“Dad?” said Reeve. “Instead of showing you around before you catch your plane home, can you go shopping with me?”
“You know how to shop?”
“No, and I plan on Janie doing all shopping necessary for our entire lives. But one thing I have to buy on my own. Rings. Which I can afford now, thanks to you. But how do I know what to get? I drive past a jewelry store on the way to work. I would never go in without an escort. Help me pick out an engagement ring and a wedding ring.”
“What do I know? Wait till you get to New Jersey, take Janie to a jewelry store there, and she’ll pick them out.”
“No, she’s into romance. She’ll want me to kneel down and surprise her and all.”
“Okay, I’ll come. Might as well spread the blame for the wrong choice in rings.”
Kathleen could not believe it. “You don’t want to bother with the third Hannah? You’re giving up? That’s like climbing a mountain and stopping below the peak.”
“Okay, okay,” said Stephen.
They got on their bikes.
The third possible was tougher to locate. They couldn’t find the house number. They finally discovered a tiny alley where one house opened sideways, so its address was for a road it didn’t face.
It was a funny little place, shadowed and ugly. A porch without a rail tilted ominously. You couldn’t put a chair there; you’d slide off. But trash—you could put that on the porch just fine.
Stephen wove through the trash bags and then had to talk through the door because the woman wouldn’t open it.
Kathleen didn’t think anybody around here ought to open a door to strangers. Didn’t mean the occupant was Hannah and worried about the police.
“We’re looking for somebody,” Stephen called. “She might be you. Can I show you a photograph?”
“No,” said the woman.
The crack under the front door was large enough to admit major insects. Stephen slid his little wallet picture of Hannah under the door.
Well, that was stupid, thought Kathleen. If she is Hannah, Stephen just screwed up. She’ll never answer the door, and furthermore, she’ll leave town the split second we walk away.
But they heard the sound of locks being undone and a chain being loosened, and there stood a woman, grinning. She was not Caucasian.
If Stephen and Kathleen needed proof that all the research had been done via computer, here it was.
“Siddown,” said the woman. “I’m bored. Sicka TV. Tell me what’s up.”
They sat on the sagging top step, their backs to the row of bulging plastic bags. Kathleen, who always wore her backpack, took out energy bars to share while Stephen gave the woman the short version of his little sister’s kidnapping.
“Funny thing,” said the woman. “I remember that milk carton story. It was—what? Five, six years ago? The girl recognized her own picture? They don’t do that anymore—put pictures of missing kids on milk cartons. I’m not sure kids still drink milk. They’re all about juice boxes these days.”
They nibbled their energy bars.
“Now what you gonna do?” asked the woman.
Stephen shook his head. “I don’t know. But thanks for your time.” He stood up, ready to leave. Kathleen tucked the energy bar wrappers in her pack. Stephen, assuming she was at his heels, rode off.
Kathleen was confused and defeated. What was going on, anyway? No researcher would make up three possible Hannahs on the off chance that it would get a fourth person to talk. Especially when the fourth person—Stephen—didn’t know anything. None of the Springs knew anything.
Kathleen sat there, too tired out by useless thinking to move.
“Tell me,” said the woman to Kathleen. “After all these years, why do you care?”
“I guess we feel as if the kidnapper is still out there,” said Kathleen finally. “As if she’d love to do even more.”
“I got a clue for you, honey. A kidnapper wouldn’t do nothing for love. She’d only do something for hate.”
THE ELEVENTH PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE
For the first time in years, the woman formerly known as Hannah had energy.
She lost weight from all the excitement. At the drugstore, she bought hair dye and a pair of glasses. The sparkling blue frames matched her eyes and now her hair had a beautiful sheen.
She even took a class, using her Jill Williams persona.
It was one of those free evening classes and she didn’t expect much; this was just to get her started. But the teacher loved handouts. Each week there was a new list of links and blogs and websites. In class, she kept a low profile, although it was difficult, because a person named Jill Williams felt loud and assertive.
Excitement kept her going during the long hours of scrubbing dishes or toilets. The plan was complex, but brilliant. This year was not going to be so awful after all. This was the year she would whip these people.
There was a difficulty. Much could be done without money, but in the end, Hannah needed plenty of it. Ideas for getting big money came to her, because she was very bright, and could always think of things. But every plan had to be adjusted to the threat of police. It was maddening. But she would solve it. Then she would fix that Jennie/Janie for good. And Frank, too. He’d be sorry he stopped giving her money.
At the coffee shop, she wore all her layers of clothing so they would not notice how slim and shapely she had become. She worked weekends, which were brutal. At top speed, she had to load and unload the dishwasher, scrub the pots, and hang the stupid mugs back up in the right direction.
By chance, she heard that a really nice hotel was short on help. The jobs she usually held, showing up was good enough. But at this hotel, she had to schedule an interview! She made a good impression with her beautiful hair and sparkly glasses. They hired her.
She learned how to fold a hand towel into a rose and tuck little bottles of shampoo into it. But it was no easier to work in a ritzy hotel than a slummy one. Monday through Friday she worked at the hotel. She had sixteen rooms to do and it took about thirty minutes to clean a room. And people checked! The housekeeper actually went into each room after Hannah was done and checked! Every single day, Hannah had to go back and redo something. She added that woman’s name to her list of people she was going to get someday.
It was more than sixteen years after the day in New Jersey when Hannah Javensen knocked, waited, knocked again, and entered a hotel room.
The guy was a pig.
He’d used most of the towels. His junk was all over the bathroom counter. The bed covers were on the floor, along with the decorative pillows. He’d been eating crackers, and the empty box lay on the carpet, while cracker crumbs littered the sheets, the carpet, and a chair.
Guys were more likely to tip than women, but messy guys didn’t tip. Only neat ones. She wouldn’t even get a dollar here.
A box of disposable plastic gloves was fastened to her cart, supplied because the maids had to clean the toilet. But Hannah wore them for another reason. Fingerprints.
As always, before she started cleaning, she checked the room safe to see if they’d put anything in it and forgotten to close the little door, but they hadn’t. She felt inside the open suitcases and under the clothing tossed into the top dresser drawer. Nothing. As she stripped the bed, she lifted the mattress. Nothing.
She fingered the pockets of hanging clothes. The guy might be a slob but he wore a nice suit.
Hundreds of times, Hannah had searched and found nothing. Today made it all worthwhile. The inside pockets of the man’s suit had little sheaves of hundred-dollar bills.
Nobody used cash anymore. They used their debit cards and their credit cards.
When she took this, he couldn’t report it, because only criminals carried this kind of cash.
It was meant.
She was destined to be here, on this day, in this room.
Hannah had never chatted with the rest of housekeeping, because they were Hispanic. They couldn’t talk
to her and she couldn’t talk to them. She bet they wouldn’t recognize her out of uniform either, but it didn’t matter. This hotel guest couldn’t report the theft and when she never came back, nobody would look for Jill Williams. The hotel was used to unreliable help. In fact, the head housekeeper, who didn’t trust her, would be happy that Jill Williams was gone. And since she wasn’t Jill Williams, they couldn’t find her if they did look.
Under her uniform, Hannah was wearing her street clothes. In the stairwell, she slid out of the uniform, folded it into a neat bundle, went out a side door, and walked away.
She loved walking away from things.
It was such a good feeling to evaporate. And this time, the woman who evaporated had money. And they could never catch her, because she was smart and they were stupid.
At home, she concentrated on the plan.
The Internet was wonderful. Every day she had another brilliant idea. She felt like the leader of that group, so many years ago. She was in charge, and people looked up to her and aligned their hopes with hers.
The project was so absorbing that she did not keep up with Facebook the way she used to. Adair’s little posts were juvenile and silly. All those high school children, now college children, could waste their lives with pointless chitter-chatter, but Hannah had work to do.
She frequently skipped sleep. She worked around the clock.
It was May when she checked back in to Facebook to see what the Jennie/Janie and all her fake friends were doing. Whatever it was, they’d be bragging. That’s what Facebook was for them: brag space.
But they weren’t bragging.
They were watching a video.
Hannah was as stunned as Adair and all 476 of her friends.
The Jennie/Janie and the boy next door, cute Reeve from ESPN, were kissing, laughing, hugging, and saying yes in an airport.
Where Hannah could never even go because of security checks. Which was all that Jennie/Janie’s fault to begin with!
The crowd was sighing and whistling and smiling. Even the security guard smiled.
What was the matter with the universe?
Janie did not deserve all that love. She was already getting Hannah’s share!
And then Hannah remembered her project.
Her laughter began low and quiet then rose in pitch and flickered all over the room, like blood splatter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The saleslady was short and slim, her hair a distinguished gray. “Have we all arrived?” she cried. She beamed at Janie. “I hear you’re marrying the boy next door.”
“I am,” agreed Janie happily. “And here is the mother of the boy next door.”
Everybody laughed and air-kissed Mrs. Shields.
“And this is also my mother,” said Janie, moving Miranda forward a step.
“How delightful!” said the saleslady, bustling over. She offered one arm to Miranda and the other to Mrs. Shields, as if the three ladies were proceeding down an aisle. Which they were. An aisle packed with gowns, tiaras, veils, and slippers. “Blended families are such an example to us all,” said the saleslady.
Janie took her real mother’s hand. “Hi, Mom,” she whispered, tasting the wonderfulness of knowing that Donna Spring was her mom.
They entered a mirror-wrapped pavilion, with a little platform on which the bride could twirl. The three mothers and Jodie found places to sit.
“I don’t know where to start,” said Janie, suddenly nervous.
“Let’s not even look in the direction of all those gowns. You close your eyes, dear, and describe for me the dress of your dreams.”
Janie closed her eyes. She concentrated. She said, “White.”
“Excellent start,” cried the saleslady. “That lets out cream, champagne, and ecru! We’ve narrowed it down! Now! Shall we start with a traditional full long skirt that puffs out grandly?”
Janie thought again. “Um. I don’t know.”
“We’ll try on all varieties! I’ll bring the gowns. Each will be quite different. As you give me your opinion, we’ll narrow our choices! It’ll be such fun!”
She started with six gowns. They were all beautiful and perfect. Janie could hardly wait to try them on.
The first was so poufy she felt like a clothespin doll inside it. The second was so low cut Janie would have been embarrassed on the beach, never mind in church. The third, breathtaking when the saleslady held it up, was so heavily sequined that Janie was all glitter and no Janie. The fourth was short, tight, and sexy, as if weddings were nightclub acts.
As the saleslady unbuttoned her, Janie said, “Mom? What was your gown like?”
Both mothers began to answer.
Both stumbled to a stop.
Her Connecticut mother said, “She’s your mom, Janie. I’m just Miranda now.” And burst into tears.
Janie flung her arms around Miranda. How thin she was. Even her bones seemed thinner. She’s literally breakable, thought Janie. Everything I say and do can break her.
The saleslady stepped in, thinking she understood. “We have many brides with divorced parents. How lovely that you are so close to your stepmother.”
My parents didn’t divorce, thought Janie. All my parents stayed together. That’s what I want most in life. For my marriage to be as good as theirs.
At yesterday’s conference, with Reeve on Skype and Janie sitting in his office, Father John had discussed the Ten Commandments. He spent some time on “Honor thy father and mother.” It was a commandment that had ruled her life. But she had never known how to make it work. When she honored one set, she dishonored the other.
But what Father had read out loud was slightly different. It turned out that the commandments were not simply a list. They included details. Honor thy father and mother, that it may go well with you.
It will go well with me, Janie thought. It will go well with Donna and Jonathan Spring. But how can it go well with Miranda? I may be entering Happily Ever After, but Miranda will never see Happily Ever After again.
And I am abandoning her.
Kathleen caught up to Stephen and they walked their bikes.
They were approaching the Pearl Street Mall. It was a popular place, although Stephen never knew why. A lot of boutiquey stores with stuff nobody wanted or could afford. But he felt the need to rest. There was something about this book project that made him feel dense.
Kathleen walked by his side. Did he love or detest the fact that Kathleen liked to literally keep step with him? His cell rang. “Hey, Mom,” he said.
“Darling!” She sounded breathless. “I’m sending bridal mall photos.”
“Hey, great.” Stephen would never even look at anything so boring.
“Now, I’m just checking that you have your plane tickets, Stephen. I don’t want to pry into your financial situation, honey. Can you afford the tickets or shall your father and I get them for you?”
“I’m fine.” Kathleen could not hear his mother’s voice, but Stephen felt her hovering, wanting all information. Reeve planned to have somebody lean over his shoulder for the rest of his life. What if Reeve lived to be ninety? Had Reeve considered this? Seven decades of the same woman leaning over his shoulder?
“Are you bringing Kathleen?” asked his mother. “I don’t want her to feel left out, but of course it’s your decision, since we don’t even have a guest list. Which is ridiculous. A normal wedding, the hostess at least knows who was asked. Anyway, we’d love to have Kathleen.”
“I’m still thinking,” said Stephen.
“Honey bunch,” said his mother, as if he were a very little boy, “you have to get on the plane in about a minute. Time to decide.”
“I’ll get on it,” said Stephen. He thought of Calvin Vinesett instead. What kind of twisted person spent his life dipping into crime, tasting every drop of blood and capturing every broken hope?
Every time Stephen remembered their own true crime, he felt as if he’d just run a marathon.
And he had. Janie had g
iven the Spring family a run that lasted a decade and a half.
And now she was going to be herself. Get married as a daughter of Donna and Jonathan Spring. But what she really was, was what Kathleen liked to call her. The kidnapette.
The streets of Boulder converged on Stephen, whispering, Hannah’s here.
Jodie’s heart turned over, watching her sister comfort a wasted, pale, exhausted old woman.
Right now, if I had to pick the person I admire most, it’s my sister, thought Jodie. Janie passed through the valley of the shadow of death. She suffered, everybody around her suffered, she caused suffering. She decided that the most important thing was love, and she loved the other parents. And now she’s decided she has enough love to go around after all, and she’s loving all of us, both her families, the ones who sinned against her and the ones who didn’t.
No wonder Reeve wants to marry her. He wants to snag her now, before a hundred other guys line up.
“You start, Mom,” said Jodie, so that Miranda would have another minute to pull herself together. “Tell us about your wedding gown.” Her parents’ wedding portrait hung in the master bedroom. Dad looked like somebody else—big and tall and very young with almost gaudy red hair. Painfully awkward in his rented tuxedo. And Mom was definitely somebody else—petite and girlish, with the kind of hairstyle women had had thirty years ago, which luckily nobody had anymore.
And the dress! Wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong length, wrong style, wrong neckline.
“I loved my bridal gown,” said Donna, blushing and biting her lip like a young girl. “I was so proud of it. We had so little money, but I was just desperate to have a pretty dress. I saved and saved to buy it. It’s been in a special box all these years.”
The box was the size of a crib mattress. Through its clear plastic window you could see a square of white satin and a spattering of tiny spangles.
Jodie made a diplomatic move. “Mrs. Shields, I’m dying to hear about your gown.”
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