by Alice Sharpe
“It’s not unusual for Layla to go off the grid, and it’s hardly a reason to call in the FBI.” Brooke eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”
“Franny’s fears appear to be connected to what happened twelve years ago.”
She didn’t want to hear about this but had to know. “Tell me.”
“Wait!” Franny dashed into the room with a crocheted poncho that she threw toward Sloan. She turned to Brooke. “Maybe we should forget about this. I’m feeling lots better, and I don’t want you to get all freaked out.”
Too late. Brooke was verging on a full-blown panic attack. She had to get this over with and go home. “You’ve got to tell me.”
“Are you okay? You look kind of feverish.”
“She’s right,” Sloan said. “Maybe you should sit.”
As if she needed advice from a half-naked fed? “Will you excuse us, please?”
Without waiting for an answer, she dragged her friend through the messy front room into the equally cluttered bedroom, where she closed the door. Fearing she might pass out, Brooke lowered herself onto the edge of the unmade bed, trying not to think of this mattress as a breeding ground for bacteria and dust mites. She concentrated on breathing slowly, struggling not to drown in the fierce torrents that churned inside her.
Franny sat beside her. “I was scared about how you might react. That’s why I didn’t call you first. I figured Gimbel could look into stuff and make it all better.”
But Gimbel had retired. Brooke asked, “What kind of stuff?”
“For the past couple of days, maybe a week, I’ve been getting phone calls from a number I didn’t recognize.”
“And?”
“They were weird.”
Extracting information from her was like peeling an artichoke one leaf at a time. Brooke turned her head and focused on the blue of Franny’s eyes—a color that was almost identical to her own. “Why did you think the calls were weird?”
“My voice mail picked up a couple of them. I can play them back.”
“Maybe later.” She didn’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. Either there was reason for concern or not. “For now, just tell me.”
“His voice was whispery.” Her eyes lowered, and she sucked on her lower lip. “He said that little ladies who didn’t do as they were told would be punished.”
The terrible warning—one she’d heard before—set off a screeching alarm in Brooke’s brain. No, no, no, no, I don’t want to remember. “What else?”
“My finger.” She held up her left hand. The little finger had been severed at the second joint. “He asked if I missed my finger.”
“It wasn’t him,” Brooke said firmly. “Martin Hardy is locked away in prison for life. He can never touch you again.”
“That’s what Sloan said. And he promised to check on the other girls, to make sure they were safe. That’s why I wanted you to come over to meet him.” Though tears swamped her eyes, she forced a wobbly smile. “He’s kind of gorgeous, huh?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yeah, you did. You were blushing.”
Brooke scowled as she rose from the bed and paced on the small portion of floor that wasn’t covered by a jumble of discarded clothing. Recently, she’d experienced a few odd incidents herself. Twice during the past week her car alarm had gone off, even though it was parked in the attached garage. She’d never found an explanation, but it hadn’t seemed particularly threatening until now. “Was there anything other than phone calls?”
“Should I be scared?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it’s a copycat?” Her voice went high and nervous. “Our case was written up in the newspapers and online. And there’s that movie guy who wants all six of us to get together for a follow-up story.”
“His documentary is never going to happen.” She’d vowed to sue the pants off anybody who tried to take advantage of them. “Until we have some answers, you should stay at my house.”
“Why?”
Not wanting to get Franny riled up with more criticism, Brooke didn’t mention the lack of security in her apartment or the uncurtained windows that were open to public view or the fact that cats could dart in and out at will. This place was unsafe. “If something is truly wrong, we need to stick together.”
The doorbell rang, and she heard Agent Sloan cross the front room. He called out, “I’ll answer it.”
The fact that there was an armed federal agent in the other room reassured her. She pulled Franny to her feet. “Where’s your suitcase?”
“I don’t want to pack. Do I have to?”
“Not a problem. I’ve got everything at my house that you might need.” With a renewed sense of purpose and a laser focus on home, she propelled her friend through the bedroom door. “Grab your keys and let’s get out of here.”
In the front room, Brooke would have preferred to make a beeline for the exit, but Sloan and two uniformed officers blocked the way. With his holster clipped to his belt and Franny’s too-small poncho covering his shoulders, Sloan looked like a deranged outlaw. She wondered how he had explained his outfit to the cops who had arrived in response to her 911 call.
She checked her watch. Thirty-three minutes had elapsed since she’d spoken to the emergency operator. If this had been an attack by a homicidal maniac, they’d all be dead by now. Nonetheless, she thanked the officers for coming and apologized for the false alarm.
To Sloan, she said, “I’m taking Franny to my house. She’ll be safe with me. Do you plan to investigate the phone calls she received?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Please keep me informed.”
Franny popped up beside them holding a black plastic garbage bag filled with the scraps and glitter from the table. Her fears seemed to have disappeared. She was beaming. Brooke envied her friend’s resilience, even though she didn’t completely believe that bubbly smile.
Before they could escape out the door, one of the uniformed officers stepped forward. “I know you,” he said. “Matter of fact, I recognize both of you with the black hair and blue eyes. You’re two of the Hardy Dolls.”
The emotions Brooke had been holding back erupted. Every muscle in her body tensed. Twelve years ago, six girls—all with black hair and sad blue eyes—had been abducted from their foster homes by a psychopath named Martin Hardy. He had held them captive in an isolated house in the mountains where they’d been shackled, drugged, starved and brutalized. He’d done unspeakable things.
“Hardy Dolls,” the cop repeated. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
She despised the demeaning nickname the press had labeled them with. Hardy Dolls sounded like the six of them were a soccer team or a rock group, instead of the cruel truth that nobody wanted to face—they were throwaway foster kids who nobody missed and nobody searched for. They’d had to save themselves.
“We’re not dolls. Not now. Not ever.”
Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out the front door. I never should have left my house.
Copyright © 2019 by Kay Bergstrom
ISBN-13: 9781488045721
Hidden Identity
Copyright © 2019 by Alice Sharpe
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