by D. J. Palmer
“Well, I guess that settles it,” you answered. You glanced at your wrist, feigning a watch. “Checkout is at five, but hoping we can eat somewhere other than Big Frank’s? It’s the only food I haven’t been craving.”
Mom stepped forward.
“We have new evidence that shows you were tied up. The marks around your wrists were caused by a rope restraint, not handcuff irritation. Do you remember that Pen—Eve—do you remember someone binding your wrists?”
You looked up at the ceiling.
“Hmmm … that’s a no. Sounds kinky though.”
“We can’t argue it in court because we’d have to change your plea,” Annie said. “But it gave us an idea that you should take the stand in your defense. It’s not common, but in your case, we think it will help.”
Mom chimed in here. “We think you’ll be very persuasive for the jury. Attorney Navarro will go over your testimony with you in detail, but he’s available by phone now if you’d like to ask him anything.”
You smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have any questions. Do whatever with me. Put me on the stand. I don’t really care anymore. But it would save everyone a whole lot of time and hassle if you’d just find the rope that was around my wrist and tie it around my neck.”
“Don’t say that,” Mom said. “This could work.”
“You’ll be cross-examined,” I said. “The prosecutor will come at you hard. Attorney Navarro is worried you’ll crack, that you’ll be nervous up there, and juries equate nervousness with guilt.”
“Do I strike you as the nervous type?” you said.
“No,” I said.
“What’s in your hand?” you asked, pointing at the atlas. I’d almost forgotten about it.
“I want to show you something,” I said.
I opened the atlas, and flipping to the first marked page, showed you the state of Alabama in all its glory.
“Does this state mean anything to you?”
You said, “Sweet home,” and I smiled.
It took a few minutes, but I went through every place you had rattled off in your prior dissociative states. The last one I revealed to you was Virginia.
You looked at that page for quite some time, your head at a tilt, and you said in a quiet voice—unlike Eve’s, unlike anyone’s I’d heard before:
“Boats and water … it has a blue cover … I love that book.”
“What book?” I asked. “This one?”
You looked at me wide-eyed with fright. “There’s a picture on his arm. I can see the picture.”
Your voice was very small, sounded so far away. Tiny. Little. Frightened.
“Picture? What picture? Whose arm?” I asked.
You blinked … once, twice, three times … and then your whole body stilled, and your eyes blinked no more.
“Eve?” I asked with some alarm. “Are you all right?”
No response.
“Eve?”
You shook your head as if coming to from a blackout. You assessed me, Annie, and Mom, with your familiar darkness.
“Are we done here?” you asked, pointing to the atlas. “I said I’m fine to take the stand, but it’s a waste of everyone’s time. I’m going to prison for the rest of my life, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
* * *
A heavy sadness followed us out as we climbed into Annie’s SUV. Nobody knew what to make of what we’d just seen.
“That damn book with the water and boats,” Annie said.
“She definitely switched,” Mom said. “I don’t know to whom, but I know a switch when I see one.”
“What did she mean a picture on his arm?”
“A picture on an arm … it’s got to be a tattoo,” said Annie.
Almost simultaneously Annie and Mom said, “Vince.”
I powered on my phone as soon as I was in my seat. After we’d passed through security, after the guards had checked to make sure we weren’t smuggling someone out, I announced that I had information to share.
“My friend at school … my doxing buddy … she found something new on Rachel,” I said, feeling quite excited.
Mom and Annie craned their necks backward to look at me.
“What?” Mom asked eagerly.
“She found an address in Lynn where Rachel and Isabella used to live,” I said.
CHAPTER 46
GRACE, ANNIE, AND JACK were no more than a quarter mile from the spot where Rachel Boyd’s murder had taken place. Duke Street, a narrow, one-way road in Lynn, featured a mix of multi-family units and single-family homes, most of which had yards with no landscaping of any kind. These homes had tired exteriors that would never make a magazine cover, but inside were the real stories, the ones of love, joy, sadness, and triumphs of the families who resided there. 17 Duke Street, where Rachel and Isabella—as she was known back then—once lived, was a small, box-shaped home with a pitched roof and vinyl siding, but it appeared to be one of the newer and nicer homes on the block.
Grace imagined Rachel standing on the wooden stairs of this tiny house, which someone had painted light blue with dark blue shutters. She could picture her making a visor with her hand, checking to see that her baby girl was playing safe and sound in the front yard styled after Edgewater: a dirt patch with some tufts of grass.
After undoing the latch on a rusty, waist-high chain-link fence encircling the property, Grace followed a well-trodden path up a narrow staircase that carried her about four feet off the ground. She rang the doorbell while an American flag flapped in the breeze near her face. She had a passing thought that one of Vince Rapino’s cronies lived here, or maybe somewhere on this street, that he’d see her ringing the doorbell and she’d get paid another visit, this one much worse than the last. She let go of that fear and rang the doorbell a second time.
A window in the white house next door opened up and a woman’s hard-bitten face appeared. She had jowly cheeks that moved independently from the rest of her, and Grace put her age anywhere from a stunningly old forty-five to a far sprightlier sixty-five. Even from a distance, the woman’s blue eyes shone with bright inquisitiveness. She wore no makeup, which made her thin lips appear more compressed. When she stuck her head out farther, Grace got a good look at her mane of straw-colored hair that grew in the same untamed manner as the shrubs dotting her yard.
“You Jehovah’s Witnesses?” she asked in an accent that was unmistakably Boston.
“No … we’re not,” Grace said.
“Good, ’cause my neighbors ain’t home and I was about to tell you screw off,” said the woman.
“Do you know who lives here?” asked Grace.
“You’re ringing the doorbell. Don’t you?”
Grace came down the steps, crossed the yard, and went to the fence separating the two properties. Jack and Annie joined her there.
“I’m Grace. This is my son, Jack, and my sister-in-law, Annie.”
“Yeah, all right,” said the woman. “Wicked happy to meet ya.” It was apparent she couldn’t have cared less who they were, so long as they weren’t from the sect of Jehovah.
“I’m wondering about this house,” Grace went on to say.
The woman poked her head out farther and made a show of looking around the yard. “No For Sale sign,” she said.
“No, not to buy it … but … have you lived here long?”
The woman pulled back a bit, and Grace worried she had scared her off.
“What’s it to you?” she asked.
“I’m wondering if you knew … Rachel Boyd?” Grace inquired.
A sad look came to the woman’s face. “Everyone knew Rachel.”
“She lived here?” Jack asked, pointing to the blue house.
“Yeah, she was my neighbor for a bit. Like fourteen years ago.”
“Did you know her well?”
“What do you care?”
Grace’s mind went blank, but Annie’s thankfully did not. “We’re relatives, actually. We did one of those DNA
test things and found out Rachel is Grace’s half sister. We looked her up and, well … saw the terrible news.”
“Terrible,” the woman agreed.
“We really do appreciate your help,” said Grace. “We didn’t get your name.” She prayed this woman didn’t have a great recall for faces and wouldn’t remember seeing hers on TV back when Rachel’s murder broke on the local news.
“Bonnie,” the woman said. “Bonnie Blakely, born and raised right here in beautiful Lynn, Massachusetts.” She leaned her substantial body out the window and stretched her arms wide as if opening herself up to receive not only the goodness of a cloudless day, but also all of the beauty that lovely Lynn had to offer.
“We’ve been trying to learn about Rachel,” Annie said. “We did a public records search and this address came up, so we stopped by hoping to talk to neighbors, people who knew her, see if we could learn more about her, maybe connect with other family.”
“Well, don’t go looking for her crazy daughter,” Bonnie warned.
“Yeah, we read about that, too,” said Grace, hoping she did a good job masking her emotions. “Terrible.”
“Did anyone else live here with her?” asked Annie.
“Nah, she was on her own. Single mom kind of thing.”
“No boyfriends?” Grace didn’t know how the question would go over, but she was hoping to hear that Rachel and Vince had been an item back then. It would bolster the theory that Rapino was Penny’s biological father and Rachel’s murder was some sort of retribution for attempted extortion.
“Supposedly there was a guy … that crazy girl’s father … but I don’t know. We keep our private affairs private around here. Heard things, though, you know?”
“What kind of things?” Annie asked.
“Fights … yelling … screaming … but eh, that’s like birdsong on this damn street.”
“Do you think she was … battered?” Annie thought to ask.
“Only so many times a person can fall down the stairs,” Bonnie said, which was answer enough.
“Did you know Vince Rapino?” Grace decided to go for broke. “Was he around much? Was he the boyfriend?”
“Rapino? The auto guy? Hell if I know. Whoever it was didn’t want to be seen, that much I can tell you. Came and went mostly at night. Didn’t want to be a part of that kid’s life, and I only know that because Rachel would complain about him, but she’d never tell us his name. Nobody knew who that kid’s father was, and really what business was it of ours, anyway?”
“So why’d she move away?” Jack asked.
Bonnie produced a hearty laugh. “Hard to live in a place when there’s no house.”
“No house?” asked Grace.
“Look around ya,” Bonnie said, motioning to the tired-looking homes lining Duke Street. “That house there might be small, but it’s the newest on the block.”
“Why’s that?” asked Annie.
“Because a bunch of years ago, the house on that there lot was nothing but a pile of ash.”
“A fire?” Jack asked.
“Arson,” said the woman. “That crazy girl who killed her mama? She put a curtain inside the toaster and let it heat up until it caught fire. Burned the whole place down. Miracle my house didn’t go up in flames, too. I thought DCF would get involved, but the police chalked it up to shit happens. Look, I gotta go. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Bonnie slipped back into her dark house, closing the window before Annie could say good-bye. Grace wasn’t thinking about issuing a polite farewell. All her thoughts were on the single sentence Chloe had uttered …
Burned it all up, but she didn’t go away.
CHAPTER 47
WHEN MITCH GOT HOME from work that night, he tried to distract himself with some mindless television, but it was to no avail. He was still ruminating on his dinner yesterday with Adam and Caitlyn at the rehab facility where his son remained a resident. The conclusion of his thirty-day program was in sight, and he wished to extend his stay another thirty, a request to which Mitch readily agreed.
If he wasn’t thinking about Adam, and his failures as a father, he was thinking about Penny and worries that he was going to fail her, too. The trial was fast approaching, and he knew the verdict was very much in doubt, but at least now he could take the stand and answer Navarro’s questions about DID and the case with something of a different mindset. He understood it was within his power to do everything he could to help this girl, but just as with Adam’s recovery, the ultimate outcome was not within his control. He was free to fail, which meant he was free to try his best, time and time again—and what more could anyone expect or ask of him?
He wished he had more to give Navarro. Something was missing from Penny’s story, something vital. He was sure of it. In their work together Penny had revealed much to him, but not the most important information. What happened that night?
He went to his desk in the study, which was really Adam’s bedroom, and spread out the drawing Chloe had done. His focus went to the billowing smoke pouring out of the toaster.
Grace had shared with him the shocking discovery she’d made on her trip to Duke Street. Young Penny, or Isabella, age three and a half, or four, had burned down her house by putting a curtain inside the toaster.
Grace had used the drawing and what Chloe had said—“Burned it all up, but she didn’t go away”—to target Maria, but now he thought it was conceivable, probable even, that it wasn’t symbolic at all. It was an actual memory from her past.
So who is she? Mitch asked himself. Is she Rachel? Or was Penny trying to rid herself of an alter?
Was the fire an attempt to escape from some peril, or did it mark the initial appearance of an uncontrollable rage within?
Questions … questions … questions …
Mitch recalled what Penny and her alters had said about her birth mother while experiencing episodes of dissociation.
She’d get the bucket.
She’d go to prison.
She’d be hurt.
Those weren’t fears of Rachel. They were fears for her, Mitch realized with growing excitement.
She didn’t want Rachel to suffer. She wanted Rachel to leave Duke Street … but she didn’t get away.
The bucket of ammonia.
Mitch considered the possibility that it wasn’t some torture on the night of the murder as they’d all believed, but rather, like the drawing of a smoking toaster, it was a specific memory from the past.
Abuse. Fear.
Penny wanted her mother to get away from her abuser. Grace mentioned some violence in the Duke Street home.
“But she didn’t go away.” Rachel didn’t leave. That happened all the time, he knew. Abused women stay. They’re too frightened to leave, or they have no place to go. Maybe Rachel didn’t abandon Penny as everyone was led to believe … maybe Rachel had left Penny in the park that day to get her to safety.
A realization struck Mitch hard. If the memories that Penny and her alters shared with him were recollections from her distant past, why then did she need to be in a dissociative state to access them?
The answer was both obvious and elusive. He recalled Grace’s words regarding the day they found Penny—how the little girl in the sweet yellow dress wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t say anything about what happened, wouldn’t even answer to her name, so Jack named her Penny.
She was traumatized, they were told.
They found her. They picked her up. She was their good luck.
Why wouldn’t she talk about what happened? Why didn’t she pine for her mother, who she had wanted to help, to save?
The answer came to Mitch in a flash, and with it a fierce chill ripped through his body. He saw it now and couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. The Duke Street fire had opened his eyes. He had to call Grace. He needed to meet with her right away.
Everyone needed to hear what he had to say.
CHAPTER 48
AFTER HOURS AND THEY were back at Big
Frank’s—all of them, Ryan too—gathered around a large table, eating pizza and waiting for Mitch. He’d called, but wouldn’t say over the phone what he wanted to talk about, only that it was important to the case and better discussed in person. Grace had been working a shift, trying to appease Ryan, and Mitch had offered to meet there.
Her sons were being icy with each other, but Grace noted how Ryan seemed extra annoyed when Jack brought up the dissociative state Eve went into while looking at the atlas.
“‘There’s a picture on his arm. I can see the picture,’” said Jack, reciting Eve’s words.
“We think it’s Vince Rapino,” Annie said for Ryan’s benefit.
“That man has more paint on his arms than anyone,” said Grace.
Pushing his chair back, Ryan rose quickly to his feet, a fierce look on his face. “I’ve had enough of this for one night. Actually, for one lifetime,” he announced. “I’m going to help Sarah clean up and get out of here. Mom, you’ve got the keys, so you can lock up. I’ve got the cash. I’ll make the deposit in the morning. It’s not a windfall, but business has picked up a bit the last few days. Guess the pretrial buzz is helping out.” He gave a wave in everyone’s general direction. “Later, all.” And off he went to the kitchen.
Jack watched him go, waiting until he’d disappeared through the swinging door before he spoke. “You know,” he said, whispering in a conspiratorial way, “Ryan was pre-law before he dropped out of school. Someone like that knows how to put a person in prison.”
A flash of anger struck Grace hard, turning her cheeks bright red. “What are you saying, Jack? Are you accusing Ryan of … of what?”
“I’m saying what I said before. Ryan blames Penny for Dad’s death, and he’s been acting very strangely since her arrest.”
“Do you think Ryan killed Rachel? For … for God knows what reason—and that he’s letting his sister take the fall for it? Is that it, Jack?” Grace spoke in a sharp-edged voice.
“I don’t know,” Jack said, sounding defensive. “It’s just weird, is all—the timing of him dropping out of school, his anger toward Penny … you know. I’m just saying, we shouldn’t close ourselves off to any possibility.”