It was about time I started to.
I stood outside Agford’s office, my heart racing. One more meeting. That’s all I had to survive. Ralston would get in touch. She had to get in touch. I took a deep breath and turned the knob.
Agford’s perfume overpowered me as soon as I stepped inside. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she’d dumped an entire bucket of it onto the nubby carpet. Either she was running a chemical-warfare campaign or eau de Lysol was simply at its strongest in the morning. I steeled myself and prepared to look into the twin cold, dark abysses of Deborah Bain’s eyes.
But Agford was hunched over some papers on her desk, her hand resting over her mouth. When she finally raised her head to look at me, I nearly fell over.
Charlotte Agford was crying.
“Excuse me,” she said in a strangled voice. She dabbed at her mascara-smeared eyes with a crumpled tissue and turned away. “Please,” she said, still facing the wall. Her shoulders convulsed as she took a deep breath. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I shouldn’t have been so surprised. It was like advancing through levels in a video game. I’d survived the various assaults of fake sweetness, bullying, humiliation. Heart-wrenching sobs were simply next. “Maybe I should come back later.”
“No, Sophie. I want to talk with you.”
The purple beanbag waited for me like a set trap. My eyes flitted to the door. I felt an urge to run. It was too late for that. I made my way over to the beanbag. It sighed as it closed around me.
“You were right. This is definitely not a game. It’s time we stopped pretending it is.” Her chair creaked as she swiveled around to face me.
I fought to keep my face still—to show not even a flicker of emotion. If there was one thing I didn’t need to worry about, it was that Dr. Charlotte Agford was about to tell me the truth.
“You deserve an apology.” Agford laid her hands flat on the desk in front of her. Her French-manicured nails gleamed. Her eyes were literal dark pools now—muddy messes of tears and smeared mascara. “I overreacted to your snooping, and though it’s no excuse, you need an explanation.”
I did not need an explanation. What I needed was for Dr. Agford to be miraculously struck by a devastating case of laryngitis until Ralston got in touch. Grandpa was right. Words could be more dangerous than missiles.
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Dr. A,” I said. “Why don’t I—”
“I should have told you from the very start, Sophie. But fear is a powerful emotion. Almost as powerful as my grief.”
I blinked. That wasn’t a word I expected.
Agford looked down at her lap. Her lips quivered as she formed her next words. “Before I moved here from Texas two years ago . . . my name was Dr. Cassie Ogden.”
A wave of unease rippled through me. I repeated the name in my head. I hadn’t misheard her.
“I was a single mom to a beautiful seventeen-year-old daughter,” Agford said, her eyes growing faraway. The slightest hint of a Texas drawl crept into her voice. “Her name was Lila. She was bound for UT Austin the next fall. She was a cheerleader. A candy striper at the hospital. A varsity-swim-team star at Tilmore High.”
I stiffened. Agford could not be saying what I thought she was saying.
“She was so full of life.” A single tear escaped and ran down Agford’s caked-on foundation. “Then, like that, she was taken from me. Electrocuted in a pool at the swim-meet division championship. I was there, in the stands.” Agford hiccupped a sob and quickly stifled it.
I tried to keep my head clear, my breath even. Agford was lying. Deborah Bain was lying. Grieving mothers don’t change their names. They don’t get plastic surgery and move to new towns. The FBI doesn’t hunt them down.
“To lose a daughter . . . my only daughter . . .” Agford dabbed at her eyes. “I thought nothing could be worse. My world went black. Every day—every minute—I faced another reminder of her. The playground where she chipped her front tooth. The gym where she had cheer practice. The pizza parlor where we celebrated her tenth birthday. The peppermint Tic Tacs in the grocery checkout line she always begged me to buy.”
Agford looked at me with tear-filled eyes. I turned away and stared at the flaking paint on her metal desk. She sounded so . . . convincing.
“But there was something worse, Sophie.” Agford looked down and collected herself. Maybe it was the sickly glow of the office fluorescent lights, but I pictured Agford’s kitchen the day I had first sneaked in. The single dish in the sink. The half-empty coffee mug. The twinge of sadness I’d felt as I imagined her eating toast alone. Was there even a chance she was telling the truth?
“Lila hadn’t been dead a day before they swooped down like vultures. News vans with cameras on cranes camped outside the house twenty-four hours a day.” Agford’s voice grew louder as she continued. “Reporters shoved microphones in my face if I dared open the front door. The phone rang until I ripped its cord out of the wall. Lila’s picture in the paper, on every TV channel, staring back. My private tragedy turned into entertainment.” She thumped her fist on the desk.
I shuddered as I remembered the photos of the Tilmore Eight. The hollow faces of their grief-stricken family members. Grace and I would have recognized Agford if she’d been among them. Wouldn’t we have?
Dr. Agford rose and stood at her office window. Shouts from PE class mingled with the sound of a distant lawn mower. I fixed my gaze on her stupid rainbow Koosh balls and Rubik’s Cubes and tried to focus my thoughts. Agford was telling a story that I could check online in seconds. The thought terrified me. Would a woman who’s lying take such a reckless risk?
“The story was everywhere. People love a good tragedy, as long as it’s not their own,” Agford said, her voice tinged with anger. “Lila wasn’t just taken from me once. She was taken from me every day. She wasn’t Lila anymore. Just one of the Tilmore Eight. And me? I would never be anything but a Tilmore Eight mother.”
My own heartbeat dulled the sound of Agford’s voice as she went on to describe how the media frenzy only grew worse once authorities realized the electrocution wasn’t an unlucky accident but the result of Deborah Bain and her brother’s money-funneling scheme. People she’d once considered dear friends sold the tabloids “up close and personal” accounts of her life. So-called journalists speculated about her mental state, especially after her public outburst at a photographer. She explained how, just when it seemed the media spotlight might shift away, a new twist in the investigation—Deborah Bain’s apparent suicide by fire, the arrest of Bain’s brother for manslaughter—would come along, and the spotlight would swivel back.
“I tried moving in with my mother in Kansas,” Dr. Agford said. “The circus showed up on her lawn three days later, when the news came out that Daniel Slater had received a light sentence. It didn’t stop. Sophie, I felt like it would never stop.” Agford’s voice caught as she turned back to me. “Starting over with a new identity was the only way I thought I could put an end to the madness and piece my life back together,” she said, struggling to steady her trembling voice. “When you started poking around, it felt like my world was crumbling,” she continued. “I could see the headlines already. The news crews descending. I panicked.”
I remembered the sad, defeated look the night she came for her wig. The lonely feeling in her house. The tacky jewelry and loud holiday decor had always seemed strange for a fugitive. My pinpricks of doubt widened, and I felt as though I’d sprung a hundred tiny leaks. I was sinking through the beanbag chair, through the floor, through the building’s very foundation.
Then I caught myself. How could she almost make me forget? Agford could spin stories about peppermint Tic Tacs and paparazzi all day long, and it wouldn’t explain why the FBI was tailing her. She could never account for that gaping hole, because she didn’t even know she had to cover it. Even if she knew the feds were on to her, there’s no way she could know we did. Ralston had only revealed herself to us because she’d messed u
p so royally. We’d been with her in public once, last week. If Agford had seen us, I’d have gotten the sob story then, not now. All I had to do was stay calm, watch the show, and act like I believed it.
Agford bit her lip. “It’s probably hard for a kid to understand that kind of panic. But look at me.” She gestured to herself. “Look at this, and maybe you’ll understand how crazy it made me. Can you imagine a woman wanting to hide so badly that she changes everything about herself? Bye-bye, brown hair. Sayonara, snub nose! And, well . . .”She let out a little snort-laugh and pointed to her chest. “While they were at it, might as well, huh?” She slumped back into her chair. “That’s how much I never wanted to be found again, Sophie. And, you know? It helps that I can look in the mirror without seeing Lila staring back at me anymore. I used to love it that people said we looked alike. And after—it was too much to bear.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
I resisted an urge to burst into applause. Her performance was Oscar-worthy—well, at least Daytime Emmy–worthy. Standing before an audience of purple stress balls and other stupid trinkets, in her bright orange cowl-neck sweater and ugly turquoise brooch with the fake A, she might have even seemed funny. But it wasn’t funny when I thought about the truth. When I thought about the horror she was trying to hide.
“I know that doesn’t excuse my behavior, Sophie,” Agford continued. “I’m ashamed. The study halls, meeting with your parents, the assembly . . .” She held up her hands. “And, of course, these sessions. I’ll admit it. It was all me trying to hang on to my new life. I hope you can find some way to forgive me?”
I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, Dr. A.” I sniffled. Twice. “I can’t believe how awful I’ve been.” Forget tai chi. I needed drama classes.
Agford passed me a box of tissues. It reminded me of the day she comforted my mother in Mr. Katz’s office. She had them at the ready so quickly. Like she’d been waiting for that moment and knew she had won.
“I’m just so sorry.” I blew my nose to hide my face and—hopefully—my lie. “When you said something about ‘people finding us,’ on the phone, I just got so carried away.” I couldn’t resist. For once I really had the upper hand.
Agford cocked her head. “I’m not sure I follow, Sophie.”
I reminded her of her phone call. “See, even now, it’s that ‘us’ that’s so confusing,” I added. Maybe Grandpa was right about silence being the most powerful defense, but it felt so good to make Agford squirm.
I could see her mind working. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Sophie. I must have been talking to someone back in Texas. . . .” She brightened. “‘Finding us,’ I said? Do you think it might have been fining us? My ex-husband and I had a little trouble with some tax returns we’d filed years ago. He called me from Texas recently, worried the IRS might fine us. I’m not sure if we talked that night though.” She shook her head. “Oh my goodness. So that’s what started all of this?”
I had to hand it to her. She was good. Very good. So good that I almost felt relieved. Anyone could have been sucked in by her lies. If Sun Tzu was right about all warfare being deception, then I’d been up against a five-star general.
“I know, Dr. Ogden. I’m so, so sorry.” I dabbed at my eyes and tried to make my voice quaver. “Maybe there’s some way this all doesn’t have to get out?”
“I appreciate that, Sophie,” Agford said. “But I’m afraid that might not be possible anymore. Not with Louise Ralston involved.”
A thousand volts shot through me. It was as if I’d landed back in my dream, and the water in the basement had reached the exposed wiring.
“Sophie? Are you okay? You look so pale.”
I nodded. “I was just about to ask you about her.” My voice came out as a rasp as I forced the lie past the lump in my throat.
“When I saw Louise in town this morning, I was very concerned. She’s been in touch with you, hasn’t she? Louise Ralston is not well, Sophie. Not well at all.” Agford rubbed her neck worriedly. “I’ve called the police. They’re tracking her down.”
“Tracking her down?” I swallowed hard.
“Oh, sweetie, you must be so confused,” Agford said when she saw my expression. The term of endearment felt naked without her usual cluck of the tongue. Her voice cracked with emotion. Sincerity, even. “Louise’s daughter, Sara, was a junior with Lila. She was”—Agford looked down at her desk—“one of the Tilmore Eight.”
I felt short of breath. Ralston had mentioned a daughter. I could hear her drawl as clearly as if she were sitting next to me: What was it my daughter always used to say? “I’ve got your back.” She said she hadn’t been around kids in a while. I’d assumed her daughter was grown.
“She told me she was FBI.”
Agford nodded. “Louise works for the FBI, all right. At least she did. As a software programmer. I suppose she flashed you her ID? Or have they taken it away?”
I pictured Ralston flopping her badge down on the table at the Seashell. The way her blazer gapped and revealed the strap of a shoulder holster for her gun. Ralston had an FBI email account. A business card. A team of agents that reported to her. Didn’t she?
“Ralston lost her mind after Sara passed away,” Agford said. “Even after Ms. Bain died and her brother was found guilty of manslaughter, she wouldn’t accept it. She kept imagining a new culprit was to blame for Sara’s death. At one point she went after the school librarian. The librarian! Could there be a more noble soul?” Agford paused and shook her head. “In some ways I can’t blame her. We all deal with tragedy in different ways. The media attention was unbearable. I had to escape, start fresh. Other parents spoke out about school mismanagement. Louise, she couldn’t let it go. It’s common in grief. The denial is so great, it manifests itself in delusions. Don’t I know it,” she said softly. “I had to learn to forgive. Deborah Bain and her brother were two people looking for a shortcut in life. They hadn’t intended to take our girls.”
Agford’s—Ogden’s?—eyes brimmed with tears. Her eyes looked so much lighter, softer—warm, even. Were they even the same color as the ones in Bain’s picture? It was hard to believe I’d ever been so sure. It was like Ms. Gant had said. Maybe I’d only seen the evidence that confirmed my opinion.
“I don’t understand why she’s after you, though. How did she find you?”
“I don’t know, Sophie. Maybe it had something to do with your nine-one-one call? Her job was to design software for monitoring parolees. They thought she was well again. Maybe she was back at work. Maybe she was using the system to track her imaginary culprits. Daniel Slater was released recently. That might’ve triggered something. If there’s one thing I know, mental illness is not rational. I didn’t even work at a school then, let alone Tilmore. I had a private therapy practice in Texas. I took this job because I wanted to try to make something of my life, counseling kids closer to Lila’s age. I thought it would bring me some peace of mind.” Agford dabbed at her smeared eye makeup one last time before throwing out the balled-up tissue. “I was right, for the most part. The thing is, though—I see Lila everywhere.” Dr. Ogden paused and looked at me. Her voice grew even quieter. “I told you that you reminded me of myself when I was younger, Sophie. That wasn’t true. You remind me of her. The blue eyes. The freckles. It’s like, when I bought that house across the street from you, part of me knew I’d be moving closer to her.”
Agford’s bookshelf blurred in front of me as the weight of what Grace and I had done began to settle over me. Agford had lost her daughter. She’d wanted a new start. Some peace. We’d taken that away. All that time I’d thought Agford’s vacant expression showed how little she cared. But maybe her eyes weren’t lifeless from not caring. Maybe they looked so dead because she had cared too much.
Dr. Agford reached out across the desk toward me. I felt a pang as I remembered all the times we’d made fun of “Dr. Awk-topus” and her tentacle touches. “I’m sorry, Soph. I know it’s hard to wrap your head around.” She tho
ught for a moment, then swiveled toward her computer. “Let me see here. Maybe . . .” Her nails click-clacked across the keyboard. She scanned the screen. “Ah, here we go. This might help?”
Agford’s printer buzzed and spat out two sheets of paper. My fingers, damp with sweat, smeared the black print as I took them from her outstretched hand.
It was an article from the Austin American-Statesman. Though it was brief and direct, I had to read it three times before the words began to sink in. Dated only a few months after the articles we had found, it reported that a woman by the name of Louise P. Ralston, a software developer in the FBI’s Austin field office, had been placed on administrative leave for verbally threatening a neighbor and bearing an unlicensed concealed firearm. No charges had been filed. One sentence echoed in my head like a musical round, looping and doubling back over itself: “This is the second time that Ralston, who lost her daughter in the tragic pool electrocution in Tilmore, believed a neighbor was responsible for her daughter’s death. This is the second time that Ralston . . .”
It all seemed obvious now. It was like doing a math problem, arriving at an answer like 532.9898, then redoing it and discovering the solution to be a very math-textbook-friendly 10. I had thought it was weird when Ralston admitted to the code in the Seashell. What kind of adult spies on kids and sends codes? What kind of FBI agent spies on kids and sends codes? An FBI agent who isn’t an agent at all. A woman who, as Agford had said, is not well.
Other facts clicked so easily into place. Ralston’s vacation message on her email? Of course she was “on vacation.” She was on vacation so she could run around the country hunting fictional criminals. The oaf lurking around Agford’s house was probably a private detective Ralston had hired, which explained why he seemed so incompetent. Even Ralston’s software-engineering job made sense. She’d looked proud when she’d mentioned that our 911 call had triggered an anomaly in the “bureau’s system.” Meanwhile, Ogden had been on her list of “suspects” she’d been tracking the whole time. Our call just put her over the edge.
The Wig in the Window Page 17