by Wendy Walker
Rosie’s cheeks started to burn. She had not told them about Laura’s breakup in New York. Shit. What if they asked? Would she have to tell them he was her therapist? That he was married and had children, and now—dead?
But Conway, mercifully, pushed ahead. “Did she say where he lived, what he did for work, anything more specific?”
“Only what I’ve told you—that he said his name was Jonathan Fields. That he worked for a hedge fund. Lived in Branston. Drove a black BMW. That all fits, right? With Jonathan Fielding? His company phone on Laura’s records—Klayburn Capital—is a hedge fund. And the car—you said you got a license plate number?”
“In Massachusetts,” Pearson said now. “A BMW. He doesn’t have an address here in Branston. But the company said he was living here now to open a new office.”
“So he lied to her—that’s something, right? He was lying. And if she found out…” Rosie paused then and looked at their faces. Conway’s was blank, but Pearson …
“You’re afraid she might have turned violent. That’s what this has been about all along,” she said. “Because of what happened eleven years ago.”
Rosie looked away then. Still, she defended her sister the way she always had, and the way she always would.
“Laura didn’t kill that boy. It was a homeless man with mental health problems. He lived in those woods for years. He used to chase us, dress up like a vampire. They found him in the car.…”
Conway then: “We’re not here to rehash that crime, Mrs. Ferro.”
Rosie stopped talking, though she didn’t believe him. Not entirely. That crime would never go away. She thought about the notes—more things she hadn’t shared with them. Maybe it was time. Gabe had them, didn’t he? She’d given them to him at the diner? So many questions, but her mind was shutting down.
“The night of the date, she took your car. The minivan, which you later found on Richmond Street with two parking tickets. One at seven forty-five p.m. and one at ten a.m. Correct?” Conway asked.
Rosie nodded.
“And then you went to the harbor with photos of possible men from findlove.com—men you found doing a search that you thought was similar to what Laura might have done?”
“Yes. Married men. Thirty-five to forty. Divorced and no kids. Then we ruled out men who were balding, under five-six, overweight, et cetera.”
“And you took those photos to the harbor to see if anyone recognized him or your sister?”
“Yes.”
Conway paused. He tilted his head and leaned forward like he just had a thought.
“Why the harbor? Why not Richmond Street where the car was parked?”
Rosie looked at him curiously. She’d already been over this with them.
“Because of her phone—her phone died and when we called the carrier, they said it last sent out a signal by the harbor. If her phone was there, then she was there.”
Pearson picked up some papers and flipped through them until she found what she was looking for. She handed it to Conway, who looked it over, then passed it to Rosie.
“The records they gave us show the last signal on Richmond Street. Inside the Irish pub. Whom did you speak with at the carrier?” Conway asked.
Rosie stared at the paper and the information that could not be refuted.
“I don’t know—it was Gabe. Gabe Wallace—he’s an old friend of ours. He came over that morning to help us because he works in IT and because he’s very close with my sister. Is it possible the phone went offline but then came back on briefly? Maybe that’s what Gabe’s contact saw—the first time it went offline but not the last?”
Conway shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Then he looked at Pearson. “Can you have them check again?”
Pearson got up and left the room.
“She might have found a charger at the harbor, right? But not for long—just enough to send out another signal before it died again. That’s possible, right?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just see what they say.”
“I’ll call Gabe,” Rosie said, picking up her phone. She dialed his number, but the call went straight to voicemail. She hung up and sent him a text to call her. She said it was urgent.
“This Gabe—was he ever romantically involved with your sister?” Conway asked then.
Rosie was indignant, though it was an obvious question. “No. Never. She was like a little sister to him.”
Conway had another question on the heels of the first. “You said he works in IT?”
“Yes. He does home and office installations. Troubleshooting, that sort of thing. But also some forensic work for law firms. He works for my husband’s firm sometimes, for the divorce lawyers, mostly. That’s why he did the search for those men—he does that for clients trying to find cheating spouses. He knew how to create the fake account so we could find other women this man had been with.”
“And it worked,” Conway said. “You found women Rittle had lured into bed.”
“Yes, we did. Our mistake was looking at the wrong bar—but wait!” Rosie suddenly had an idea. “If we show the photograph of Jonathan Fielding to people at the bar where her phone actually died—the Irish pub, right?—maybe someone saw them together! Where is his picture…?”
Rosie started riffling through the stack of papers on the table. Conway seemed reluctant, but he began to help her.
They were interrupted by Pearson, who walked cautiously into the room.
“What is it?” Rosie asked. Her eyes were pinched together with apprehension.
“It’s Jonathan Fielding. We put out a locate—he was admitted to Branston Hospital Friday afternoon. Severe trauma to the head. They’ve induced a coma until they can control the swelling.”
“No!” Rosie gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. “No…”
“A forensics team already worked his apartment. They haven’t run the prints yet, but they have them.”
“And Laura?” Rosie asked. “Was Laura…”
“No one was there. There was no sign of a struggle. They didn’t know about Laura missing until just now—when we put out the locate on Fielding. Looks like someone pushed in when he unlocked the door. He was struck twice while he was standing, and a third time after he was on the ground. The corner caught his forehead dead-on. Doesn’t look like anything was stolen.”
Rosie was dizzy and began to sway. Conway took her by the arm and helped her sit down.
“There were two glasses in the sink. A half-eaten pizza from a local spot. The deliveryman said there was a woman with him, but he didn’t get a good look at her. She had long hair. Light brown.”
“What was she wearing?” Rosie asked, though she already knew the answer.
“A black dress.”
Resignation came over her then. This was exactly what she thought it was. Right from the moment she opened her eyes and knew something was wrong. Before she found the car missing. Before she found the empty bed. She knew, in her heart, that this was what had happened. Just like before. With Mitch Adler. With Dr. Kevin Brody. And even before all of that—with Rick Wallace. With little fists punching through that wall.
Whatever happened now, she had to find Laura. And one way or another, they would help her through this. They would get her the help she needed to finally be well.
She looked at Pearson. “Is he going to make it?”
She nodded softly. “They think so.”
Thank God.
Thank God!
Rosie stood up then. She had work to do. She had to gather their troops—Joe and Gabe, and maybe even their mother, now. Whatever sins they had all committed would be forgotten. They would find Laura. And they would save her.
“Can I go?” Rosie asked. “I need to speak with my family. I need to call my mother.”
Pearson backed away from the door. “Just so you know, we’ll have to send a unit to your house. They’ll want to look through Laura’s room, her computer. Can we get your consent to enter?”
“My son is there,” Rosie said, thinking then about Mason and how he’d been without her all day. What must he be thinking? She knew he was safe, with Joe all morning and now with Zoe, but she was his mother. She felt torn in two.
“I’ll call the sitter—maybe she can take him outside when the officers get there.”
Conway got up and opened the door for her. “Make sure we can reach you, okay?”
Rosie didn’t look back as she walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door to her car.
She pulled out her phone and started to call Gabe. Something made her stop. She didn’t know why and she didn’t have time to think about it—but she called her husband instead.
FORTY-THREE
Laura. Session Number Sixteen. Six Weeks Ago. New York City.
Dr. Brody: You must have wondered about who he was—that man who pulled Mitch Adler from the car and killed him in the road.
Laura: I told myself it was Lionel Casey. He was found living in the car. He drove it into the woods as far as it would go and then he used it for shelter.
Dr. Brody: But it’s possible someone else drove it there—to hide it—and that Casey stumbled upon it after the fact. That’s what his defense team said, right?
Laura: Who else, then? Who else wanted him dead? They obviously didn’t want the car if they left it in the woods.
Dr. Brody: You had the bat in your hands. Blood on your clothing, even though you were standing several feet from the body. Do you remember, Laura? Do you remember if you swung that bat?
FORTY-FOUR
Laura. Present Day. Saturday, 2:30 p.m. Branston, CT.
Thirty-six hours have passed and I am still in Gabe’s house, hiding now behind the door of his basement.
I spent many afternoons here when I was a child, playing games in the dark with Gabe and other kids in our neighborhood, so I know it well. I know every window that looks to the outside. I know the door that leads to the boiler room, and how at the end of that room is a Bilco hatch that opens to his backyard. No one lived down here. The basement isn’t finished, so it’s clammy in the summer and ice-cold in the winter unless you huddle beside the water heater.
I wait now, hiding at the top of the stairs. Waiting for the door to open. Holding a bat in my hands.
Gabe had set up a makeshift bedroom here before we arrived. A mattress on the floor with a pillow and some old fleece blankets. A flashlight. And a bucket that he said I should use to go to the bathroom. He told me not to go upstairs, where a neighbor might see me through a window, or the police if they showed up. He told me not to peek out the small basement windows for the same reason. And he told me to leave through the Bilco doors if I heard three thuds on the ceiling—he said he would stomp his feet three times on the floor above and that would be the signal to escape.
I have not slept. I have cycled through terror at being blamed for what happened to Jonathan Fielding, and relief that Gabe saved me and that I might not have been found. But then all of that disappeared and left me with the horror that another man might be dead, and dead because of me.
Gabe stayed with me until daybreak Friday morning. Sitting beside the bed watching me sleep, although I was only pretending. I didn’t want him to know what was on my mind. The doubts about what he had done to Jonathan, whether it had been necessary and what that said about Gabe. And I didn’t want him to come closer to me, to touch me or try to comfort me, because he had been looking at me and speaking to me in ways that were unfamiliar. And that made me worry that I never really understood him or our relationship. And why would I? This is my defect, and I should have known that it applied not just to men on dates, but to everyone. Even my closest friend. And, perhaps, even to my family.
In the morning, he got a call from Rosie. I saw him answer it and speak to her calmly, saying he would be right over.
“What happened?” I asked him when he ended the call.
“The police have come to her house. They’re looking for you—just like I said they would.”
“Does Rosie know where I am?” I asked.
“Of course she does. It was all part of our plan to keep you safe. But I have to go now and I might not be back for several hours. It would seem strange to the police if I didn’t try to help them find you. There’s food in the spare refrigerator—do you remember where it is?” he asked me.
“In the utility room,” I answered him. We used to hide beer there when we were in high school.
“Right,” he said. “And remember—if you hear three thuds from up above, that’s your cue to go out the Bilco hatch. But not unless you hear them, okay? Do you understand? The neighbors could see you.”
I nodded, and he leaned over onto the bed and kissed my forehead. His eyes were wide with excitement like this was some top secret military operation and he was our general. He had never been our leader when we were younger. It was always Joe, or me at times. He liked to follow. I used to think it made him feel safe to be with strong people, people who could stand up to his brother the way I had done. Maybe that’s why I had never seen this look before. Maybe it wasn’t strange but just new—a new Gabe who had grown from the shadows after Rick left for good to join the army.
This is what I told myself as he walked up the stairs. The bright light of day rushed into the dark space, but then disappeared along with Gabe when he closed the door behind him.
He returned sometime that afternoon. I don’t know what time it was or how long he’d been gone. I only know that it had felt like forever.
I had found sandwiches in the refrigerator. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread. I used to eat those in hoards when I was little, and it was both sweet and eerie that he remembered and had gone to the trouble to fix them, wrapping them carefully in plastic baggies. There were bottles of water and grape soda.
I used the bucket to pee, like he said, and emptied it in a utility sink and ran the water hot for a long time. Then I ran it cold and splashed it on my face. I ran it through my hair, which still smelled of Jonathan Fielding, if that was even possible. But it had been wrapped in his hands, pressed against his chest. The smell of him, of his cologne and his sweat, made me feel sick inside.
Is he dead? I wondered this every minute Gabe was gone.
When he returned, the light was not as bright when it came through the door, or peeked through the tiny windows, so I imagined it was late afternoon.
“What happened?” I asked him. “Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But Rosie and Joe are fine. The police won’t leave them alone. We’ll give it one more day and then I’ll get you out of here. You’ll ride in the trunk of my car and we’ll drive until we find someplace safe.”
“What about Melissa?” I asked. He’d said she was traveling for work, but surely she would be home for the weekend. And one more night would make it Saturday, unless I had lost track of time entirely.
“Don’t worry about my wife. She’s away for work. She won’t come back until we’re gone.”
“And Rosie…” I started to cry then. “I don’t want to leave, Gabe. I don’t want to leave what’s left of my life!”
He took me by the arms then and shook me hard. The excitement left his face and what came instead was anger. The general dressing down his soldier.
“I’ve gone to a lot of effort. Taken a lot of risks and thrown away my life to save you. You could be a little bit grateful and do what you’re told!”
I was quiet then, choking back my tears. Choking back the terror that was now raw and full-on.
“Okay?” he asked me, his voice growing softer.
I nodded. “Okay, Gabe.” I was afraid to say anything else.
“I have to leave as soon as Rosie calls again.”
The call didn’t come for a long time. Hours upon hours. I asked Gabe what time it was, but he said it was best if I didn’t know. He said it would make me anxious.
He went upstairs to speak to her, then he returned. He said I s
hould sleep. So I lay back down and pretended to sleep and felt his eyes never leave me as he sat by the mattress.
The next call came when it was light again. He shook me, though I wasn’t asleep, and told me he had to go.
“Don’t come upstairs,” he reminded me. “Or go outside. Not unless you hear three thuds on the ceiling.”
“I know,” I said. He’d repeated the instructions over and over, so I didn’t question him. I knew I could be wrong about what I was thinking. But in the end, I would have to decide. I had to trust reasoning that had proven to be untrustworthy without fail.
And what I was thinking was that Gabe had lost his mind.
He was gone for the second time, and when I heard the car pull away, I climbed up on an old trunk and peeked out the small window that faced the front of the house. I saw his car disappear down the driveway and toward the top of Deer Hill Lane.
I climbed down from the trunk and ran up the stairs to the door. I didn’t know where I would go, but I would look for Rosie’s purse, which had my phone, and try to charge it and call her. Or I would find a computer or a phone in the house. Or I would simply run—out of this house and through the woods that led to the preserve. I knew every inch of it, and I would hide until I could find out what was going on.
I reached the top step, crazy with fear, and I put my hand on the knob and turned. But it wouldn’t open. I turned one way and it stopped. I turned the other way, and it stopped. The door was locked from the outside. I tried pulling on it, hard. Maybe it would break open. But it was strong and I remember when we entered that it had a dead bolt as well. I couldn’t remember if I heard it slide closed when he left, but I didn’t have time to find out.
I ran back down the stairs and through the door to the utility room, past the water heater and the refrigerator to the very back corner where there were cement steps and the two large folding doors of the Bilco hatch. I slid the latch to open them and pushed against the outer one. I’d opened these doors a hundred times and they hadn’t been changed. But the door wouldn’t budge more than an inch, and I could see through that inch the links of a metal chain, locking that door from the outside as well.