Bethany had finally given the all-clear. Luckily, Jane had parked in the back, so Jake didn’t see her car. But no matter how Jane pressed, Bethany had decided their “interview” was over. Spooked by Jake’s arrival, she’d decided one close call was enough. She was done talking to Jane. About anything.
Jane punched the eiderdown again, stuck her bare feet out one side. Too hot. So much for her interview idea.
What was that?
She lay still, listening. Flat on her back. Was someone trying her front door?
She swung her feet to the floor, slid into her slippers, grabbed her cotton robe from the hook, and tiptoed down the hallway, yanking the terry belt closed and trying to decide whether to be angry or terrified. She paused, listening. Nothing.
Should she call 911?
Hawkeye, or whatever the cop’s brother’s name really was, was still supposedly monitoring her building from across the street. Or had the cops concluded she was a ditz who imagined catastrophes? And told him to forget about her?
Her front door. She listened. Nothing.
She checked in the peephole. Nothing. Left the chain on, clicked open the door. Peered through. Nothing. Opened the door. Nothing.
The hallway’s wallpaper, tones of taupe stripes, glowed in the light of the fluted milk-glass sconces. Jane heard silence, only silence, not even a murmur from some insomniac’s TV, or a gurgling dishwasher, or a midnight shower.
Flecks of sawdust from the locksmith’s work sprinkled the hall’s hardwood floor. Her new lock, shiny brass and solid, announced to all comers that changes had been made. Neena had left her three new keys with a note saying she’d kept the fourth for herself. So even if someone, whoever it might be, had made a copy of her other key-ridiculous, and unlikely, but still-they couldn’t use it anymore.
Puffing out an annoyed breath, she closed the door, locked it, chained it. She held up three fingers, Girl Scout’s promise: No more fear.
She was going. To. Sleep. No more fear.
Jane climbed back under the rumpled comforter, nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she and Tuck would go to Connecticut and see if they could figure out the connection between Carlyn Beerman and Tucker Cameron. If there was one.
Was Tuck her real daughter? Or the wrong girl?
47
Ella crunched the aluminum potpie pan into a shiny ball, tossed it into the wastebasket. It was late, now, really late. She’d been so eager to get some answers, she’d made all the phone calls first, then finally had dinner, poring over the family files and her notes again. She checked the clock above her toaster oven.
Almost three in the morning.
No wonder her brain was so fuzzy. She hadn’t stayed up this late for-well, ever. But somewhere in her notes, somewhere in those talks with the newly minted families, there had to be the answer. She plopped into the one chair at the kitchen table. Maybe if she looked at the notes one more time. Tomorrow she’d be tired. It was already tomorrow.
Ella flipped to the next page of the yellow legal pad she’d brought home from the office.
First page were the notes on birth mother Margaret DaCosto. The DaCosto family was happy, content, even thrilled. Their “long-lost” daughter Leah-families always referred to them as lost, though “lost” was hardly what they were, since they’d been intentionally given up for adoption at birth-had become part of their lives. She’d moved into the DaCostos’ home, and they were spending their days making up for lost time. Making amends.
Next page, Sarah Hoffner. She reluctantly described a more difficult transition. Krystyn Hoffner-who grew up as Helena-had arrived, and was a lovely young woman, but “never quite felt at home,” Sarah said. They were in counseling. “Working it out.”
Both families, though, were effusive about the Brannigan’s supportive staff, especially mentioning Lillian Finch’s tireless efforts to bring them together.
Ella had completely forgotten the families might bring up Lillian Finch. Or Mr. Brannigan. Should she be the one to tell them they were dead?
She’d fumbled for words when the question first came, finally deciding not to tell. If she had told, they might have called the Brannigan and mentioned that Ella had called. That would be difficult to explain.
Two families had not been home. The last call, though, was pretty interesting. Curious, even. The Lamonica family, in Brattleboro, Vermont. “We were just this week thinking of calling the Brannigan,” Mrs. Lamonica told her.
Mrs. Lamonica explained her “long-lost” daughter Francesca, who grew up as Carol White, had gone to the family doctor after stepping on a nail and running a high fever. They’d done blood tests, checking for tetanus and other problems, and the lab results showed Carol had some blood work issues that perplexed the physician. Mrs. Lamonica herself didn’t have those issues, so it was surprising her daughter would. Not impossible. Unlikely.
“So what did the doctor say about that?” Ella asked.
Mrs. Lamonica was silent for a moment, and Ella could hear muffled talking in the background.
“Sorry,” the woman said, coming back on the line. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. We’re so happy, and Francesca-Carol-is perfect, she was only a newborn when I last saw her, and we’re happy to be together. As a family. The doctor said she could be wrong, that the tests are-iffy.” A deep sigh. “But we wanted to check with Ms. Finch or her colleagues to see if there’s anything we should know.”
Ella had wrapped up the conversation with “it’s late” and “of course” she’d have “someone from the Brannigan” call as soon as possible. She’d offered her private phone extension, reassuring Mrs. Lamonica that Ella would be her point person.
Whiskers jumped into her lap, jolting Ella back to the present.
“Was Carol White’s birth name Francesca?” Ella asked her out loud. “Or who do you think she really is?”
Yes, this is Seller Heavy Metal, Kellianne answered, typing in the user name she’d chosen. Who’d be messaging on the Murderabilia system so late at night?
Buyer RedSky42 is typing popped onto her computer screen.
A customer. It was. Already! You were supposed to monitor your inbox for “transaction requests.” Good thing she did.
The glow from Kellianne’s monitor and the pinspot desk lamp gave her just enough light. Kev and Keefer were asleep, passed out, more likely, and her mom was staying over at the hospital again. No one would know what Kellianne was doing.
She’d posted her first “offerings,” that’s what the Web site called them, on the “to sell” page a few hours earlier. The teddy bears, the compact, the rabbit bowl, the nightgown. She’d had to fill out a bunch of personal stuff, too, and she made up most of it, hoping there’d be no way anyone would know, and when she clicked on “enter,” it was all fine.
She’d chosen “Heavy Metal” when instructed to create a seller name. Made sense to use them, since you had to think people messing with this kind of stuff probably didn’t want their personal info and the things they sold plastered all over who-knows-where. Payment and shipping were through a P.O. box in Idaho.
She’d clicked through a couple of other “to sell” items. A blouse with blood on it. A pillow with “peace” stitched into black velvet. What looked like a wedding ring.
Gross, gross, gross. People were totally sick. She pictured “RedSky42”-greasy hair, some skeevy guy, in a crappy apartment in some crappy city, getting his kicks touching stuff that once belonged to people who were dead. Murdered.