Crash & Burn (36 page)

“Five thousand dollars. That kind of love, and you sold it for a measly five grand?”

“Stop!”

But I don't. I can't. “Tell her you love her. Now. Say the words. She's been waiting thirty years! Thirty years for you to return to her. Thirty years for you to remember how much you love her.”

“No—”

“You have to!”

“I can't! Don't you understand? I didn't know. I didn't understand. I really did tell myself it was for the best. Then, when she was gone, when I realized what I had done . . . There was no going back. Don't you understand? I ripped my own heart out of my chest, and there was no putting it back again!”

“Did you miss her?”

“Yes! Every day!”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”

“She loves you, too. She loves you and she hates you, and there is nothing I can do to save you from what's going to happen next.”

Marlene frowns at me.

“Girl, you're crazy!” She takes a determined step forward, as if to end this once and for all . . .

She doesn't see what I already know. The jumble of objects all these years later, still sticking out of the earth. Because the night had been dark then, too, and time compressed and my vision blurred by the thickness of my tears. As I'd dragged her body through the woods, away from the flames. As I found the half-filled grave dug just hours before. As I sat back on my heels and used my bare hands to further excavate the heavy, wet earth.

Of course, I'd been exhausted and shell-shocked and traumatized. I hadn't dug very deep, before depositing my most precious possession in the earth. Her limbs flopping awkwardly. Her sightless gray eyes staring back at me. Not enough time for perfect. Just good enough.

As I closed her eyes.

As I kissed her cheek.

As I whispered, “I'm sorry.”

Before dumping a few handfuls of mud, then running off into the night.

Now Marlene comes for me.

She steps forward.

She trips over the first protruding object. Stumbles into a second, then a third. Throws out her left hand as if to catch herself, but it's no use. The objects have won.

She falls back.

Simple really. Stumble, fall, get up again.

But this time there's a crack. Loud enough to echo through the silence as Marlene's head smashes against a particularly round and smooth rock.

Such as the kind a girl might find in the woods and use as a marker for her best friend's grave.

The wind, whispering again. I swear I hear her voice. I feel her tears. The lost princess of the secret realm, finally reunited with the magical queen after all these years . . .

I open my arms. “I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I love you, Vero.”

Marlene doesn't get up again.

Minutes later Wyatt comes crashing into the clearing, drawing up short as his flashlight finds me. He illuminates me, then the body, then the objects sticking out of the earth.

“Thomas?” I ask quickly.

“Tessa is tending to him. Ambulance is on its way.” He takes a step closer to Marlene's body, his flashlight dancing over her cracked skull, sightless eyes. There's no need to check for a pulse. It's as obvious to him as it is to me; what's done is done.

His flashlight returns to the ground near her feet. To the mass of skeletal bones protruding from the earth.

He looks up at me.

“Wyatt, meet Vero. Vero, meet Wyatt.”

After that, neither of us says another word.

I
DIED
TWICE
before.

I remember the sensation of pain, burning and sharp, followed by fatigue, crushing and deep. I'd wanted to lie down. I'd
needed
to be done with it. But I hadn't. I'd fought the pain, the fatigue, the fucking white light. I'd clawed my way back to the land of the living.

For Vero. I came back from the dead for her.

Now I am finding the ability to move forward for me.

Marlene Bilek shot Thomas in his side. Not a serious injury, as the bullet grazed his ribs without hitting anything important or lodging anywhere permanent. I still spent a sleepless couple of days bedside in his hospital room, holding his hand while fixated on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

How had he done it? I wondered. Accompanying me after three separate accidents, where I got to sleep off the pain, while he was forced to sit, wait, watch, wonder. To love someone so much and feel so powerless.

I marvel at this man I married. Maybe it's taken me twenty-two years, but I'm finally starting to appreciate my own good fortune. To have found love. To have built a life. It's all there, really.

It's simply up to me to grab on with both hands and claim the future as my own.

In the immediate aftermath, the police had many questions. I did my best to answer, while my brand-new lawyer, produced by Tessa, was careful to remind everyone of my young age at the time of the alleged incidents as well as the abusive situation: mitigating circumstances.

From my own perspective . . . what is memory? What do any of us truly know about the past? I described that last night with Vero the best that I recall it to be true. But as I think Sergeant Wyatt can attest from several days in my company, truth can be relative, the mind a fickle beast. What I think I know, and what I actually know . . . All I can say is, ask Vero. Spend an afternoon. Have some tea.

This is her story after all.

Marlene Bilek's body was claimed by her husband, Hank, and daughter, Hannah. They have not asked to meet with me and I don't think I could meet with them. It is too hard to look at Hannah, Vero 2.0, and not think of what might've been. For their part, I would guess I'm the woman who tried to exploit Marlene by claiming to be her long-lost daughter.

What do they know of the police's suspicions regarding Vero's disappearance thirty years ago, let alone Marlene's actions that final night in the woods? Technically, Marlene died from a fall. She tripped; she cracked open her skull. I saw it with my own eyes. She shot Thomas, definitely. From our perspective, she acted aggressively, to cover up the truth from thirty years ago. But it would be just as easy for her loved ones to believe she acted out of revenge against two people associated with Vero's abduction.

The past is the past. Whatever sins Marlene committed, she paid for. I saw her pain with my own eyes. I watched her die.

Now it's between her and Vero.

This is Vero's story after all.

Of the two of us, Thomas faces the most legal scrutiny. First, there is the suspicious fire that destroyed our home. Second, possible charges of manufacturing evidence, given the presence of Veronica Sellers's fingerprints in my Audi. Finally, the burden of the unsolved burning of the dollhouse, not to mention the death of his mother, twenty-two years ago, plus the recent discovery of skeletal remains on the property.

Our lawyer isn't worried. It would appear we are the only two witnesses from that night so long ago. It's our official statement that Thomas's mother died falling down the stairs. While Vero, trapped in the fire, jumped from a three-story window. That leaves the matter of what started the fire, but apparently the original evidence wasn't preserved. Small towns, limited resources and all that.

As for more recent events . . . Hard to prove Thomas created fake fingerprints, given that the three-D printer in question has been burned to a crisp. Speaking of the house fire, so far the arson investigator has only recovered Thomas's fingerprints on the gas can. Nothing unusual about that, as it was his property.

Tessa told me herself, smiling slightly, that a single fingerprint isn't as good a piece of evidence as you'd think. To truly build a case, prosecutors want multiple pieces of physical evidence, not to mention a witness or two. Otherwise, there's always doubt. And in this day and age of intense media coverage of high-profile cases . . . Prosecutors don't like doubt. Apparently, many choose to shelve the case, fingerprint and all.

She and Wyatt came to visit me this morning. I have found a lovely cabin for Thomas and me to rent while he recuperates. I think in our entire married life, this is the first time I've found a place for us all by myself. It feels good to take the lead.

It also feels good to take a stand.

Thomas, bedridden in the hospital: “You should go. New name, fresh start. Get out while you can. For God's sake, Nicky. I could be arrested on arson charges any day. Not to mention I engineered a car crash with you still inside the vehicle. What kind of a man does such a thing?”

“You love me.”

“I betrayed you. I created a fake fingerprint glove, tried to literally turn you into a dead girl.”

“Only because you thought it would make me happy. After all, I spent most of my time in her company. And God knows my other aliases hadn't worked out. You'd already tried love and acceptance. Twenty-two years later, I can understand you going with a more radical approach.”

“I didn't know Marlene had sold Vero,” he tells me urgently, squeezing my hand. “Your reaction to the quilt, followed by your need to track down Vero's mom . . . I thought you needed her, that maybe, somehow, her love might finally make you whole. Given you knew so much about Vero's life and were so mentally muddled from the first two falls . . . I figured if the police identified you as Vero, confused or not, you'd accept her name. And maybe, just maybe, you'd find some peace.”

“Except the police didn't just ID me as Vero; they pursued you as the primary suspect in the car crash, leading to you burning down our house in order to cover your tracks.”

“I didn't want to leave you. But in the end, it seemed the only way to keep you safe.”

“I can't be Vero,” I tell him quietly. “I can only be me. But I understand what you did and why. And I understand why you took me back to the house that night, because if I couldn't be Vero, then I had to find a way to face what had happened once and for all. That's why you brought the shovel, right? You were going to take me to her body. You were going to dig her up, and then together, we'd finally do what we should've done twenty-two years ago. Bring her to the police. Get justice for Vero.”

“I remember, too, Nicky. That night . . . I remember it always.”

My turn to squeeze his hand.

After another moment, Thomas not looking at me, Thomas speaking quickly: “I still think you should go. I'm sole heir to that stupid house. Family property, meaning all these years later, the land, burned ruins, all belong to me. At least the state already cremated my mother's remains; otherwise, I'd have to deal with that, too.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

Thomas: “It's a fucking legal nightmare. Could take me years to sort out. Nicky . . .”

“I like that name. I think I'm going to keep it. Nicky Frank. It's a strong name. Fitting for a woman twice returned from the dead.”

“Is that the concussion talking again?”

“Maybe. So will you be Thomas Frank? Will you be my husband?”

Thomas not saying anything at all.

Me: “You're not answering.”

Thomas: . . .

Me: “Are you crying?”

Thomas: “For God's sake, lean closer so I can kiss you.”

Thomas is going to remain my husband. We will live here, and maybe it won't be happily ever after. I still have nightmares. And headaches and problems focusing and good days and bad days, not to mention years of physical and mental recovery before me.

But we all bear our scars. That's what makes us survivors.

Now Wyatt tells me that using DNA testing, the skeletal remains recovered from the woods have been positively ID'd as Veronica Sellers.

Furthermore, Marlene's family has already claimed the body. They plan to bury Vero next to Marlene. Mother and daughter together again.

Even knowing what I know, I can't argue with that.

Home; that's what Vero wanted. What all of us wanted. To go home again.

Tessa tells me she and Wyatt are getting a puppy. She seems more relaxed than the last time I saw her. I catch her and Wyatt smiling at each other several times. When they leave, he takes her hand and she lets him.

I think they're a cute couple. I'm glad they sit closer, knees touching. I can't wait to meet this puppy.

And now . . .

Thomas is resting in the back bedroom. He won't need me for a bit.

So I get out the quilt. I get comfortable on the sofa.

I close my eyes . . . and Vero and I share a cup of tea.

It takes a village to write a novel. Or in this case, a small army of medical specialists. I started
Crash & Burn
with the premise of a female who'd suffered some kind of head trauma, which had turned her into a stranger even to herself. Being a sucker for happy endings, I wanted an injury that would be serious, even life altering, but still hold out the promise of recovery. Enter my favorite pharmacist, Margaret Charpentier, and one of her students, Christine D'Amore, who promptly loaded me up with tons of information on traumatic brain injuries, their treatment and long-term impacts.

Given all the possibilities, I also consulted with one of my good friends and fellow thriller author, Dr. C. J. Lyons, who helped focus my search on post-concussive syndrome, a medical condition broad enough to cover just about anything I needed my heroine to do, while retaining the possibility of a positive future. In real life, Nicky would most likely require years to recover from her multiple concussions. Again, being a sucker for happy endings, I like to imagine her already headache free.

Once I'd selected my heroine's injury, next step was to actually maim her. Enter Eric Holloman, accident reconstruction specialist. I like to feel he enjoyed the experience of creating his very own wreck from the ground up, instead of his usual job of analyzing what someone else had already done. Not many guys into physics get to that level of artistic freedom.

Of course, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. I confess, I wouldn't be very good at medical diagnoses or auto accident reconstruction, as science isn't my strong suit.

Policing, on the other hand, I truly love. And it was once again a joy to work with Lieutenant Michael Santuccio from the Carroll County Sheriff's Office. Let's just say when Wyatt does something truly smart and very clever, that's all Michael.

Speaking of which, one of my former consultants, retired forensic expert Napoleon Brito, called me one day with the idea of using a 3-D printer to make fake fingerprints. Given that I'd already been reading up on the controversy surrounding plastic molded weapons, the chance to delve into the world of 3-D printing was too good to pass up. To that end, my deepest appreciation also goes to Jeff Nicoll from Ambix Manufacturing in Albany, New Hampshire, who allowed me to personally tour his plastics-molding company and watch their 3-D printer in action.

Of course, my very own husband and enginerd also assisted with this project. Normally Anthony's the one saying he's scared of his diabolical spouse. After spending an afternoon listening to him and Jeff excitedly discuss all the ways to use manufacturing for evil, right back at you, love. Our daughter also deserves a round of applause, serving as my go-to fashion consultant for all media events, not to mention my sounding board of choice when working out pesky plot problems. She thinks I drive her to horsing out of obligation. It's really to con her into brainstorming my novels.

Congratulations to the winners of the annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes at LisaGardner.com. To Sally Schnettler, who nominated Marlene Bilek to die. Additionally, Michelle Brown nominated Brittany Kline for her star-making turn as night clerk.While the international winner, Berrin Vural Celik, from Istanbul, named Nicky's doctor in honor of her young daughter Sare Celik. Also, my deepest appreciation to Jean Huntoon, who won the right to be a character in this novel through her generous donation to the Rozzie May Animal Alliance. Thank you for supporting this worthy organization, not to mention all the cats and dogs in our community.

Finally, in memory of Sierra, our beloved Sheltie and best hugger in the family. We lost her in August. We miss her still.