Stay With Me (23 page)

Sykes was saying, “We’re monitoring her credit cards, bank activity . . .”

“Nothing?” Morasco said.

“She withdrew five thousand dollars from her bank account three days ago. Nothing since.”

Faith said, “That will probably last her.”

Brenna closed her eyes.
Maya is alive. She’s healthy. She’ll be home soon.

“What can we do?” said Jim. “How can we help?”

“You’re doing everything you can. We couldn’t ask for more helpful family . . .” Sykes’s cell phone trilled. He looked at the screen. “Be back in a few.” He moved out of the room, into the foyer.

Jim looked at Nick. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“What?”

“When you approached Carver, he was right across the street from the woman he supposedly partied with. Why didn’t he just point her out? Why did he run?”

Morasco stared at the table. “Scared,” he said. “He was thinking about himself, the coke in his pocket, getting caught. If I hadn’t come on like such a hard-ass, maybe he would have talked instead of running.”

Jim didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at Morasco, it was the same as agreeing. It made Brenna remember Jim on October 23, 1998, the night he’d learned she’d broken her promise to him and done a job for her former boss, Errol Ludlow, the night he’d ended their marriage, no questions asked. He’d given her that same look. That face, like a gavel crashing down . . .

I just got back from Ludlow’s office. I know what you did last night.

Faith’s voice brought her back. “Did you ever think,” she said to Nick, “that Mark Carver could have been scared of
her,
not you?”

Brenna looked at Faith, so pale beneath the TV makeup she’d never bothered to take off, so tired. She recalled the way she’d thanked her outside Miles’s apartment, the way she’d gone to her car without saying good-bye. That sadness that clung to her . . . it hadn’t been about instant messages. Faith was starting to give up.

“I mean, did you see Maya, Nick?” Faith said. “Did the other two officers see another person in the car when they were questioning that woman?”

“No, Faith. They didn’t. But that doesn’t mean—”

“How do you know he wasn’t too scared to talk? How do you know he hadn’t just seen something happen to Maya, something so awful, and he was afraid that if he pointed that woman out, she’d get free and she’d find him and she’d do the same thing to him?”

“Stop
,” Jim’s voice was broken, wet.

“No,” Nick said. “She had her hidden somewhere. The trunk probably. Maya is alive. I know she is.”

“How do you know?” Faith was in tears now. “Because of the texts? Those texts didn’t sound like Maya. Anybody could have written them, anybody could have pinned that note to a dead body and used my daughter’s earring.
She’s happy now
. That could mean so many things. So many terrible, unthinkable things . . .”

“
Please Faith stop it
,” Jim said.

Faith started to sob. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him and held her tight, to keep from crying himself, Brenna knew.

Brenna had seen this so many times with clients after she’d given them bad news—arms clasped around each other, huddling together to ward off the inevitable, the grief. The truth.

“She’s alive,” she said to no one, with too much pleading in her voice.

“I know she is,” said Nick. And all she could think of was his infant son, who had died in his crib, and for no other reason than life was unfair, that nothing happened for any reason other than it happened. It
was.

Please be alive,
Maya
, Brenna thought, Brenna hoped. Even though she knew that Maya couldn’t hear her thoughts, even though she knew that hoping did nothing, other than to make you feel as though you had some tiny bit of control.

Sykes came back through the door, just as Brenna’s phone vibrated SOS. A text. She flipped it open and checked who it was from and for a few seconds, stopped breathing. “Her phone is on,” she said to the detective. “Castillo. Her phone is on. She just texted me.”

“I know,” he said. “We have a location. There are already officers at the scene.”

“Already?” Brenna said as she opened the text and read it, her skin going cold.

“What does it say?” Faith said.

Brenna slid her flip phone to the center of the table, and Faith grabbed it. Read it. “What does this mean? What is she talking about?”

It read:
I got your message. Too little too late.

“I . . . I called her earlier. Said I’d be glad to help her find her son.”

“Too little, too late,” Faith whispered. “My God. My God, no, please no . . .”

Brenna looked at Sykes. “How could the officers be at the scene already? What happened? Where is Maya?”

“I’m not certain what happened, or where your daughter is,” Sykes said. “But the officers are already at the scene because there’s been an explosion.”

19

Ever since she’d hung up with Brenna, Evelyn Spector hadn’t felt quite right.

Evelyn often got that feeling after speaking with her younger daughter—a certain uneasiness with herself, with the past. But this was different. Usually, when Brenna brought up events that made Evelyn feel uneasy, it was because she’d been there for them. They were lodged in her allegedly indisputable memory, and thus the world was compelled to face the supposed truth along with her.

The break-in, though. That had been all Evelyn’s.

How had Brenna found out about it? It hadn’t been in the papers. Evelyn hadn’t pressed charges. Specifically, she’d never told Brenna, because she hadn’t wanted her to worry, of course—but also because the experience had been so strangely humiliating: Evelyn cowering in her nightgown, alone in her bedroom as that loon of a woman crashed around her house, shouting obscenities. Shouting . . . Evelyn didn’t even want to think about what she’d said. And then, the policemen showing up, asking Evelyn if this was “something personal.”

What was that supposed to mean—
something personal
?

Anyway, Evelyn had washed her hands of the break-in. She hadn’t thought about it for years, but then there was Brenna bringing it up again—out of the blue, and with that tone in her voice, as though she were accusing her of something . . .
Something personal.

Evelyn needed a change of scenery—a nice brisk walk to clear her mind, and thank goodness, that’s just what she was getting. Already, the cold air was making her feel better as she strode up the sidewalk, turning the corner on City Island Avenue and heading toward Bay Street, arms pumping, long legs stretching and flexing. Evelyn didn’t brag about it, but she was in terrific shape for a woman her age. Walking on a winter’s day reminded her of that fact. It made her feel alive.

The library was one of Evelyn’s favorite destinations. There was something about the rounded entrance to the squat brick building that was so inviting, and the smell, that wonderful piney smell . . . The library had undergone a major renovation in the late nineties, doubling in size as a result. But inhaling that combination of furniture polish and books in plastic covers, Evelyn would feel such powerful nostalgia, her mind flooded by images of picture books and puppet shows and story hours gone by, of lives that were young and uncomplicated and, for the most part, happy.

“Hello Evelyn,” said Ruth the librarian, a woman her own age who had taught a poetry writing class for children here, back when Clea was a little girl and Brenna was still in diapers. “Did you have a nice walk?”

“Lovely,” Evelyn said. “Cold as it is, I can almost feel spring in the air.”

Ruth smiled. “Oh what a nice thought.”

Clea used to love Ruth’s poetry class. She had adored creative writing as a child, and was quite good at it, crafting poems and stories about wizards and unicorns and princesses trapped in towers. Evelyn and Jack used to believe she’d be a famous writer someday. Another Barbara Cartland or Mary Higgins Clark.

When exactly that gift for fiction had turned into a talent for lying, Evelyn wasn’t sure. All she knew was, it had happened, both her daughters growing into funhouse mirror images of their parents—Clea with her father’s gift for destruction times ten; Brenna with that bizarre memory disease, the extreme version of her mother’s inability to let anything go.

“Your computer’s free,” Ruth said.

Evelyn smiled. Why couldn’t everyone in the world be as kind as Ruth? She could still remember the book club Ruth used to host for the local wives. Evelyn had adored that group, especially those times when the conversation veered away from the Philip Roth or John Updike they were reading and got personal. Evelyn would stay quiet while the other women griped about their husbands because at the time, she believed she’d nothing to complain about. Back then, Evelyn had thought Jack’s moodiness had stemmed from a poet’s soul, his selfishness a raging need only she could understand . . . Oh how stupid she’d been. But happy, so happy.

When Jack had started to turn, the other women had asked questions.
Is he okay?
they had said after his first arrest.
How are the girls? Do you need any help?
There’d been such satisfaction behind their concern, though—that smugness in their eyes, their tone.
Poor thing
, she’d hear them say when they thought she wasn’t listening.
Poor Evelyn
.

But Ruth had never asked questions. She’d never said a word.

To get to the computer room, you had to walk through the children’s section and make a right. It was a sunny, airy place, welcoming despite its relative newness. There was rarely anyone in here except when a class was in session. She supposed it was because most people owned their own computers, and that suited her fine. Evelyn was no longer young and stupid. She valued her privacy. She had secrets that were her own now, not her husband’s.

Evelyn’s computer was in the back row to the far left. She checked her e-mail first. She had three different accounts, and so she went through the first two quickly—deleted the spam and newsletters. When she logged in to Hotmail, though, her heart fluttered, all the more when she saw a new e-mail from Alan Dufresne. She would miss him, she knew that. But she couldn’t risk talking to him any longer. After reading his e-mail, she hit reply and typed:

Dear Alan,

Thanks so much for your concern. Things are fine, now. If you could put the contents of the bag into a packing box and send them to the following address, I would be happy to reimburse you for your troubles.

Sincerely,

Brenna

Evelyn listed the P.O. box she maintained at JFK Airport, sent the e-mail, then quickly shifted over to the Snapfish page and deleted all of Clea’s information. It had been two months, and if Evelyn’s secret search had taught her anything, it was that, like it or not, it was sometimes essential to cut all ties and move on.

She went back to the Hotmail account. Before doing anything else, she clicked on the sent e-mails, and reread all the correspondence between Alan and herself, from beginning to end.

Yes, she would miss him very much.

Strange, and sad, too, that in Alan she’d found a kindred spirit—someone who, like her, had been forced to face the truth: You can love someone with all your heart without knowing them at all.

A great father and a good man
, he had typed, and she’d known exactly why he’d typed it, exactly how he’d felt. Alan Dufresne was clinging to a lie as hard as he could, just as she had done for so many years. You believe that lie and if you believe hard enough, it becomes . . . well, if not the truth, then something close enough. Something you can live with. Something to keep you from falling apart.

My father kept secrets, too,
Evelyn had typed, confiding the truth in this stranger as she’d confided in no one else. Confiding, though, while masquerading as her own daughter. The irony wasn’t lost on Evelyn.

Lies upon lies upon hiding upon more lies. That was what Evelyn’s life had become. That was what it had always been, she knew now, even back in the good old days. Even if back then, she’d only been lying to herself.

Evelyn deleted all the e-mails, then closed the account. In a few weeks, she’d find another missing persons Web site. She’d start again, and in her new posting, she’d include the name Roland Dufresne. She’d get closer to
this
truth, if nothing else.

Once she left Hotmail, Evelyn’s homepage came up—MSNBC News. She was about to turn off the computer and walk home when she saw the headline “AMBER Alert for Missing NY Teen.” She clicked on it. She saw the picture.

It wasn’t until Ruth came rushing in that Evelyn realized how loud she’d screamed.

About twenty minutes after Brenna and Nick Morasco left, Trent was in the bathroom spraying himself with Axe when the office phone rang. He was so startled he dropped the container and set it clattering across the tile floor, having forgotten for few seconds that this wasn’t just the home of his friend’s missing daughter, it was an actual place of business,
his
place of business.

He grabbed his spare set of clothes out of his messenger bag, threw them on fast, and ran out to answer the phone.

Trent checked caller ID. The number looked familiar but couldn’t place it right away. He cleared his throat, put on his professional voice. “Brenna Spector Investigations.”

“TNT?”

He let out a shaky sigh. “Stephanie.” All this stuff going on, Trent had almost forgotten about the DNA test . . .
Almost
. He crossed his fingers, though at this point he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. “Is there . . . um . . .”

“I don’t have any news, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I . . . I probably won’t for a while.”

“How come? I thought it takes just two business days.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“But?”

“I chickened out on the amnio. The doctor says it’s optional, and so I figure, you know . . . why not wait to do the DNA test till the baby is born? It’ll be easier, no needles . . .”

Trent shuddered. He hated needles so much that hearing the word “needles” made him feel like he was going to throw up. “I get it.” His gaze moved to his computer screen, where before his shower, he’d been exchanging instant messages with a girl he’d met at an identity theft seminar last year. Actually more of a lady than a girl. A lady named Camille Rogers (who had a nice rack, okay? And he’d noticed it. Being a potential father didn’t make him dead.) Camille had promised she’d get him whatever info she could on Sophia Castillo—whose full maiden name, he’d learned, had been Sophia Belyn Liptak. Nothing yet, though.

As Stephanie kept talking, Trent shifted screens, back to Maya’s desktop, the messages she’d exchanged with NYCJulie taking shape again in front of his eyes, so different from the quick back-and-forth he’d just had with Camille. So personal, so sad.

NYCYoru:
Sometimes I get the weirdest feeling, Julie—like someone is out there, watching me. Someone I can’t see. And they don’t know me, but they’re thinking bad things about me. There’s nothing I can do and that scares me . . .
Why didn’t she tell her mom these things? Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she find it easier to trust some random woman in a chat room where nobody gave their real names?

Trent’s thoughts were so loud in his head, it took him a few seconds to remember that the mother of his possible child was talking to him on the phone.

“. . . and anyway,” Stephanie was saying, “I’ve decided it doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?”

“Are you even listening?”

“What kind of a douche do you think I am? Of course I’m listening.”

“I was saying”—Stephanie sighed—“I’m a big girl.”

“Well, uh . . . heh . . . yeah, that’s true.”

“Jeez, Trent. Is boobs all you think about?”

“Well . . .”

“I mean I’m a
grown-up
. I’m responsible for my own pregnancy.”

“Uh . . . Steph? I kind of had something to do with it.”

“We used two kinds of protection,” she said. “If we took all that precaution and I still got knocked up, you shouldn’t have to take the fall.”

Trent blinked at the phone. “The fall?”

“I know you don’t want to be a dad.”

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“You don’t know that I don’t want to be a dad,” he heard himself say. “If I don’t know it, how can you?”

“Hey . . .”

“What?”

“What are you trying to tell me here?”

“I’m saying that if it’s my baby . . . or even if it isn’t. I want to know. And I want to help.”

“Are you serious?”

“Hellz yeah,” he said, surprising himself. “I want to be there for the ultrasounds. I want to see the little guy move around and stuff and coach you with the breathing.”

“You do?”

“Yes I do. So . . . like . . . stop being all ‘it’s my baby,’ and ‘I can do it on my own.’ Because you know what, Stephanie?
It’s really freakin’
insulting and annoying
.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Trent stared at Maya’s words on the screen and heard his own words in his head—words he hadn’t known he was going to say until they’d flown out of his stupid, flapping mouth like those doves flying out of the fake cake at his cousin Siobhan’s wedding.

Trent thought about taking it all back, about telling Stephanie sorry, he was having a rough day, he hadn’t had enough sleep and she’d called before he’d had a chance to gel his hair and he never could think straight with his hair ungelled. Of
course
he wasn’t ready to be a dad. Hell, Trent’s own dad wasn’t ready to be a dad, let alone Trent, who still brought his laundry home to his mom every weekend.

“Actually—” he said. But then he stopped. He didn’t want to take it back.

It was a crappy world, Trent knew that much. It was a world that took sweet kids and swallowed them up, leaving nothing behind but sad words on a screen. And if nobody did the right thing, if nobody “took the fall,” it would just keep getting crappier and crappier.

“Actually what?”

“Actually, I only knew about one form of protection.”

She exhaled. “You really want to help?”

“Yes. Duh.”

“Okay. You can, then.”

“Whatever.”

“So . . . like . . . I’ll call you? Like when I have my next ultrasound?”

“You’d better.”

“Trent?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, and Trent hung up and rubbed at his tired eyes, returning his gaze to the screen, trying not to think of kids, how easy it was to fail them.

He started up for the bathroom again so he could gel, maybe work an eyebrow check . . .

Trent was halfway down the hall when he heard a piercing beep—his instant message signal, turned all the way up. He turned around, headed back for his computer, switched screens, where, sure enough, he saw a new message from Camille.

Found something weird,
it read.
Check your e-mail.