by Lisa Gardner
Wyatt had checked out the rear of the property, where the gray shed was now a charred, twisted shell of its former self. The shed that had once housed Thomas’s tools of the trade. Interesting.
“Who called it in?” Wyatt asked.
“Neighbor, eventually. But given the distances between the properties out here, it had probably already been burning for a bit. Call came in a little after eight. Response time was solid, first unit rolling in by eight fifteen. Still, shed was a goner from the start, I’m told, house already fully engulfed. Whoever wanted this done didn’t mess around.”
“Any reports of a man on the scene?”
“Negative. House is too hot to enter, so can’t swear to what we’ll find inside. But from the time we’ve been here, no signs of life.”
Wyatt nodded; he strongly doubted Thomas was anywhere on the property. The man’s silver Suburban, which had been in plain sight in the driveway four hours earlier, was now conspicuously missing. Wyatt’s best guess, Thomas let the police take his wife away, then torched his own place and split.
But why?
Nicky claimed he was afraid of her, and Wyatt was a smart enough man to understand she didn’t mean in the literal sense. More likely, Thomas feared her fickle memories. Three concussions in a row seemed to have unlocked some doors in Nicky’s mind. And not all the contents were pretty.
Meaning, what had Thomas and/or Nicky done in the past that at least Thomas was still desperate to hide? More important, how did it relate to the existing, nonexisting, probably dead, possibly still alive mystery girl, Vero?
“Fire’s too hot,” the fire marshal informed Wyatt now. “You want more info, gotta wait till morning.”
“All right, keep me posted.”
Wyatt left the man, taking a few steps back to once more consider the blaze. The roof of the house was fully engulfed. It was an impressive sight, an entire home being consumed alive. Windows shattered. Metal groans. A singular type of destruction that was both awesome and terrifying.
He wondered what Nicky saw when she gazed upon it. Was she horrified by what her husband had done? Had to be photos, family mementos, favored possessions, that were even now turning to ash before her eyes.
Yet, when he returned to the car, she simply sat in the backseat, staring at the inferno, blank faced.
“We got an APB out on Thomas’s vehicle,” he informed Kevin. “’Bout all we can do for now.”
Kevin nodded.
“She spoken at all?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat.
“Not a word.”
“Checked her phone?”
“She doesn’t have a phone. Lost it in the car wreck, remember?”
“Meaning Thomas has no means of contacting her,” Wyatt murmured.
“Unless they have a predetermined meeting place.”
“That’s it. We’re taking her to the station. As long as Thomas Frank is missing, she’s our bait.”
* * *
NICKY DIDN’T PROTEST when they pulled out of the driveway and once more hit the road. She didn’t ask where they were going or complain of hunger or thirst. She simply sat, eyes out the window, quilt on her lap.
From time to time, Wyatt would study her in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher what she was thinking. She looked exhausted, as she should be. She looked unwell, as she was. Too thin, too pale, as if a good stiff wind would knock her off her feet. But her face was shuttered, flat affect.
Hadn’t someone mentioned shell shock once before? At the accident, the passing motorist who’d stopped to assist. He’d been a war vet and reported she appeared shell-shocked, as in the literal definition of the word. Watching her now, Wyatt saw the man’s point. Nicky Frank had gone somewhere inside her head. Question was, when would she come back out again?
The North Country Sheriff’s Department was housed in a two-story brick building not far from the county jail and even closer to the county courthouse. It offered a parking lot, fingerprinting and lots of buzzing overhead lights. But no food. For that, Wyatt and Kevin made a detour to McDonald’s, one of the only joints open after midnight. Wyatt and Kevin ordered with gusto. Quarter pounders, large fries, large coffees, all the calories, salt and caffeine a good detective needed to stay up all night.
Nicky requested another bottle of water, in a voice that was perfectly monotone. Wyatt would’ve thought she’d been turned into a statue, if not for the way her fingers stroked the top layer of her quilt. Touching it over and over again. Like she was working the rosary, he thought. A woman lost in prayer. Or offering penance.
They took the food to the station house. This time of night, you could count on headquarters for a little action. County dispatch worked out of the building, meaning there was plenty of noise coming from down the hall, in terms of both phone calls and the operators entertaining themselves between the calls. Of course, bookings happened at all hours, with 2 A.M. being prime time for collared drunks.
Wyatt and Kevin carefully steered Nicky through the lobby, then down the narrow hallway, around one twitchy meth addict, around another. The station lighting always felt glaring to Wyatt, as if trying to compensate for something. It was enough to make him squint. He couldn’t imagine how much Nicky was suffering with her condition.
In the end, they set her up in the conference room. Not an interrogation room, because that might have seemed aggressive, and again, technically speaking, Wyatt couldn’t make the woman stay. But nor did he want her in their offices, because she needed to feel the pressure. Her life was imploding. For all their sakes, time to talk.
She didn’t look at them when Kevin pulled out the chair. She took a seat, gaze forward. Quilt back on the lap. Bottled water on the table. Then she waited.
She’s done this before, Wyatt thought. Police stations, interrogation; none of this was new to her. Just as he had his strategy, she had hers.
Wyatt took his time. He set down his McDonald’s bag, let the room fill with the unmistakable fragrance of fries. Kevin did the same. Next, Wyatt removed the cover from his large coffee, adding yet more aroma to the mix. Unwrapping his burger, taking his first greasy bite. Yeah, he’d regret it in the morning. A man his age couldn’t afford to eat like this regularly, but for the moment, it was a salt-fat-carb explosion in his mouth. Two A.M. eating didn’t get any better than this.
Kevin made a show of squeezing out ketchup onto the burger wrapper, then dipping his fries.
Still Nicky didn’t say a word, though they all sat so close, Wyatt thought they’d be able to hear her stomach growl at any moment.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” he asked at last, voice conversational.
She shook her head.
“We got vending machines, you know. Maybe chips, a candy bar? More gum?”
She shook her head.
“Lights too bright?”
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired, he thought, but more than that they were flat pools of resignation. She didn’t want. She didn’t need. She was simply a woman awaiting her fate.
Wyatt felt a chill then, uncomfortable enough that he got up, wadded up his wrappers and threw away the remnants of his dinner. He kept his coffee. He paused long enough to murmur to Kevin, “Check on the APB. Any news at all, we could use that.”
Kevin nodded, disposed of his own wrappers, left the conference room. Wyatt stood alone with Nicky. Their prime suspect. Witness. Victim? Maybe that’s what really bothered him. Forty-eight hours later, he still had no idea, and it pissed him off.
When he took his seat again, he deliberately placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
“What happened at your house tonight?” he demanded.
Her face finally flickered to life. “How would I know? I was with you.”
“Your house is gone, you know. Total loss, according to the fire marshal. Meaning everything ins
ide, photos, your paintings, favorite pillow . . . poof.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Same with the work shed,” Wyatt continued. “Gonna be a bummer for the family business. All those tools, projects, supplies. Gone. Orders that now won’t be fulfilled. Clients that will be unhappy. Three-D printer that’ll never be used again.”
She didn’t flinch. The business hadn’t been her bailiwick anyway, Wyatt thought. It had been Thomas’s.
“First house fire?” he asked now.
She frowned, seemed to come slightly out of her fog. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, all the cities, states, houses you’ve lived in over the years. Come on, you and Thomas give new meaning to rolling stones.”
She frowned again, rubbed her temples. Then held out her hand as if reaching for something. Someone.
Wyatt waited. She didn’t say a word. Just her hand, suspended in the air. After another moment, she seemed to realize what she was doing. She replaced her hand on her lap. A single tear rolled down her face.
“Shame it was this house,” Wyatt pressed. “You’d put some effort into this one. Repainting the door, working in the garden. Did you think that maybe this was the place you’d finally stay?”
“I missed snow,” she murmured, gaze still fixed on the table.
“Where is Thomas now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. You’re his wife, his business partner. If you don’t know him, who does?”
“Ted Todd Tom Tim ta-da!” she whispered.
“What did you just say?”
“He has no family. He has no friends. He has no place to go.” She finally glanced up, met his eyes. “I have no place to go.”
“Damn selfish of him, don’t you think?”
“You should take me to a hotel.”
“First I want you to tell me about New Orleans. When did you meet?”
“At work. A movie production set. I was working craft services. He was in set production. He told me he waited three weeks to get me to say hi.” She spoke the words automatically. Wyatt thought he’d heard that story before, because he had: almost word for word from Thomas that first day at the hospital.
“Is Thomas from New Orleans?” Wyatt asked.
“No.”
“What brought him there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Twenty-two years together, and you never asked him what he was doing in New Orleans?”
She peered at him blearily. “Why did it matter?”
“Are you from New Orleans?”
“No.”
“You two . . . just met up there.”
“Yes.”
“Helluva courtship. Four weeks, then that’s it? You two hit the road, never looked back. You live together, work together, travel together, everything together.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“He burned your house alone.”
“I wrecked my car alone. Drank alone. See, maybe it’s best if we stay together.”
“You ever meet his family? In all your travels and wanderings, he ever take you home?”
“No.”
“Why? Ashamed of you? Scared of something? Who doesn’t bring their spouse to meet the family? Mom. Dad. Sister.” Wyatt didn’t actually know about the sister part. He was baiting her, though, waiting to see if Nicky would react, ask any questions of her own.
But she merely shook her head, said nothing.
“Who are you, Nicky? What really brought you and Thomas to New Hampshire?”
“We wanted a change.”
“You’re looking. You want something, are trying to find it so badly you contacted a private investigative firm even after your husband asked you not to.”
She didn’t answer.
“Then you took off in a storm Wednesday night, while your husband was otherwise occupied, just so you could go looking again. You followed a woman home from a liquor store. You stood out in the rain. You spied on her house. Why? What do you need to find so badly you’re willing to go behind your husband’s back? And what did you do that made him so angry he torched everything you own?”
“Not everything.” She tapped her quilt, still folded neatly on her lap.
Wyatt stilled, studied her. “You’re right. The blanket. You’ve been carrying it around all night. He gave that to you, didn’t he, Nicky? He told you to take it with you.”
To his surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know what he was going to do. I didn’t. But in hindsight, he must’ve already had the plan. That’s why he told me to take the quilt with me.”
“Why? What’s so special about the quilt?”
She shrugged. “I need it. On the sad days. I can smell her. I hold this close, and I can smell her and it comforts me.”
“Smell who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Vero?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who, then? Dammit, Nicky!” Wyatt pounded the table. “Enough with the half answers. Who are you looking for? And what the hell did you finally find that scared your husband enough to do this? It’s time for answers. Start talking.”
“But I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do! Somewhere in that mixed-up head of yours, you know everything. Think. Remember. Your husband’s gone, your house is ashes. It’s just you, Nicky. All alone. No place to go. You wanna keep being the victim here? Then stop stalling and think!”
The conference room door opened. Nicky jumped at the sound. Wyatt turned, annoyed by the interruption. Then he caught the intent look on Kevin’s face. Wyatt rose immediately, as his detective walked over, handed him a stapled sheaf of paper.
“Came in earlier today,” Kevin said softly. “But we were already out, so Gina left it on my desk.”
Wyatt glanced down at a report run by the state on the bloody prints recovered from Nicole Frank’s car. The top sheet didn’t even make sense at first blush. It wasn’t until he digested the second piece of paper, then the third, the fourth . . .
He looked up at Kevin, as if waiting for the obvious denial.
Instead, his detective was nodding slowly. “Yeah. My first reaction, too. But it’s all in there. The pieces fit.”
Together, they turned, studying Nicky, who was staring at them expectantly.
“It’s true,” Kevin whispered. “By God, it’s true.”
Wyatt didn’t speak. He returned to the conference table. He pulled out his chair. He took a seat. Then he placed the report before him and slid it across the table toward her.
“Nicole Frank,” he said steadily. “Meet Vero.”
Chapter 23
DID YOU KNOW?” Vero asks me. We are back in her tower bedroom, drinking scotch out of teacups.
“I think some part of me must have,” I tell her.
“Will you stop visiting me now? Finally let me go?”
“I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”
“True. Not to mention, you’ve left out a lot of details.”
On cue, more skeletons begin to appear in the room. Pop, pop, pop. One, two, five, more than I can count. They jam into all available spaces, huddling on the gauze-draped bed, pressing against the walls, climbing up the rosebush. All of them wear flowery dresses draped over their gleaming white bones. One of them grins toothlessly at me. She waves a hand in my direction, like a long-lost friend, like a promise from the dead.
“I can’t do it,” I whisper frantically. The teacup in my hand begins to tremble. “I can’t. It’s too much. I don’t want to remember! I just want it all to go away.”
Vero adds more scotch to my china cup.
She says, “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”
* * *
“DID YOU K
NOW?” Wyatt asks me.
I am staring at a flyer for a missing child. VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.
Hey, you like to play with dolls? I have a couple in my car . . .
The poster includes a blown-up photo of a smiling little girl. I touch her hair—I can’t help myself. I peer deep into her gray eyes.
One of the only photos her mother had, I know without asking. Shot with a Polaroid after they’d baked cookies. Her mother had been in a curiously good mood all afternoon. Picked up the camera, said, ‘Hey, sweetie, smile!’ Vero had giggled at the unexpected attention, then marveled at the developing process.
Right before footsteps started down the hall.
VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.
I turn to the next page. Three photos now. The first from the missing persons poster, then a second, age-progressed to ten years. Features crisper, more defined. But still the big smile, the light in her eyes.
No, I want to tell them. They have it wrong. Vero never smiled at ten. Her eyes had not looked like that at all. By ten, she’d been a hardened pro.
A third and final photo. Age-progressed to sixteen. Nothing more, because finding a missing child that many years later was already a long shot. But someone, a case worker, a computer technician, had made this effort.
She looks beautiful at sixteen. Brown hair softer, waving around sculpted cheekbones, a smattering of freckles across her nose. Wholesome. The girl from down the street. The teenager you’d hire to watch your kids.
I touch this photo, too. I think of pouring rain and the smell of dank earth and the weight of it against my chest. I remember the feel of the dead.
VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.
“Do you recognize these photos?” Wyatt asks me.
I can’t answer. Confronted by the evidence, I still can’t state the obvious.
Eventually, Wyatt does it for me.
“You’re the girl in these photos, Nicky. The fingerprints recovered from your car prove it. Your name isn’t Nicole Frank. You are Veronica Sellers and you’ve been missing for over thirty years.”