Crash & Burn

by Lisa Gardner

  “Nicky, talk to me.”

  “The light,” I whisper, or maybe groan, my eyes going overhead.

  “I think you hit your head. I see some blood. Did you fall down the stairs? I think you may have cracked your skull against the floor.”

  “The light,” I moan again.

  He scrambles up, hits the overhead switch, casting me into blessed darkness. He throws on a different light, somewhere behind me, probably in the laundry room, ambient glow for him to see by.

  “Honey, can you move?”

  I manage to wiggle my toes, lift an arm, a leg; the rest is too much.

  “How did I get down here?” I ask.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  “Tell me your name,” he demands.

  “Natalie Shudt.”

  He blinks. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he appears nervous.

  “How did I get down here?” I try again.

  “Can you count to ten?”

  “Of course, Theo.”

  That strange look again. I count. I like counting. It actually soothes the hurt. I count up to ten, down to one and then . . .

  “Toby, your name is Toby.”

  “Thomas—”

  “Tobias.”

  “Shhhh. Just, shhh. I gotta think for a minute.”

  I’m on the basement floor. The concrete is hard against my neck and shoulders. I should call out, get some help.

  Oh look, there’s a man here. Tyler.

  “Your name is Nicole Frank,” he tells me.

  “Natasha Anderson,” I reply.

  “I’m your husband, Thomas. We’ve been married twenty-two years.”

  “Trenton,” I singsong.

  “We just moved to this area. We’re very happy together. And”—he stares at me hard—“we have no children.”

  “Ted, Teddy, Tim, Tommy. Ta-da!”

  “I think I have to take you to the hospital.” He’s clearly worried about this. “Nicole—”

  “Nancy!”

  “Nicole, I need you to do something for me. Just . . . be quiet, okay? Let the doctors do their thing. You concentrate on feeling better. I’ll answer all their questions, handle everything else.”

  “Vero!” I call out.

  He closes his eyes. “Not now. Please.” Then: “Honey, why were you down here anyway? It’s not laundry day.”

  I stare up at him. I don’t say anything. Who is this man? I think suddenly. Then, even more poignantly, who am I? Nicole Natalie Nancy Natasha Nan Nia Nannette. I am everyone. I am no one at all.

  I am November, I think. The saddest month of the year.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Thomas Tyler Theo Tim Trenton tells me. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. I just need to know one thing. When I was out in my workshop, I swore I heard a car. Did someone come to visit, Nicole? Did you let someone into the house?”

  Then, when I don’t answer:

  “Oh my God, it was the investigator, wasn’t it? After I asked you not to.”

  I still don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

  This man I love. This man I hate. What is his name, what is his name, what is his name? Ted Tom Tim Tod Tyler Taylor Tobias . . .

  This man sighs heavily and whispers, “Oh, Nicky. What have you done?”

  * * *

  WE SMELL IT before we see it. The acrid smoke wafting into the SUV’s ventilation system. I can’t help myself. I reach out my hand. But of course Thomas isn’t here. Instead, I clutch my quilt. And I will myself forcefully to be in this moment.

  I must be in this moment.

  Because the smell of smoke, the smell of smoke . . .

  These poor two officers, I can’t help but think. They haven’t even begun to see crazy yet.

  We had been driving steadily since leaving the crash site, sixty, seventy minutes of winding our way along dark ribbons of country roads, Wyatt driving, Kevin checking his phone, me. Now, as the smell intensifies and a dizzying array of lights starts to come into view . . .

  Wyatt hits the gas, both men on high alert.

  Stay in the moment, I remind myself. No smell of smoke, no heat of fire.

  No sound of her screams.

  This is now. This is this moment. And tonight, I am merely the audience. The main event happened hours ago.

  Thomas handing me the quilt while the officers waited for me downstairs. Telling me I had to take it.

  A final gesture of love, because a boyfriend brings you flowers, but a husband of twenty-two years gives you what you need most. The depth of all of our years together. The way we have come to know each other, despite our lies.

  Thomas gave me my quilt, pinned with one last item he knew I couldn’t bear to lose: Vero’s photo. The secret I stole from him, then stashed beneath my own mattress. I have felt its shape several times this evening, attached to one edge of the blanket.

  A parting gift from a man with too many names to a woman with even more.

  The smell of smoke.

  Myself, still reaching for my husband’s hand.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh, Thomas, I am so sorry.

  As my house comes into full view. Already surrounded by fire trucks, flames shooting up everywhere.

  “What the hell,” Wyatt begins, jerking to a stop behind the line of emergency vehicles. He twists around from the driver’s seat, eyes me angrily. “Did you know about this?”

  I shake my head, only a partial lie.

  “I don’t see Thomas’s vehicle . . . Dammit! He did this, didn’t he? Your husband torched your house to cover his tracks, before disappearing into the wind.”

  I nod, only a partial lie.

  The smell of smoke. The heat of the flames.

  The sound of her screams.

  I close my eyes. And I think, while I’m still in this moment, that my husband was right. I should’ve let it go. I should’ve tried harder to be happy.

  I should’ve told Vero once and for all to please, just leave me alone.

  But of course, I did none of those things. Have been capable of none of those things. Now . . .

  “What the hell is he so afraid of?” Wyatt thumps the steering wheel.

  So I finally tell him the truth. I say: “Me.”

  Chapter 21

  TESSA COULDN’T SLEEP. Her phone call with Wyatt had left her unsettled, let alone D.D.’s disturbing revelation yesterday at lunch. Now, instead of tucking in for some desperately needed rest, she was mostly lying in bed, feeling the weight of her own silence.

  Tessa was highly compartmentalized by nature. She’d never told anyone, not even Wyatt, everything that had happened three years ago. At the time, she’d committed herself to doing whatever it would take to get her daughter back. One thousand ninety-five days later, she didn’t regret those choices.

  The discovery of Purcell’s gun, on the other hand. A possible incriminating fingerprint . . . She should do something, most likely. Say something? But all these years later, what? She’d done what she’d done. If three years later some tech in the state police lab managed to prove it, well, not even Wyatt could help her undo those consequences. She would simply have to face the music. While counting on Mrs. Ennis to take care of Sophie.

  As for Wyatt . . . They’d been together only six months. And maybe she did love him, and maybe he did love her. But he didn’t need to be connected to a felon. Not good for his professional future, not good for his personal reputation.

  Compartmentalization: She couldn’t undo what she’d done, but she could at least limit the collateral damage.

  The skill had certainly helped her stand out as a top security specialist. Clients paid dearly for discretion. A good investigator such as Tessa got in, got out, and didn’t ask a lot of questions along the way. Or volunteer information to the local p
olice. Even if she was sleeping with the investigating officer.

  Wyatt should’ve known better than to even ask if she had knowledge of Nicky Frank. That wasn’t how her job worked, and he knew it. A Hail Mary pass on his part, plain and simple.

  Then again, Nicole Frank had suffered three concussions. As Wyatt had pointed out, she might not even remember she was a Northledge client. In fact, she might not remember what Tessa had called that night to tell her.

  Boundaries, she thought again. Their jobs required boundaries.

  She required boundaries.

  Because D. D. Warren had been right yesterday: Tessa still was a lone wolf. Even after getting her daughter back. Even after falling in love.

  Tessa gave up, got out of bed. She padded through the darkened house into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door, not because she was hungry, but because it was something to do. She pulled out a bottle of orange juice.

  When she turned around, Sophie was standing there.

  Tessa gasped. Dropped the container. Splattered OJ all over the floor.

  “Dammit!”

  “Darn it,” Sophie corrected automatically.

  “Oh, don’t just stand there. Help me clean it up.”

  Sophie yawned, reached for the paper towels. Tessa did the honors of flipping on the overhead lights. It was one thing for her to be alone in the dark, but all these years later Sophie still required light.

  “What brings you to the kitchen in the middle of the night?” Tessa asked finally. According to the digital display on the stove, it was 1:22 A.M.

  “I heard you.”

  “Problems sleeping?”

  Sophie shrugged. In other words, no more than usual. She worked at the spill with the sponge. Tessa followed up with damp paper towels.

  “Warm milk?” Tessa suggested shortly. “At least I didn’t spill that.”

  Sophie smiled; Tessa pulled out the milk.

  She warmed it on the stove top, low heat, adding vanilla to taste, an old ritual from the first few months after the incident, when neither she nor Sophie had slept. They’d been a ragged pair of survivors then, barely functioning, each nursing her own scars. They were a curious little family now. Both more comfortable with firing ranges than polite conversation, both still prone to roaming the house at night.

  “Do you still miss him?” Sophie asked. She’d taken a seat at the kitchen island, where she could watch Tessa work. Tessa didn’t need an explanation to know who Sophie was asking about. It had been months since they’d last talked about him. But from time to time, Sophie had questions about her stepfather, which Tessa did her best to answer.

  “Brian? Sometimes.”

  “I don’t remember him much.”

  “He loved you.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “But he was sick. A gambling addict. He hurt us.”

  Tessa stirred the milk carefully, then glanced up at her daughter. “Why do you ask about him, Sophie? What’s keeping you awake tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” Sophie looked away. “I like our family,” she said abruptly. “You, me, Mrs. Ennis. It’s perfect.”

  “Even without a dog?”

  Sophie flashed a faint smile. “But that’s kinda the point, I guess. Families change. Once we were three. Then we were two. Then we became three again. And now . . .” She glanced up at Tessa. “You like him, don’t you? Wyatt’s not just a stupid fling—”

  “Sophie!”

  “He’s going to become our fourth. Do you love him?”

  “Well, there’s the question of the day,” Tessa murmured.

  “Do you?” Sophie demanded.

  She was always honest with her daughter: “Yeah. I do.”

  “So that’s it. He’ll move in. I’ll have to call him Daddy.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. And I don’t know about this moving-in thing. One step at a time.”

  Sophie’s turn to look curious. “Why not? If you love him.”

  Because I’m afraid, Tessa wanted to say. Because happily ever after never looks the way you think it will from the movies. Maybe it’s not an ending at all, but the beginning of the next terrible misadventure. The future is unreliable, and three years later, the past can still come back to haunt you.

  “Relationships take time,” Tessa said at last.

  Her daughter nodded but didn’t appear convinced.

  “Sophie,” Tessa said at last, leaning her hip against the counter. “What are you most afraid of?” She thought given the mood of the evening, it was a good question for both of them.

  “The dark,” her daughter said immediately.

  “I mean with Wyatt. Do you think he’ll hurt us? Do you think he’s a bad man?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “I like the cop stuff,” Sophie said at last.

  “I like that he’s honest,” Tessa supplied. “He says what he’s going to do, and he does what he says. A man of his word—that’s how people describe him. You know, he thinks we should get a puppy.”

  “I think we should get a puppy!” Sophie sat up straighter.

  “It’s a lot of work. Especially for Mrs. Ennis. You and I aren’t even home most of the day.”

  “I’ll help. I’ll help first thing in the morning, and I’ll help again at night. The puppy can sleep in my room; then I can help even more.”

  “I asked Mrs. Ennis about it,” Tessa said, a dog being a potential source of comfort and security for Sophie. And, say, something that would still be there for Sophie, even if Tessa had to leave for a bit. “She wasn’t dramatically opposed. Maybe it would be a nice first step. We could all pick out a puppy together.”

  “Including Wyatt?” Faint scowl threatening.

  “It was his idea.”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you plan on hating him forever?” Tessa asked curiously.

  “I don’t know. I guess he’s nice enough. And a puppy is good. I’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Tessa thought that would be it. Sophie would finish her warm milk. They’d both go to bed. But instead, her daughter once more grew serious.

  “What are you afraid of, Mommy?”

  Tessa had to smile. Other than a recently recovered firearm and a single latent print . . .

  Tessa set down her mug. She regarded her daughter as soberly as Sophie regarded her. “There’s an old saying,” she began, “the only thing there is to fear, is fear itself.”

  “That’s stupid! There are plenty of things to fear.”

  “I know, Sophie. You and I both know. And I guess that’s what scares me. We spend so much time, you and I, preparing for the worst, I worry we’ll miss out on the best. I’ll meet a good guy like Wyatt. You’ll get a perfect puppy. And yet . . . we’ll still be waiting for the next bad thing to happen. That’s not a great way to live, you know. We need to not just see the good, but trust in it a little more. Learn some faith.”

  Stop being a lone wolf, she supposed. Talk a little more. Let go of the boundaries. And yet some habits were hard to break.

  “That’s why I should get a puppy,” Sophie was saying. “A puppy will definitely help me learn trust.”

  “As well as how to scoop poop.”

  “Mom!”

  Tessa smiled, ruffled her daughter’s hair.

  “Thank you for the warm milk, Mom,” Sophie said.

  “Thank you for the company.”

  * * *

  TESSA CLEARED THEIR mugs. She walked Sophie back to her room, tucked her daughter into bed.

  Then it was back to her room, where she lay in bed and once more stared at the ceiling.

  For all of her wise words to Sophie, the truth was, the next bad
thing did loom on the horizon. Three years ago, she’d shot a man. It was not an act she regretted. Though she was sorry the police now had that gun.

  And she remained a woman who struggled with trust. Because why not simply tell Wyatt what was going on? Why not show some faith in a man who’d never been anything but honest with her?

  Funny, the things that scared a woman like her. Enter a room full of hostile gunmen, check. Talk openly and honestly to the man she loved . . . maybe later.

  There was one thing she knew she should do, however, first thing in the morning. She would reach out to Nicole Frank, Wyatt’s DWI suspect, and see how the woman was doing. Because Tessa knew something even if Nicole didn’t remember it.

  The past was never completely the past.

  It had a way of catching up with you. Especially a past filled with as many sins as Tessa’s.

  Or with as many secrets as Nicole Frank’s.

  Chapter 22

  WYATT ORDERED NICKY to remain in the county’s SUV. Did he have the authority to do that? Nope. Did he have probable cause to arrest her for anything? Not really. Couldn’t nail her for the house fire, as she’d been with him and Kevin the entire time. Even an arrest for Wednesday’s crash was problematic, given her blood alcohol reading didn’t meet the DWI threshold of .08.

  Technically speaking, Nicky Frank could walk away from him and Kevin, not to mention the burning embers of her house, and be well within her rights.

  Like hell, Wyatt thought, for the third time in as many minutes. She was his only link to something larger, murkier and far more criminal than a lone car accident.

  He left Kevin in charge of babysitting, while he went in search of the fire marshal.

  “What can you tell me?” Wyatt asked the older man, Jerry Wright, who’d been called out from several towns over. All in all, three separate volunteer fire departments were on the property. It was that kind of blaze, deserving that kind of response.

  “Started in the outbuilding,” Wright answered crisply now. They had to stand well back, not just because men were still working hoses, but because the flames were throwing off tremendous heat. “Definitely an accelerant, and lots of it. Metal buildings don’t normally like to burn. But this one. Shi-it.”