She lifted her iced tea. The cubes rattled against the glass. Her hand was shaking.
She stopped, tea in midair. Should she get her scrapbook back? Anyone could find it, anyone! By simply moving a book, there it would be, so obviously out of place. And then they’d read it, and wonder—and then find her! She could not breathe. She could not.
Her heart pounded with the relief of the pending reunion with her darling scrapbook. Her life. Her history. She tucked a twenty-dollar bill under her dripping tea glass, then walked away, fast, faster, fast as she could, looking down at her feet, her new black shoes—-all her clothes were new—seeming unfamiliar against the also-alien Kenmore Square sidewalk. She felt someone close to her, and stopped short, almost banging into a man at the curb.
“Oh, sorry,” she apologized, frazzled, to him, a lawyer, maybe, in a blue summer blazer. He was frowning, seemed annoyed. She looked out over the traffic-clogged street, saw two guys a block away trying to jaywalk across.
“Only in Boston.” Willow smiled, gestured at the jaywalkers, tried to be polite. “In California, we obeyed—” and then she stopped talking.
Stopped talking because she wasn’t supposed to talk about California.
Stopped talking because she recognized the jaywalkers. And they were coming her way. Straight toward her. She saw their cruiser behind them, parked on the street. She knew the tall one’s angular walk. The cute one seemed to be pointing toward her.
“Are you okay?” the man said. “Are you lost? Where are you headed?”
“I’m fine.” Willow’s heart pounded so hard it threatened to choke her. Lost. He didn’t know the half of it. Everything was lost. “Have a nice day.” Or whatever you say.
“You, too,” the man said.
Willow didn’t have time for niceties. She took her eyes off the cops, just for a second, scanning, calculating escape routes. They’d been following her! Had they seen her go into the library this morning? Had they already been in there?
What if there were surveillance cameras inside? What if they had taped her every move? What if that librarian at the front desk had told them everything?
What if her book was gone? The world almost went black, but she reeled herself in, fighting for balance.
“Shut up,” she said out loud.
The cops had stopped, right in the middle of the street. They’d tried crossing against the light and were stranded on the island dividing the lanes. Cars, a billion of them, darted and swerved in all directions.
She felt the panic spiraling in her chest, felt her brain churning at light speed. Move. She had to move. There were so many people, and it’d be easy enough to melt away. The man in the blazer was nowhere in sight.
She ducked into the Java Jim’s, where the wave of cinnamon and cheap milk nearly knocked her over. A life-sized cardboard cutout of some uniformed baseball player, all huge muscles and toothy grin, almost made her shriek in fright. Did the place have a back door? Where were the detectives? Oh, no, no, she’d gone into a coffee shop, and cops …
The ladies’ room sign pointed her toward the back. But if she went in there, she’d have to come out. She couldn’t stay in the Java Jim bathroom forever. This was dumb, truly dumb. Bracketing her hands against her face, she peered out the front window. They were still on the traffic island. She had time.
The library was three doors to the right, she knew, next door to the Adams Bay administration building. She’d … she’d … She untwisted her silk scarf, wrapped it over her hair—well, no, no one was wearing a scarf, it was August. And what if the police had seen the scarf?
She dropped it on the coffee shop floor. Maybe if they came here, asking questions, they’d see it, and decide she was somewhere inside.
But she wouldn’t be. She slammed out the front door, keeping half an eye on the cops, who seemed to be talking to each other while the traffic went by, and ran, lungs bursting, toward the library.
Hand on the door. Pull the door open. Pull again. Again. What? “Closed,” the sign said. Closed. Summer hours.
Was she screaming? She wasn’t, she wouldn’t, but the library was closed? Could that even be? Or was it a ruse? A closed library? A closed college library? At 5:25? No. No. They were clearly clearly waiting for her, waiting for her to come back, and they’d closed the place so that when she arrived, no other people would be around to interfere. It made blazing sense. They’d investigated her, they knew who she was, and Tom. It was her fault, all her fault, for calling the police in the first place.
She pulled out her secret phone. She always carried one with her, in case. Cops still on the street. Arguing, now, it looked like. Good. Gave her some room.
She couldn’t dial and run at the same time, so she tucked herself into a narrow alley, an arm’s-width strip of open space between the dry cleaners and the liquor store. She dialed Olive’s number, Olive, three thousand miles and three time zones away. Go through, she prayed, go through. She had to talk to someone, had to. Witness protection was to hide you from the bad guys, not from your friends.
The phone rang, a second time. Willow, leaning against the bumpy concrete wall, pictured dear Olive Brennis, the agent who’d helped them create their new identities. Olive was her lifeline. Her security.
A voice cut through her haze. “Yes?”
“It’s Willow,” she whispered. “Daniella.” She thought about Tom, and their new home, and their promises. I am Tom and you are Willow, and so it always shall be, he’d said. She was so sorry. She could not do it. She could not stay here. She was too afraid.
“Yes?”
No turning back now. “Get me out.”
30
JANE RYLAND
“Tonight? They want to talk to us tonight?” Jane hadn’t gotten one step into their office before Fiola stood up and blocked her path.
“Now, actually.” Fiola gathered her briefcase. “I know you had to go to court—can’t wait to hear about it, naturally—but frankly, you lost us five hours of documentary time. So unless you had other plans for the evening?”
“No, no, it’s great.” Fiola’s attitude was oozing negativity, and Jane’s energy reserves were running on empty. But juggling was her life. She could juggle some more. “Sure.”
By the time they raided the station’s vending machines—coffee and apple for Jane, peanut butter crackers and Dr Pepper for Fiola—navigated the Channel 2 parking lot, and hit the Storrow Drive rush hour, it was pushing six o’clock. Jane had texted Jake. Their dinner, and whatever else, sigh, would have to wait. No answer. He was probably out, too. She needed to tell him about her day in court, and a lovely dinner and glass of wine would make that even more satisfying. Maybe they’d call Gormay. Then she shivered, remembering.
“Did that Gormay driver live? The Melnea Cass guy?” Jane asked. Fee had insisted on driving, so Jane once again looked out the passenger-side window. Unnerving, now, to think about that hit-and-run. If their stop for coffee yesterday had taken five minutes longer, or shorter, if there hadn’t been traffic on Storrow, or if they’d stopped at the light at Cambridge Street instead of Fiola’s blasting through the yellow, they wouldn’t have seen it at all.
Life turned on those little moments. The Bridge of San Luis Rey. You never knew whose life you were entering. What change your existence would make.
“No idea.” Fiola brushed cracker shards off her black silk blouse. “Damn. That’ll leave a mark. Anyway, the SAFE women will talk at the library, on background. When the time comes, they’ll get someone to go on camera. Library closes at five, summer hours, but one of the librarians lets them in. So, good for us. Hang on.”
“Wait, Fee? Don’t turn here. There’s gonna be—”
Fiola ignored her, taking the off-ramp to Kenmore and funneling them into the molasses of the Red Sox traffic. Jane would have gone around, up to the next exit.
“Red Sox,” Jane said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. We’re doomed.”
They inched through the
horn-cacophony of game-goers, past the funky restaurants, coffee bistros, and persistently hip but ephemeral boutiques, then finally past the ivy-twined brownstones of Boston University and Adams Bay.
“Parking?” Fiola asked.
“Not a chance.” Jane scanned the bustling intersection. She pointed. “There! Car doors open—are they getting in or out?”
“Out,” Fiola said. “Keep looking.”
Jane did. Right at the two men exiting the car. Holy—Jake.
“Jake!” She buzzed down her window, delighted, a peal of laughter escaping before she could stop it. Paul DeLuca, too. “Hey!”
But every horn on the planet started up, paving over her words. Jake and DeLuca didn’t even look around as they jaywalked—typical, she thought—across the busy street. She hated when he did that, striding across so confidently, as if all the cars would stop for him. Could she get out, maybe? Run and grab him?
She yanked out her phone. So funny—easier to call him.
“Who?” Fiola asked. “You see someone?”
“Yeah…” Jane tried to dial and talk at the same time. Fiola had no idea about Jake. That’d be an interesting conversation. At some point. “A pal,” she said.
Her call went straight to voice mail, meaning he must be on a case. She watched the two men dodge moving cars, making their way toward a yellowing brownstone. The Adams Bay admin building.
“That possible homicide in The Reserve,” Jane said out loud. “The one on TV. Wonder if the victim was connected with Adams Bay?”
“Maybe the SAFE people will know,” Fiola said. “Keep an eye out for parking. We’re almost late.”
She’d tease Jake about seeing him. The glimpse was a kind of gift, a little secret moment when the universe worked in her favor, reminding her that life was good and there was more to it than work and bad guys and car accidents and victimized college women. And that she was lucky.
They found a spot behind Uno Pizzeria. Jane messaged Elaine Whitfield-Sharp, the SAFE group’s leader, that they’d be there in ten minutes.
Many members of SAFE were victims of sexual assault on campus, Fiola had told her. Jane had a couple of close calls herself in college, that was for sure. Fifteen years ago, when times and laws were different.
“Fee?” Jane asked as they unbuckled their seat belts. “Anything … happen to you? Back in college? I mean, I’ve wondered why you picked this topic. In particular.”
Jane hesitated, worried she’d crossed a line. They were colleagues, not friends.
“One in four?” Fee said. She pushed open her car door. “I bet it’s more like four in four.”
“So…” Jane didn’t know what to say. One in four college women were sexually assaulted on campus, or forced to have sex without consent. That’s what the newest statistics said. They’d talked about naming their documentary that: One In Four.
“Can we not talk about it now?” Fiola slammed her door, leaving Jane inside. Then she opened it again, leaning in. “I’m sorry, Jane. Really. It’s just—in the past.”
“Of course,” Jane said. “I don’t mean to…” But Fiola had closed the door again. So there was that answer. Did it make for a conflict? Not necessarily. And that’s why more than one person worked a story. Jane got out and joined her producer on the sidewalk.
Boston was having one of its gorgeous pre-sunsets, the sky golden blue, somehow, sunbeams edging the drifts of clouds. They stood for a moment, silent.
“You okay?” Jane said. “You ready for this?”
“More than ready,” Fiola said. “Let’s go help these women change their world.”
JAKE BROGAN
“D. Look.” Jake nudged DeLuca with an elbow. They’d made it to the second traffic island, skin of their teeth, and now stood stranded as a wave of NASCAR wannabes barreled through the almost-red traffic light and into the heaving chaos of Kenmore Square. Horns blared nonstop, as if that would enable anyone to move any faster.
He pointed, directing DeLuca’s attention. “By the library now. That’s freaking Willow Galt. Hand on the door, see?”
“So what?” D said, shading his eyes with one palm. “Yeah. She lives, like, two, three blocks from here.”
“But what’s she doing at the Adams Bay library? She’s got nothing to do with Adams Bay.”
“You watch too many TV shows,” D said, waving it off. “Hardly a big deal to be in your own neighborhood. She’s walking the other way now, anyway. Not going in.”
“Whatever,” Jake said. “We still need to talk to her again. And I don’t watch too much TV.” Which wasn’t true, of course. Jane, he thought. Wonder what she’s doing right now. “Come on. Let’s make a break for it.”
Mack the security guard was still at his front desk post in Colonial Hall, turning the pages in some tabloid-shaped newspaper.
He looked up, finally. Expressionless, as if he’d never seen them before.
“Detective Jake Brogan?” Jake reminded him. Couldn’t believe this guy.
“We were here, like, seven minutes ago? With Edward Tarrant?” DeLuca shot him a look. Jake tried not to laugh.
“He’s gone,” Mack said. “Sir.”
“Gone?” That was the last thing Jake expected. How could he be gone?
“How could he be gone?” D asked, dismissing this preposterous response. “We’ve been here the whole time. He didn’t come out the front door.”
“Exactly.” Mack gestured to his right. “There’s a back, gentlemen.”
“Sasha Vogelby?” Jake predicted that if one had scrammed, they both had. Were they together now, somewhere? Why?
“Ditto.” Mack gestured exactly the same way, toward, Jake assumed, a back door. “Should I give them a message? Sir?”
DeLuca’s phone rang—the theme from Jaws. He yanked his cell from his jacket pocket. “Gotta take this,” he said. And turned away.
“Thank you, sir,” Jake told Mack. “We’ll be in touch.”
DeLuca lagged behind as Jake headed to the car. Lots of to-ing and fro-ing today. That’s how Jane sometimes characterized his policing process. Door knocks, waiting, driving, more knocking, more waiting. Lots of unhappy people.
TV police were always in car chases, shoot-outs, hostage situations. Big high-caliber action. Jake was perfectly content with asking questions. Every time he’d been involved in so-called exciting stuff, someone got killed. And the victims weren’t always the bad guys. It was better on TV, he thought. Fantasy death. The murders got solved in fifty-two minutes. The good guys lived happily ever after. That’s not what happened in real life. Not often enough, anyway.
Whenever Jake was summoned, someone was already dead. Now he and D had to find out who did it before anyone else got killed. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes it didn’t. Never in fifty-two minutes.
Jake pulled out his phone as he neared the cruiser. Then paused, startled, as he looked at the windshield. Had they gotten a parking ticket? Why in hell would any sane meter person give them a … but no, what was tucked under his driver’s-side windshield wiper was on lined paper, not heavy orange stock.
He grabbed it. DeLuca was still deep in his phone conversation. Had Tarrant left them a note? Vogelby? A frightened insider hoping to sneak them information? Should he be careful for fingerprints? Jake unfolded the paper and saw, in black Magic Marker, the crude drawing. Of the letter B? Like a capital letter B. B? he thought. What’s B?
And underneath, a J. A capital J.
B? J? Jake frowned.
“What’s that?” DeLuca had stashed his phone, peered now over Jake’s shoulder. “Aw,” he said. “She’s tailing you, dude. True love.”
“True love?” Had D lost his mind? “What’s ‘B’?”
“Turn the paper, moron.” D took it from him, angled it. “That’s a heart, asshole. Not a B,” he said. “And a J. And since I get the big detective bucks, I deduce one Jane Ryland was in the neighborhood.”
Jake burst out laughing—for the first time that day, he r
ealized. So, not an informant. Right. Not a scrawled B. It was a heart. Signed J.
He tucked it into his pocket as he scanned Kenmore Square. Was Jane still here? Where? There was movement across the street at the library door, but then the door closed.
“Hey, Romeo.” DeLuca plopped onto the passenger seat as Jake got behind the wheel. “What were you going to ask the elusive Mr. Tarrant, anyway? Last I heard you were saying we suck as cops.”
“Yeah.” Jake cranked the ignition. The cool blast of the AC flooded the car. “Here’s why. I wanted to ask him the question we forgot.” He shifted into reverse. “That video of Avery Morgan, and all her students. We asked him to name the ones he could see. But how about the one we couldn’t see?”
“Huh?” D yanked his seat belt over his shoulder, clicked it. “Couldn’t see?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “The person who shot the video.”
31
JANE RYLAND
A young woman in jeans and black peasant blouse, her curly hair in a random twist, unlocked the heavy glass door of Endicott Library to allow Jane and Fiola inside.
“Elaine Whitfield-Sharp,” she said, holding out a hand. Looked them in the eyes, assessing. “With a hyphen. Elaine is fine.”
The woman was ten years younger than Jane and Fee. Okay, fifteen.
“Thank you so much, Elaine,” Jane began. “I’m—”
“Yeah,” Elaine interrupted Jane’s attempt at nicety. “I know who you are. And you’re Fiola. Fee. Let’s talk, two minutes, before we go upstairs.” The woman stopped them inside the library’s front door. The three of them were apparently alone in the strangely empty library great room, all hunter green and richly oiled pin-spotted portraits, lace collars and pinched mouths, a room designed to be full of people, now abandoned. Rows of glistening wooden tables stood empty, as if all the students had dashed away for dinner, or fun, or whatever students did, abandoning their studies for another time.
“We meet here because it’s deniable,” Elaine said. “No one notices if you go to the library. And Ashley Masse at the desk closes for us, says it’s for ‘summer hours’ or ‘dinner’ or whatever Ashley can concoct to give us some privacy. The school doesn’t know. Like they even care.”
Say No More Page 19