by David Bell
Jake looked at Angela, and they locked eyes for a moment. Angela saw the supposition there, his guess that she and Michael were involved before he left Erica. Angela knew a lot of people thought that. They assumed a marriage didn’t break up without an affair or something else crazy happening. She’d learned, almost ten years earlier, to ignore it and just move on. She knew. Others could think what they wanted.
“It was courtesy at first,” Gail said. “I called her to check up on her. Just being friendly. How are you getting along? Is everything okay? That sort of thing. I realized the girl didn’t really have anyone else to talk to, because she started confiding in me in ways I didn’t think she would. After all, what did I know about the struggles of a recently divorced twenty-something? I was as far removed from her life as anything else.”
“You didn’t really like her, but you called her?” Angela asked.
“She was vulnerable,” Gail said. “And I saw it as my duty, as a role I could play in her life. I didn’t want the girl to do something rash. And I didn’t want her going around saying my family just cut her off and was done with her without a second thought. I don’t like to burn bridges with people.”
“And this only happened when? The first few months after she and Michael split up?” Angela asked.
“It did end after a few months,” Gail said. “Maybe six. The phone calls tailed off. I don’t know where Erica was living at the time or what she was doing. Life went on. Michael married you. I lived my life. I figured that was the end of it with Erica.”
“But I’m guessing it wasn’t,” Angela said.
“Do you want to sit down?” Gail asked. “We’re trying to talk.”
Angela didn’t want to be told what to do. She didn’t want anything but information. “I like standing right now.”
Gail must have detected the trace of flint in Angela’s voice, because she looked like she was about to say something but then thought better of it.
“Did Michael know you talked to her?” Angela asked.
It was the only question she wanted to know the answer to. She couldn’t summon anything else in her mind.
“Angela, I don’t want to say or do anything that would get in the way of your marriage. It’s for Michael—”
“Did he know?” Angela asked.
Gail looked reluctant to speak, which told Angela all she needed to know before the words came out.
“Yes,” she said, “I told him about it when I spoke to Erica during that time. And he told me, explicitly, he didn’t want you to know about it.”
chapter
forty-six
2:22 A.M.
Erica drove Michael’s car down her street, the speed increasing gradually. The neighborhood looked to be middle class, a combination of ranch-style and two-story houses, the construction mostly brick. In the rushing dark, Michael couldn’t see much else, but it appeared to date to the 1950s or 1960s, a time when they would have been filled with the first wave of families educated by the GI Bill, people looking for a place with a lawn and a little room to spread out.
Erica slowed some in front of a brick ranch with a small porch. The headlights caught the image of a tree in front, which looked to be dying as most of its leaves were gone in midsummer, but the rest of the yard looked orderly if unspectacular. Michael expected to see more activity around the house. Reporters and gawkers. But the street was empty, the house dark and quiet. The reporters must have gone home for the evening. The police, no doubt, were pursuing other things.
Erica zoomed up the driveway and pulled around back.
“No cops,” Michael said.
“They’re supposed to be here,” she said, distracted. “At least one car.”
“Maybe they got called away to something,” Michael said. “Maybe something happened with the case.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I’d rather they were out doing something than sitting here. Or asking me the same questions over and over again. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with them.”
When Erica parked, the headlights caught a small patio with two matching lawn chairs and a round table. The grass looked long and in need of mowing. His eyes then fell on the swing set in the back corner of the yard, a small one with a slide at the end.
He started to say something, but Erica was out of the car before he could speak, leaving the driver’s-side door open.
“Hey.”
He unbuckled and opened his door. His head still throbbed but more dully, and he wondered if they even needed to stop for any kind of first aid.
He followed in Erica’s wake. She went across the patio, her keys jingling in the quiet night, and soon pushed open the back door. By the time Michael reached the house, he could track Erica’s progress inside by the lights flipping on in each successive room. It felt weird to be stepping into this house—Erica’s house—but if he was going to draw the line at doing things that felt weird, he would have to erase the entire evening.
He entered a small family room. A flat-screen TV was mounted to one wall, its screen black and reflective. The furniture looked comfortable and bulky, the floor clear and uncluttered. The overhead light glowed, and Michael squinted. A small brown dog, a mutt who looked to be a cross between a collie and a beagle, came dashing out, tail wagging, tongue lolling. It came up to Michael and sniffed his shoes. He bent down, offering his hand to the dog who first sniffed and then started licking, its nose and tongue cool against his skin. He tried to rub the dog’s ears, but it dashed away as soon as he reached out.
He heard Erica rushing around in other parts of the house, the sounds of doors opening and closing, and soon enough, she reappeared in the family room by coming through the kitchen. She looked agitated, and she ran her hands through her hair as she stopped and examined the space as though she had never been there before either.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked, straightening up.
“I thought . . .” Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. She ran her hands through her hair again. The dog came back and sniffed at Erica’s legs. She ignored it. “I thought maybe . . . she was here.”
Michael understood. She’d darted out of the car and through the house, looking for any sign of Felicity. Maybe she’d come home. Or been dropped off there. Even though the house was dark, the doors locked, Erica clung to that hope.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said.
“Yeah. Me too.” Erica wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing up and down as though she was cold. “You should sit. I’m going to go close the car.”
“I’ll do it,” Michael said.
“I’ve got it. Just . . . sit and take it easy. I’m going to take the dog with me. She probably hasn’t gone to the bathroom in hours.” She grabbed a leash by the door and called for the dog who was already running when she heard the leash jingle. “Come on, Trixie. I’m sorry you were here alone so long.”
But Michael didn’t sit while Erica and Trixie went out to the car. He wandered out of the family room, across the kitchen with its table and neat collection of cookbooks, and entered a short hallway that looked like it went to the bedrooms. Framed photographs hung on the wall, and Michael stared at them. They showed Felicity at various phases of life—infant, toddler, child. He noticed she didn’t always smile, wearing a look of defiance in some of the photos, and he remembered the sadness Wayne Tolliver talked about, the melancholy air that hung over the kid.
Michael leaned in, staring at the photos even longer. He tried to see a resemblance, something in the shape of her nose or eyes, the contours of her chin, something that he could compare to that photo of Robyn and all of them that hung by his desk. The one from the lake, the one from right before she died. He thought he saw similarities, but was he simply seeing what he wanted to see, hoping to fulfill his deep-seated wish to have a child of his own?
Erica appeared in some of the
photos. In one, she held Felicity—who looked to be about three—inside an ice cream shop. In another, Felicity and Erica held hands on a beach, the tide rolling out, away from their feet. He tried for just a moment to imagine himself in any of the photos, completing the scene, but he couldn’t manage to do it. He’d led a parallel life, one with Angela, and he wouldn’t trade any of those memories or experiences for the ones depicted on the wall.
But he worried his absence played a part in the heavy look on Felicity’s face.
Erica came into the house again, the dog running ahead of her and down the hallway. She locked the back door, and then unlocked it, her movements quick and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I want it unlocked so Felicity can get in if she comes by. But I don’t feel safe if it’s unlocked. That’s part of the reason I didn’t stay here today. It didn’t feel safe in my own house.”
“You said the cops were here.”
“Off and on. The lead detective told me they’d keep a close eye on the house. Maybe they’re up the street where we can’t see them.”
“Maybe they found something,” Michael said. “Should you call them?”
“I will.” Erica settled on locking the door and went into the kitchen. He heard the freezer open, and she came back, carrying a bag of peas. “My ice maker is on the fritz, but you can put this on your head.”
Michael took it. “Thanks.”
“And I can get you ibuprofen.”
“I don’t think I need it.” He pointed at his forehead. “This is feeling better.”
They stood like that for a moment, awkwardly facing each other in Erica’s house, the bag of peas in Michael’s hand.
Michael said, “Why don’t you call them and check in? It’s getting later and later.”
“I’d like to show you something.” She gestured down the hallway, past the pictures Michael had just examined. “I’d like you to see Felicity’s room.”
“I don’t think—”
“You asked me what kind of kid she is, what she’s like. What better way to know what a kid is like than to look in her room? Hell, the cops have already been through there today. A reporter and a camera crew went in there at one point. You’re her father. And even if you don’t believe that, at the very least you’re helping me look for her.” She rubbed her arms again. “I’d feel better if you looked, if you knew as much as possible about her before we went on.”
Michael hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of going deeper into the house, especially inside a bedroom. Anyone’s bedroom. He couldn’t imagine what he would say to Angela about doing that.
But Erica was right. He did want to know who Felicity was. What if she ended up being his daughter? What if she was found and the two of them started the long process of catching up?
What if it eased Erica’s mind?
“Okay,” he said, the peas still in his hand. “A quick look. And then we get going.”
Erica walked past him, and he followed.
chapter
forty-seven
2:27 A.M.
Griffin and Twitchell came to the door of Randi Friedman’s apartment. The hallway smelled like roasted garlic with a faint whiff of either incense or pot, and despite the late hour, music played loud enough to reach them through her neighbor’s door. A strumming acoustic guitar and a wailing singer’s voice. Griffin tried to place it. Was it Lantern Black, Lynn Frazier’s band?
Twitchell knocked, a staccato rapping against the wooden door. The two partners hadn’t said anything else to each other since they’d talked on the sidewalk. Like an old married couple, they knew how to give each other space. Twitchell knocked again, and Griffin waited beside him, her hands resting on her hips.
The door swung open, and Randi Friedman, a fortyish woman with straight red hair, let out a sigh of relief when she saw Twitchell’s badge held in the air between them. “Thank God,” she said.
“Can we come in?” Twitchell asked.
She stepped back and let them enter the apartment, which was sparse and modern in both its furniture and décor. Randi wore form-fitting black jeans and a black T-shirt. Her nails were neatly manicured, her eyes lively, animated by both fear and intelligence.
“I thought you wanted to go where Todd is,” she said.
“We might,” Twitchell said. “But we wanted to talk to you first. I just checked in over there, and everything’s under control. For now.”
“I’ve been calling and texting Todd, but he won’t answer.” She threw her hands in the air and let them drop to her side. Then she lifted her thumb to her mouth and started chewing on a piece of loose skin. “This all feels like a nightmare. I wish you’d just find that girl and be done with all of this. She’s been gone all day.”
“That’s what we want to do,” Twitchell said.
Griffin walked over to Randi and placed a hand gently on her back. The woman offered no protest but allowed herself to be guided to a chair. She sat down, her body collapsing into the cushions. Without asking, Griffin went out to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Her second time doing that tonight. She felt a sting of anger and frustration thinking of the trip to Tiffany Flowers’s residence. Did Twitchell really think that was all for nothing? Reddick too?
She remained standing while Twitchell sat on the end of the couch closer to Randi. She decided to let him ask the questions and take the lead. She’d play nice supportive female cop, the role everyone appeared to want her in.
“You called in earlier and said you had some kind of information about your husband,” Twitchell said. “Something that might be relevant to the Felicity Frazier case. Can you tell us what that is?”
She took a moment, as though choosing her words carefully. Or perhaps she was simply reluctant to say them. “Well, you know he’s a registered sex offender, right?”
“We know that,” Twitchell said.
She sounded apologetic. “It all stems from something he did when he was in his twenties. He never tried to hide it from me. He made a mistake and got involved with an underage girl. A teenager. He told me all about it when we first met.” She looked at Griffin. “You understand. You meet a guy and he’s honest about his life and his past, and you think you have some kind of prize. Right?”
“Sure.”
“Okay,” Twitchell said. “So you knew about his record as a sex offender. What does this have to do with Felicity Frazier?”
“Todd and I split up over a year ago. We weren’t such a great match to begin with, but then I found out that the thing that got him in trouble in his twenties hadn’t really gone away.”
“Meaning what?” Twitchell asked, although both cops knew what it meant.
“He had pornography on his computer. Child pornography. Pictures of younger kids. I saw it one day when I got on his laptop for something else.” She shivered. The look on her face became distant as she no doubt recalled the images from the computer. “I couldn’t believe what I saw. I guess I should have known. People don’t get over those things. Hell, I took enough psychology classes in college. It was my minor. I guess I just thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.”
“So you split up over a year ago because of this. Did you tell the police about the images?” Twitchell asked.
“No, I didn’t. I just wanted to be done with him.” She looked at both of them, her eyes downcast. “I know I should have.”
The living room window shook as a gust of wind kicked up. Griffin thought she heard a distant rumble of thunder.
“It’s okay,” Twitchell said. “We’re not really worried about that. What is the connection to Felicity Frazier?”
“I used to work with Erica. At the credit union. I was a loan officer before I changed careers. I went back to school and became a physical therapist. Better pay, and I actually felt like I was helping people instead of just trying to take their money. But we a
ll got to know one another a little when I worked there. Todd and me and Erica. We hung out a few times. And Felicity was there sometimes too. She was just a little kid, so she’d be off in her room while we all talked or played cards or watched a movie.” Again her face grew distant. “We never had kids, Todd and I. It was fun to be around one sometimes, to kind of imagine what it would have been like. I have nieces and nephews, but they live in Alabama.”
“Did something unusual happen between your ex-husband and Felicity during one of these times you spent together?” Griffin asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked down at her lap, where her hands rested on her thighs. She tapped her feet, nervous energy leaking out. “I know he talked to her alone once or twice. You know, he’d go to the bathroom and stop in her room or something. Just talk, as far as I know. Maybe a little odd for a grown man to talk to a kid in her room, but not so unusual.”
“It might be unusual, given his past,” Twitchell said.
“Right,” Randi said.
“And was that it?” Twitchell asked. “He knows Felicity and Erica and has this interest in child pornography, so you think he might have done something to Felicity?”
She tapped her feet, chewed at the loose skin again. “No, that’s not even the whole story. That’s not it by far.”
chapter
forty-eight
2:30 A.M.
Angela felt a little like she’d been slapped. First, Michael had changed the passwords on his computer.
And then she learned her mother-in-law had maintained some contact with Michael’s ex-wife in the wake of the divorce. Gail must have been talking to Erica at the same time Michael and Angela were starting to date and then planning to get married. Was Angela the only one in the world who didn’t know about it?
Without thinking, she pulled the chair out from the end of the table and sat down. Her movements were stiff and robotic, as though she’d been programmed to make them. No one else in the room said anything, but she felt their eyes on her. She tried to keep her voice under control when she spoke.