grown to hate the nickname over the years. It was silly, when Kristie didn’t seem to know any other children. And the idea of being a favorite was alarming. It was pressure, like an arm pressing down on your throat. And now there was the new pressure of knowing that the whole world was thinking things about her. Melody didn’t like it at all.

  It was okay when everyone believed she’d been stolen away from her parents and murdered. Everyone knew what opinion to have about that. And when it was decided that her parents had killed her, Melody had known that, still, she wasn’t the only one, and that was a comforting thought. Dandy had said that of all the children who are murdered, most times their own parents are guilty of the crime.

  Now it was all different and frightening. Soon everyone would know that Melody had pretended to be a murder victim when she wasn’t. People would think she was a liar. They wouldn’t understand that it wasn’t like that. And, worst of all, Dandy wasn’t here to tell her not to worry, that it was okay because lots of other girls had also pretended to be murdered and kept up the pretense for years and years—which Melody knew they hadn’t.

  She’d done a lot of pretending. Not only to be dead, but also, as Hayley, to have cancer. Would the world blame her? Or would people say she
was only a child and couldn’t be held responsible?

  Dandy would know. He was also the only person likely to give her a truthful answer. But Melody had no idea if she would ever see Dandy again.

  “So you’ve got Leon ‘Dandy’ Reville, but not Jeff or Kristie or Riyonna Briggs,” said Bonnie Juno.

  Lynn Kirschmeier nodded. “Those three are still in the wind, but the very best agents are on it, here and in Philly.”

  “The very best, huh?” Juno sounded unimpressed. Priddey wasn’t surprised. She was the sort of person who recognized no one’s achievements but her own.

  Also present were Jomo Turriff, Bryce Sanders, Heidi Casafina, Dane Williamson and Tarin Fry.

  Sanders took a sip of water from his glass. “Has Melody been asked about the book?” He directed the question to Turriff, not Lynn. He hadn’t looked at her once; Priddey was watching.

  Turriff nodded. “Says she told the story to the Kind Smiles, who wrote it down. That’s all she’ll say—Kind Smiles. She won’t name names, just clams up.”

  “Leon Reville told Cara Burrows that Kristie Reville did all the actual writing,” Lynn says.

  “I’m uncomfortable with the way you’re all leaping to conclusions,” said Heidi Casafina. “We don’t know for sure that this girl’s Melody.”

  “DNA results’ll be a while, but it’s her,” said Lynn. “If you’re not convinced now, Ms. Casafina, you soon will be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means shut up and listen,” said Tarin Fry.

  “Bonnie, do you think it’s her?” Heidi asked. “Do you think this girl is Melody?”

  Juno looked at Lynn Kirschmeier. “She says she’s Melody Chapa, right?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  Juno shrugged. She looked dazed. “Then I believe her, I guess.”

  “So what’s the theory?” Tarin Fry asked. “Or to put it more bluntly . . . what the hell happened here?”

  “I’d rather not speculate,” said Turriff.

  “Allow me, then,” said Tarin. “Kristie Reville and Riyonna Briggs sat on the Benjamin Chalfont jury together in 2003. We know they were both convinced he killed his wife, but no one else was, so he got off. It’s not hard to imagine what happened next: righteous discussions about how the law’s an ass, how too often it allows the guilty to walk free, meaning there’s no real protection or justice for anyone. You want justice, you’re gonna need to get it for yourself—no one else cares. Then, years later, Kristie Reville figures out she’s living next door to a couple she’s certain are a danger to their daughter—”

  “Excuse me.” Heidi Casafina turned to Turriff. “How long are you going to let her carry on like this, making it up as she goes along? I mean, who is she? Some florist from Kansas? Why’s she here?”

  “I have a question, too,” said Bonnie Juno. “What are we all doing here around this table? Is there new information? Because if there isn’t—”

  “My time’s as valuable as yours, Ms. Juno,” Lynn told her. “Yes, Agent Turriff and I have new information to share with you.”

  “Then let’s hear it. The way I see it, there’s a whole lot that doesn’t add up—like the idea that Riyonna Briggs, if she’s involved in this fraudulent plot, would send Cara Burrows to the very hotel room she reserved with her own credit card, with her name on it, to hide Melody in. Why would she self-sabotage like that?”

  “You never heard of someone under pressure making a mistake?” said Sanders.

  “A lot of mistakes seem to have been made here, Detective. Why did Leon Reville snatch Cara Burrows, can somebody tell me? What was the point? She’d already told her friend Tarin about seeing Melody—the whole story.”

  “Leon Reville didn’t know that, maybe,” said Priddey.

  “As the only person here who knows Riyonna well, I can’t believe she’s involved in anything illegal,” said Dane Williamson.

  “Because she respects the law?” Tarin Fry rolled her eyes. “Trouble is, after seeing wife-murderer Chalfont walk free, she thinks no one else does—no one but her and Kristie Reville. It’s clear they felt they had no choice.”

  “How is that clear?” Heidi Casafina threw up her hands. “You’re just making things up! Nothing is clear.”

  “What’s Leon Reville saying so far?” Priddey asked Lynn.

  “Read the book,” she said.

  “I don’t have it.”

  “No, that’s what he’s saying. It’s all he’s saying. Just keeps repeating it: ‘Read the book, it’s all in the book.’”

  “Is this your brilliant new intel?” Bonnie Juno sneered. “Leon ‘Dandy’ Reville telling us all to read a book?”

  “He’s not telling you anything.” Lynn took the sting out of her words with a broad smile. Juno still looked stung. “And no, that is not the information we want to share with you. Agent Turriff?”

  Turriff took his cue and stood up. “Before she left the trailer, Cara Burrows sent a message to her daughter using Instagram,” he said. “As follows: ‘I’m in trailer don’t know where. 2 hours, open parentheses, guess, close parentheses, from Swallowtail. Tell police: interview Jeff Reville colleague again re M bloody sock in car. Car seat move forward—did Kristie’ . . . and then the letters ‘m, o.’”

  “M, o?” said Tarin Fry. “As in modus operandi?”

  “No, as in the first two letters of the word ‘move.’ If Mrs. Burrows hadn’t feared that Leon Reville might come back any second and deprive her of her escape opportunity, she’d have completed that sentence. Having spoken to her, I can confirm what it would have been: ‘Did Kristie move the car seat back again before she drove away?’”

  “I’m totally lost.” Heidi Casafina sighed heavily. “Could not be more confused.”

  “How about you, Bonnie?” Lynn asked her.

  “I’m following,” said Juno with a nod. “I think I know where you’re going.”

  “Let me explain,” said Turriff. “When Mrs. Burrows arrived in Phoenix, she rented a car—a Range Rover. It had a feature she’d never encountered before: memory buttons numbered one to four, so that four different driving positions can be stored. You want to drive the car after your spouse has driven it? Just press button M two, the seat automatically adjusts to your most comfortable driving position. Next time spouse gets in, she presses M one, seat goes back to her ideal setting.”

  “Is your wife’s first name Spouse, Agent Turriff?” Sanders chuckled to himself. Everybody ignored him.

  “The day Melody Chapa went missing, Jeff Reville’s colleague, Nate Appleyard, saw her bloodstained sock in Kristie Reville’s car,” Turriff went on. “Jeff and Kristie Reville were in the car, talking. Appleyard approached them. Kristie was visibly shocked, and looked like she’d been crying. Appleyard saw the stained sock on the floor of the car. He stated very clearly: the sock was positioned about three inches in front of Kristie Reville’s foot. That means, obviously, that Kristie’s foot was easily visible. That means nowhere near the gas pedal. When you’ve got your foot on the gas, someone standing outside the car couldn’t see three inches in front of it.”

  “True,” said Heidi Casafina, “but I still don’t see—”

  “Kristie Reville is only five feet two inches tall,” said Turriff. “She’s a short lady. Nate Appleyard said that, shocked by his sudden appearance and knowing he’d seen the sock, Kristie moved her car seat forward to cover it up. And then, he told police, she drove away.”

  “So what?” Sanders shrugged. “I don’t see the significance.”

  “I’ll explain, Detective Sanders,” Lynn said smoothly. “Leon Reville showed Cara Burrows a YouTube video while she was in the trailer. In it, Kristie Reville was standing on a stage. Cara saw how short she was. That’s when she remembered what she’d read online about Nate Appleyard and the sock. She thought about driving postures—how different people position the driver’s seat differently. Thanks to the four memory buttons on her rental car, this was fresh in her mi
nd. She started to wonder. Kristie Reville moved her seat forward to hide the sock from Appleyard, and then she drove off—that’s what Appleyard told police. That means, doesn’t it, that after moving her seat forward, her feet reached the pedals. She wasn’t too far forward to drive comfortably. Appleyard didn’t see her move the seat back again before she drove off.”

  “Which means,” Turriff took over, “that before Appleyard crept up on her, Kristie Reville must have pushed her seat right back to where she couldn’t reach the gas pedal or the brake—back to three inches behind where the bloodstained sock lay. Only, why would she do that? Who does that? Who parks and then pushes their seat right back?”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said Heidi. “Anyone who wants to stretch their legs after a long drive, that’s who. I’ve done it myself, I’m sure.”

  “I’m with Heidi,” said Sanders.

  “Maybe,” Turriff conceded. “Another hypothesis is that someone who wasn’t Kristie drove the car last, parked it in the parking lot of the school where Jeff Reville worked, then got out, retrieved her own car and drove away. This someone would have been a much taller person than Kristie.”

  Taller than Riyonna Briggs, too, thought Priddey. Jeff Reville was pretty tall, but he’d never learned to drive. His cousin Leon was, like Priddey, on the small side for a man.

  From Heidi’s face, it was clear she hadn’t figured out yet who this possible tall driver might be. But then, Priddey thought, why would she? She still didn’t know about the Chalfont trial.

  “This is insane,” she said.

  “No, it’s logical,” Lynn corrected her. “Cara Burrows thought of it, and so did Detective Priddey here when he read Cara’s Instagram message to her daughter. You see, he’d just made his own exciting discovery.” She stopped to take a sip from her bottle of orange juice. “He’d found out that the trial that had brought Kristie Reville and Riyonna Briggs together, Benjamin Chalfont’s murder trial, had also brought them into contact with someone else. Someone with much longer legs than Kristie Reville’s.”

  “Kristie Reville and Riyonna Briggs thought it was an outrage that Chalfont walked out of that courtroom a free man, but they were only jurors,” said Turriff. “Imagine how the lead prosecutor must have felt.”