Safe

  “See, Jenny,” Hesse said. “That’s the surprise. Right there.”

  “Not following,” I said.

  She sighed. The way Aunt Trude did when Sebastian threw that mini-tantrum and cracked his sister’s iPhone.

  “We’re trying to figure out how you could’ve lived in that trailer with your abductors when there’s no physical evidence of them ever being there.”

  “Huh?” I was playing dumb.

  “The previous owners, Mr. and Mrs. Washington, vacated the trailer four years ago. Plenty of their DNA is scattered throughout the place. And then there’s yours. But no DNA from Mother and Father. How do you explain that?”

  Simple. They weren’t there, of course. The deserted trailer was a grungy pit stop between the Greers and the Kornbluths, a good six months after I’d walked through the gate of Father and Mother’s house. The idea was to keep them and Hesse and Kline as far apart as possible. You understand—there’d be the little problem of our stories not exactly matching up.

  This is why they’d wanted to interrogate me alone today, I thought. So Laurie wouldn’t tell them to stop badgering the witness. Who’d, after all, been through hell. So she wouldn’t make them pack up their box of questions and go home.

  “Mother and Father’s DNA,” Hesse repeated. “Why do you think there’s none of it in that trailer?”

  “I’m not a DNA scientist. I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “Don’t think you need to have an actual degree to understand the problem here, Jenny. We just want you to help us understand. Maybe you got your facts confused. Maybe you can take us through the timeline again?”

  “The timeline?”

  “Yes. When you lived with them . . . your abductors . . . and when you left?”

  The way Hesse said abductors was hard to miss. The way the supervisors at juvie hall—prison guards to you—used to say ladies. Something they didn’t believe for one second.

  “Maybe I took you through it ten times already.”

  “It’s just not adding up, Jenny.”

  “They were in the trailer. With me. Doing things to me . . .”

  I said don’t move . . .

  “I have no idea why you can’t find their DNA,” I continued, making myself sound righteously indignant. I could do indignant. “Maybe they did a really good job of cleaning it up before they left.”

  “So, they managed to clean all their hair fibers but somehow left the Washingtons’? Does that make sense to you, Jenny?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Because it defies scientific possibility. It can’t happen.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid we say so.”

  I gave a Toni Kelly shrug. Like What do you want me to do about it? Even though I knew, of course, what they wanted me to do about it, which was tell them the truth. Sorry, not my strong suit.

  “Then there’s the lack of any corroborating witnesses,” Kline jumped in again.

  “Corroborating . . . ?” Speak English, I felt like saying.

  “People who saw them around the trailer. They had to get out sometimes. To rifle through those Goodwill bins you talked about, or pick up food. Why wouldn’t anyone have seen them?”

  “The trailer was in a deserted lot,” I said. “No one lives there. That’s why they call it deserted.”

  “The lot, sure. But how about around the lot? Around the neighborhood even?”

  “There wasn’t a neighborhood. There weren’t neighbors.” A corny joke I suddenly remembered: What did the filly say to the stallion when he tried to kiss her? Stop, the neighhhhhhh-bors might talk.

  “Walk a few blocks and there are. Houses. Streets. People. None of those people ever saw anyone fitting your description of Father. Or Mother. They just saw you.”

  “Maybe I was the only one worth looking at.”

  I gave him the stare I’d practiced from Instagram—narrowed eyes, pouty lips, tilted chin—Don’t you agree?

  Kline smirked. I wasn’t fitting the FBI profile for the victim of a child kidnapping. I wanted to tell them victim was my middle name—they needed to trust me on this. I’d earned my victimhood—I’d be happy to show them the slash marks in a pantry stinking of raw potatoes if they didn’t believe me. We could count them together as a group project.

  “Jenny, have you told us the whole truth here?” Hesse doing empathy, which wasn’t as convincing as me doing indignant, but passable.

  “And nothing but the truth,” I said.

  I’d had enough. I had things to do. People to talk to. One people in particular, I was thinking. And hadn’t I been given a kind of immunity from prosecution here? Even if I didn’t understand why.

  I clammed up. No, Laurie, not the made-up clamming we did in Montauk. The kind that made Hesse and Kline begin shooting me stone-cold stares, especially Hesse, who dropped empathy like a hot potato and embraced tough love instead—mostly the tough part.

  “We need answers, Jenny, and sooner or later we’re going to get them,” she said.

  I stayed quiet.

  “There are things we believe you’re not telling us. Things that don’t fit your narrative.”

  My story, I almost said out loud. My story. They always seemed to go for three syllables when two would do.

  “We’ll be back,” Kline said. “And we’ll be having a word with your mother.”

  Be my guest.

  THIRTY

  I met Jenny in a dream.

  We were sitting on the front porch and it was summer. That very day, I think—the day she disappeared. She was dressed just the way the articles described her. In pink shorts and a white striped T-shirt.

  We were facing each other, sitting Indian-style. I was thinking I ought to be scared sitting there alone with her—like Chucky, Toni taunted me—but here’s the thing: I wasn’t.

  I felt calm and peaceful instead.

  Jenny was just a little six-year-old girl. Who reached out and hugged me. And whispered something in my ear.

  Save me, she said. You can. You have to . . .

  When I woke up drenched in my own sweat, I jumped into the shower and scrubbed myself head to toe, as if I was trying to wash her off. No dice.

  So I went looking for a number.

  Whose number, you ask? The one belonging to J. Pennebaker.

  Who’d said, Tell Mrs. Kristal sorry, I won’t be calling anymore.

  I thought maybe I should call him.

  Finding that number turned out to be easy. I just looked through the mail.

  West Elm, Target, and Victoria’s Secret catalogues. Something from the board of elections. A solicitation from the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.

  The phone bill.

  Mind if I have a look, Mom and Dad? No? Great.

  I immediately spotted that weird 404 area code, which Google confirmed was from the state of Georgia.

  There was something weirder.

  There were at least thirty calls placed from J. Pennebaker to the Kristals.

  I counted them.

  Thirty in one month, which seemed like an awful lot. Unless you were a member of the family, say, as opposed to someone trying to find a member of the family. Or at least he had been, more than two years ago.

  Pennebaker had been calling nearly nonstop.

  Most of the calls lasting exactly one minute. Why’s that? Probably because they’d gone straight to voice mail. He’d been calling, but the Kristals hadn’t been answering.

  Something else was bothering me—add it to the growing list. Not just that Pennebaker called to say he wouldn’t be calling. It was that sorry he’d thrown in there. Why sorry? Sorry for what, huh?

  The barrage of calls, probably. Sure.

  Thirty of them, ending with the last one, the thirtieth—right after I�
�d come home.

  And then I thought, Hey, if all those calls went to voice mail—maybe they’re still on there.

  See?

  This cold case detective thing wasn’t as hard as it looked.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Umm . . . hello, Mrs. Kristal—this is Joe Pennebaker. As I was trying to explain to you and your husband on the phone. Yeah, I finally retired and moved down to the land of cotton. Still trying to get used to people saying please and thank you. Anyways, I still have this case on my brain. Your daughter’s. The thing is, every detective worth anything has one like that. You know, the case that won’t leave you alone. The one that keeps you up at night. Jenny’s case . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s because I lost my daughter too—to cancer, I know, it’s not the same thing, even if it eats at you the same way, but I know what it’s like losing a daughter. Anyway, there’s some things I’ve been digging into and I have just a few . . .”

  Click.

  The Kristals’ answering machine looked like a relic from back when Jenny disappeared—waiting for messages from a daughter that never came. It had proclaimed: Time’s up. Like the psych they’d made me sit down with at juvie hall, who’d grant you exactly fifteen minutes and not a nanosecond more. I used to spring some great revelation on her at exactly the fourteen-minute mark just to see if she’d cut me off in midsentence. Let’s pick this up next time, she’d say in a pretty bored voice.

  Next time for Pennebaker was just a few seconds later.

  “Umm . . . this is Joe again. Sorry about that. What I was going to say is I have just a few questions for you, if that’s okay? If you or your husband could give me a call back, my number is 404-672-8579. Thank you.”

  Evidently Pennebaker never got it. That call back.

  “Hey there . . . this is Joe Pennebaker again. If you or your husband could ring me back, I’d really appreciate it. As I said, I’ve been doing some digging around and there are a few things I’ve come across—some things you could maybe help me clear up . . . one or two questions, that’s it. My number is 404-672-8579. Thank you.”

  They hadn’t answered that one either. By his next call, Pennebaker was sounding a little anxious.

  “Joe again. Joe Pennebaker. I know I’m not officially on the case anymore. Your daughter’s. But it’d really be helpful if you could answer just a few questions. Honest . . . all I need is a few minutes of your time. That’s all. My number is . . . well, you have my number by now. Please call me back anytime.”

  I was downstairs in the living room—one ear to Joe Pennebaker, the other on the front door, which Long Island’s number one truant might walk through at any minute. And wonder what I was doing with the home phone glued to my ear without my saying anything into it.

  Pennebaker must’ve waited another few days before trying again.

  “Pennebaker here. I was hoping I’d hear back from one of you by now. Look, since I can’t seem to get either of you on the phone . . . understand you’re busy and all, I do . . . but this is about your daughter . . .”

  He was ping-ponging between pissed and polite and having a hard time deciding which. It was kind of funny—if I wasn’t seriously on edge, it might’ve been. On edge regarding that front door. And on the edge of my seat (the orange love seat in case you’re interested) waiting for Pennebaker to finally say something interesting. Okay, you discovered something—spit it out . . .

  “. . . just some questions about . . . I don’t know, the family dynamic, let’s call it. I mean, back then. It might have some bearing on what happened to your daughter. So, if you could just please call me back.”

  It must’ve worked. Finally. They did call him back. And left a message.

  “Uhhh . . . Joe Pennebaker here. Got your message. Look, I understand your frustration with the lack of progress in this case. I’m including my own investigation in there, of course. Totally appreciate your feelings. I understand the two of you thinking you just want to throw your hands up and say no more . . . you’re done, you’re out, but—”

  Click.

  “These damn machines. I was saying I understand how you might want to give up and say I don’t want to hear anything anymore, I’ve been talking to detectives for twelve years and where has it gotten us . . . I get that, I do . . . but that’s the exact reason—”

  Click.

  “Jesus . . . can’t these machines give you more time? I was saying that’s the exact reason I’m calling. I can’t give up on this case. I refuse. I went back and looked at everything with fresh eyes. The transcript of the initial investigation for one thing . . .”

  The transcript he’d mailed to them. The one I’d read in the middle of the night.

  “There’s something in there that stood out. That I’d flat-out missed before—”

  No shit.

  I gave me, myself, and I a pat on the back. Pennebaker might have missed something his first time through the transcript. Not me.

  “In the interviews with some of your friends in your neighborhood. I tracked back and re-interviewed them. Then did a little more digging after that . . .”

  So Pennebaker had spoken with the neighborhood parents. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Kelly couldn’t stop talking about me after I’d come back. Because she’d been speaking about me before I’d come back. And so had the Mooneys and the Shapiros. Blabbing to Pennebaker. Telling him how that sweet, adorable, normal little six-year-old had really been the little bitch from hell.

  He kept trying to get them after that call. At least ten more times—sometimes hanging up without leaving a message, sometimes leaving a long one that needed three different callbacks to finish. He was sometimes friendly and sometimes like a cop who needed his questions answered now, and sometimes both. On the last call he made to them—the last one before his call to me when he asked me to let them know he was sorry and wouldn’t be calling them anymore, he’d finally come clean—what exactly it was he wanted answers on.

  “Look, I need to ask you a few questions about your son,” he’d finished. “About Ben.”

  CLICK.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I went to the Roosevelt Field Mall with Tabs.

  I’d wanted to get out of the house and go somewhere with lots of people around. Because, okay—the house was beginning to feel a little like juvie hall. Minus the ammonia smell and the shitty food and the snitch of a roommate.

  They’d leave the hall light on there 24/7. There was no escaping that sickly yellow light, because even with the door shut, it would seep through the cracks like something living.

  It said: I’m watching you.

  I’d woken up in the middle of the night because I’d heard a door close.

  My door.

  Just as I went and opened it, a light shut off. I couldn’t tell whose light. But I caught its visual echo, I’d guess you’d call it, like the imprint of a camera flash that lingers in your eye.

  Someone had been in my room while I was sleeping.

  Watching me.

  I’d never made it back to sleep.

  I need to ask you a few questions about your son. About Ben.

  Why wasn’t Pennebaker asking questions about Jenny? Who liked to push her best friends off monkey bars and her big brother down the stairs? Only I was starting to remember other stuff from Ben’s Facebook page.

  Like that scar he still had on his leg from when his sister pushed him into a metal tomato stake in the backyard. That time he was in the ocean and remembered being pulled under by a wave. Or was it by Jenny? That’s who he remembered being there when he made it to the surface after nearly drowning, wasn’t it? His little sister. And then there was that time he got lost in the same cave Jenny had easily walked out of. Maybe she’d had a little something to do with the getting-lost part. And there were those crayon pictures he’d seen in her room after a fight—the ones with bloody targets drawn on Ben’
s forehead. At some point, other kids were being kept away from Jenny for their own protection. But not Ben. He was there. In the ocean. In the cave.

  In the house.

  “Wanna do a little vogueing?” Tabs said.

  We were passing one of those photo booths you put a dollar into and walk out with stupid snapshots of yourself—probably a big deal before you could do exactly the same thing with your iPhone. The booth had probably been there forever and they just hadn’t gotten around to junking it.

  The whole mall looked about ready for the junk heap today. Old and faded. I hadn’t noticed all those stores with RENT ME signs the day Laurie took me here. I must’ve been too busy loading up on skinny jeans and scoop-neck tops. It was like a pretty girl smiling at you and suddenly you see all these missing teeth.

  No missing teeth for Tabs and me. We mugged for the camera with our faces glommed together, changing our expressions between flashes. It reminded me of that day in the police station with Detective Mary.

  Mind if I take your photo, Jenny?

  We divided them up when we left the booth—one for you, one for me. Tabs was partial to the shots where we looked like complete idiots, sticking our tongues out, pursing our lips into exaggerated Os, squinting our eyes.

  Your eyes . . . they used to crinkle when you laughed . . .

  Personally, I liked the ones where we’d forgotten to mug, where maybe the flash had caught us by surprise and it was just the two of us being normal. Tabs and Jobeth at the mall.

  That’s how I felt with her.

  Like Jobeth.

  The one I might’ve been if my mother hadn’t loved Crystal more.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked me, after we’d devoured two Ben & Jerry’s cones and wandered back out to the parking lot searching for Tabs’s car.

  “I don’t know. Nap.”

  “I mean the rest of your life now?” Tabs said. Cherry Garcia versus Cookie Dough had somehow morphed into a serious life discussion.

  “Stay put,” I said.

  I meant it.