by Alex Gates
“And to be grilled by those other detectives about her…like she was just part of an investigation…like she hadn’t been alive just a few hours before…”
Homicide had the tact of a schoolyard bully with Turrets. Cora had been my case. It should have been my responsibility to return to Clark, even if it had been his ex-wife who’d reported Cora missing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know she meant so much to you.”
“Shouldn’t have happened.” He leaned against his counter, arms crossed. “I gave her those days off, Detective.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“I do. I…” He wove his fingers over his head, a father helpless to save his little girl. “I needed her here, at the store. But things had been so rough between us for years. My divorce was…challenging. And her mother wasn’t always kind. I was trying my damnedest to keep Cora close. I wanted her to be happy, so I let her take the time off. If I had acted like a parent instead of a friend—”
“You had no idea what Jonah Goodman planned to do.”
Just his name twisted Clark’s expression into a sneer. “That boy. That damn…I can’t even get rid of this damned furniture now. Cost me too much to buy it. Now I gotta stare at in my store, thinking about what he did to my baby girl.” He rubbed his face. “I should turn it all to kindling. Should have never taken his pieces in. Should have...”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“Maybe.”
I kept the implication gentle. “You hadn’t told me that they were involved.”
“What?”
“When Cora was reported missing, and I came to speak with you…you didn’t mention him as a friend or boyfriend.”
His hands knotted into fists. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t you see Jonah often?”
His swore. “I got enough guilt weighing me down here, Detective.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand what happened. And I think you are too.”
“I had no idea. Christ, I hardly knew anything about Cora. And I was trying to fix that. By God…I hadn’t really had a conversation with her after she was twelve years old and her mom got full custody. And when she came back, it was tense, but we worked it out. I gave her the job. Bought her a car.” He rubbed his face so hard his nails left red streaks. “But I didn’t know she was missing until my ex called.”
“It was a difficult arrangement. These types of relationships always are.”
“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have…tried to get closer to her. Now I’ll never have the chance.”
The store wasn’t busy, and weekday afternoons didn’t see much foot traffic. He pulled a stool from one of the table sets and sat with a heavy sigh as if hearing the news for the first time. The weight nearly sunk him into the floor.
“She lived with her mom growing up. Blamed me for the divorce. Once Shelly got cancer…Cora wanted to reconnect with family before she lost the most important person in her life. But she kept me at arm’s length. I respected that. Didn’t talk about anything personal.”
“You never had an inkling about Jonah?”
“Never would have thought twice about him. He wasn’t her type.”
“How do you know her type?”
He chuckled. “Jonah wasn’t anyone’s type. Nice looking kid, but…very conservative. No, that’s not the right word. Traditional?”
I sat in the seat next to him, leaning close. “Like, how he dressed?”
“Everything. For a while, I figured his family was Amish or Mennonite. But they shaved, drove cars, had electricity. And I had to call them occasionally for their custom orders. I sold all their wares here.”
“Which were?”
He gestured over the tables, chairs, dressers. “Furniture. Jonah’s actually. His grandfather, Adam, was a master carpenter. Jonah took after him. Made me a lot of good pieces. High-quality for a kid so young. But I guess that’s what the family did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been working here a long time, Detective. I remember Jonah when he was little. Family would bring him by when he was six, seven maybe.” He rapped on the table. Apparently, this piece was Jonah’s as well. “He knew then he was going to be a carpenter.”
And I wanted to be a crab fisherwoman at that age. “Isn’t that a little young for a life plan?”
Clark winked. “I thought so too, but the Goodmans had it worked out. Jonah wasn’t as bright as his older brothers or cousins. They said God willed him to work with his hands. The other son, Luke, was going to be a lawyer, taking after his Uncle Matthew. I’m not sure about the eldest, John. Probably taking over the farm once Jacob dies.”
“What about the women?”
Clark tilted his head. “Women?”
“Did the Goodmans ever bring any women or girls to the store?”
“No. No, not that I remember.”
That didn’t surprise me. As far as I could tell, the Goodmans kept their women on the farm—isolated and alone. At least they didn’t throw them in the barn.
“Did you think it was strange you never met the women?” I asked.
“We didn’t have a real personal relationship. Talked with them only when they came by—weather and such. It was business.”
“How often did you see them?”
He heaved a breath. “Jonah would bring the furniture up once a month or so. I’d pay him. That was it. I guess…” Clark smacked his lips. “I left Cora to manage the account. She’s the one who had more contact with him. I didn’t realize how much. I should have paid attention. Know what she told me one day? Weeks ago? She said…” He scoffed. “That we needed to help Jonah.”
I tensed. “Help him? How?”
“I told her the only thing that would help that boy would be a stiff drink and some time off the farm. Too much church in him. Made him a little crazy.”
“Was he always strange?”
“No.” Clark waved a hand. “Though…yes. The last couple times he came here.”
“Was he acting aggressively?”
“No. The opposite. That’s the weirdest thing.” Clark ran his tongue over his teeth. He pointed to a few knick-knacks positioned on shelves and by the register. “Jonah started selling things himself. Little things. Coming in between scheduled drop-offs to give me additional merchandise. Nothing big. But trinkets. Bobbles. Nice carvings, but people generally want furniture, not art.”
That was a new development, and one that didn’t make much sense. “Did he say why he was selling more things?”
“No, but now I get it. All the money from the furniture went right to the family. Lined Jacob’s pockets to keep the farm running. Jonah was probably saving for his own nest egg. Might have wanted…” He swallowed. “Some money to take Cora out.”
“How much did you give him?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Some of the pieces he made were just extraordinary.” His eyebrow rose. “Especially the doll furniture.”
“Like…for a dollhouse?”
“Oh. You’ve never seen a dollhouse like his. I almost felt bad taking it. He spent a lot of time on it, but he said he needed to sell. Insisted on it. I gave him a good price, but I think he would have gotten more enjoyment out of giving it to that little girl.”
“What little girl?”
“The one he made it for.”
I stood, nearly knocking the stool over. “Did it sell yet?”
“Not yet. It’s a steep price, but a collector will want it, make no mistake. Got a guy coming in from Cleveland next week—”
The aisles crowded with everything and anything just to block my path. I darted between a rocking chair and display of handmade quilts.
And stopped in a dumbfounded silence.
This wasn’t a doll house. It was a mansion.
A beautiful, scaled version of a Victorian masterpiece. Jonah had created intricate carvings and real furniture, windows with honest-to-God glass. He’d painted wallpaper, sculpted f
lowers, and carved everything from a clock with moveable parts to an entire tea-set, painted a paisley blue. I half-expected a butler to pop out of a closet and a fire to spring in one of the two fireplaces.
“Jonah put a lot of work into this,” Clark said. “And he looked absolutely sick to sell it. That’s why I held onto it. I hoped he’d change his mind, want it back.”
I examined one of the beds, tugging on the little blankets strapped to the real mattress. Curtains hung in the windows, and tiny stitched rugs patrolled the house’s entryways.
“Look at the detail here. The stitching on the cloth. It’s…embroidery.” My chest tightened. “Someone helped him make this.”
“Oh. Probably Rebecca.”
I spun to face him, accidentally dropping the furniture to the floor.
The baby? “What did you say?”
“Maybe Rebecca helped him.”
“How do you know Rebecca?”
“I don’t.” He reached inside of the home, pulling out a tiny toy chest buried in the detail of a little nursery. He handed me the miniature, and I stared at the name carved into the wood.
Rebecca.
13
“You’ll have to sleep sometime.”
-Him
“What do you know about cults?”
It wasn’t exactly a proper hello, but James was used to our conversations, especially the strange ones at five in the morning.
For some reason, a simple hello felt too…personal? No. Comforting. At some point, I’d have to admit to him that I just liked hearing his voice. After a sleepless night of staring at the ceiling, I’d finally rolled over and cuddled the pillow on his side of the bed.
Since when did he have a side of the bed?
“Cults don’t wake up before dawn.” His voice thickened with sleep. He jostled the phone, and his voice muffled against a pillow. “What are you doing, London?”
“You’ve learned more about cults than me.”
“Thinking of joining one?”
I smirked, running my hand through my hair. I hadn’t slept much, but somehow the braid had come undone during the night. Should have just knotted the damn mess and been done with it.
“Maybe if the price was right,” I said.
“Still looking for some meaning in your life?”
“No.” The early morning made me too honest. “Pretty sure I found it.”
“Your job?”
No.
It was him.
He’d saved me long ago, but why I didn’t—couldn’t—tell him was a mystery for another psychologist to decipher.
“You sound tired.” I stated the obvious.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“You always wake up at five.”
He hesitated. “It’s not five here.”
“Aren’t you in DC?”
Another pause. “I went there. Yes.”
“Where are you now?”
“Somewhere else.”
I sighed. “And here you thought you’d never get to play Secret Agent Man again.”
“Secret Agent Shrink.”
“Must be an interesting case if you’re traveling to consult on it.”
“Wish I could tell you about it.” For a psychologist, James didn’t fluidly switch topics of conversation, but that was probably on purpose. “You aren’t sleeping well.”
“Got a lot on my mind,” I said.
“Cults?”
“Nothing’s adding up. Something’s wrong.”
“Tell me.”
And that was James. Honest. Helpful.
Hopelessly in love with me.
I studied my ceiling, tracing the same plaster swirls that had helped me solve cases before. This time, the ridges and missing chunks of white offered nothing.
Because I was looking in the wrong place.
“Jonah Goodman sold furniture—hand-crafted—to help support his family.” If you could call it a family. “But recently, he started selling things on the side.”
“Pocketing the rest?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s what’s strange.” I flung the blankets off me. The room’s chill shocked some energy into my joints. “Jonah sold a dollhouse—this incredibly beautiful and detailed piece of art. He had made it for his daughter.”
“How do you know?”
“He carved her name into it.”
“But you can’t find this baby?”
“I could…if I was given the chance.”
“Where would you search for her?”
My braid was unsalvageable, and now the curls kinked into uneven waves. I bundled it into a bun and spoke with the hair-tie clutched between my teeth. “The Goodman farm.”
“Why wouldn’t the family say they took her?”
“Because Nina Martin, aka Rachel Goodman, was in a relationship with Jonah. Underage. Significantly underage.”
“And they’re still protecting Jonah?”
“You’d think…but they never protected him. He was off the farm. In a relationship with Cora Abbott. It doesn’t make sense.”
The echo of running water splashed over the phone. “But you have a theory.”
“You won’t think I’m crazy?”
“No more than I already do.”
Then I had some wiggle room. “Jonah and Nina were trying to escape the Goodmans.”
“Then why did he kill everyone and commit suicide?”
“What if he didn’t?” I asked. “What if he was murdered too?”
Saying it out loud did sound insane. I exhaled, but in my gut, a churning and chilled realization flooded through my veins.
I was right. I had to be.
“Jonah was part of the family,” I said. “Born into it. Raised in an extremely fundamentalist environment with traditional values. Men are the heads of the household. Women the baby makers. And the family lived alone, far from the rest of the world so they could live by those principles.” I shook my head. “Isolated so they could take in young, impressionable girls.”
“For what reason?”
“To increase their little church’s ranks the best way they know how.”
“You’re certain they’re raping the girls?”
“Yeah. They must have done it already. Many times. James, I was at that farm. There were too many pregnant girls there.” I tugged on my clothes, pacing the room. “I have no doubt that the girls are there against their will.”
“What about their charity?”
“Are we still speculating?”
“Unless you have any proof to back it up…”
“If I had to guess…” I didn’t. I knew. “The women’s shelter is a cover so no one asks questions. They kidnap those girls and rape them. If anyone gets suspicious, they cite the charity and say the girls were already pregnant when they took them in.”
“And Jonah had enough of it?”
“Yes. He escaped with Rachel, took her back to her family. Then he tried to hide out with the woman he really loved—Cora.”
“And the baby? Could a mother leave her child?”
And there was the thorn in my side. “Maybe they didn’t have a choice? The farm wouldn’t hurt the baby, and if they had to get out, they’d know she’d be safe with them. At least until they could raise enough money to get her back.”
James’s voice stayed low. “So the Goodmans killed Cora and Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought Jonah’s wound was self-inflicted.” He paused when I didn’t speak. “London?”
“…It was.”
“Are you sure he didn’t kill the women too?”
“What if he was coerced?”
“How?”
The obvious answer. “They had his child. Maybe they threatened him with the baby. They had to keep the family’s secret. If Rachel revealed what she lived through, or Jonah went to the police, their little commune would crumble.”
James said nothing. Bad news. If James w
as unreceptive to the idea, then I couldn’t imagine Falconi or Riley giving a damn about reopening their cleared case.
But I wasn’t wrong.
“Louisa Prescott came to me about her sister’s kidnapping,” I said. “She ID’d the van and the kidnapper. Then she’s suddenly attacked in her home?”
“Are they responsible?”
“If Jonah was trying to escape, they’d do what they could to stop him. If Louisa was attempting to find her sister, they’d scare her away. Jacob Goodman will stop at nothing to protect his farm and family.”
“How are you going to prove it?
A simple question with no good answer. “The women won’t speak to anyone. The men threaten anyone who gets close. I can’t snoop around on the farm anymore, not without a warrant…but I can check the town.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “You might be kicking a hornet’s nest.”
“I’ve been stung before.”
“And you haven’t learned your lesson yet.”
“I’ve learned plenty.”
“But not objectivity.”
I gritted my jaw. “Not you too.”
“Oh.” James hummed a knowing sound. “So someone else called you on it?”
“On what?”
“London, you have a great deal of empathy for victims of crime. Even better, you know how to put yourself in their situations—”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s what you always do. That’s what makes you good at your job. That’s what saves the lives of the people you want to help. It doesn’t matter if it’s a missing person or abused child, you know the risks better than any, and you’ll stop at nothing to prevent something similar from happening to others.”
“This isn’t about my kidnapping.”
“It will always be about your kidnapping.”
This was not what I needed to hear at the crack of dawn.
Or ever again.
“London, the more you hide what happened to you, the more you pretend like it doesn’t impact you, the worse it will be.”
“I’m over what happened to me.”
“No. You’re not. He held you captive for three weeks—”
“And I’m home now.”
“He tried to kill you—”