Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 42

"John Stephen Purcell," she stated abruptly. "Police just located the gun used to kill him. I'm told they recovered a single latent print."

Wyatt couldn't help himself; he exhaled sharply. "That's it? A gun? A recently recovered gun? That's why you're so distant?"

"You don't understand. John Stephen Purcell, the man who shot Brian, my husband . . ." Her words were weighted with meaning.

"No, no, no," he interjected hastily, hands flexing on the wheel. "I understand plenty. And we're not married, so this doesn't fall under privilege, and there's definitely no need to say more. G.o.d, Tessa. I thought you were breaking up with me."

Her turn to frown. "It doesn't bother you? I'm not just talking about what the police might discover; I'm talking about what I once did."

He didn't even have to think about it. "No. You saved Sophie. Tessa, I know who you are. It's why I love you so much."

She fell silent again. Not ominous this time. More pondering.

He reached over and took her hand. Heard her own heavy exhale.

"Tessa," he said, keeping his voice light, "you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"What if I don't have a choice? One fingerprint; that's all it will take."

"We'll figure it out. Two smart people with lots of law enforcement and legal connections. You really think we can't figure this out?"

"I can't lose Sophie."

"I know."

"One thousand ninety-six days. I told myself it should be enough. It isn't."

"I know."

"Plus, you know, the puppy. I haven't even met the puppy, and I can't leave the puppy. Our family is changing; that's what Sophie said. Our family, my family. I can't give it up, Wyatt. I can't lose all of you."

"Then we'll figure it out. Together. Because that's what families do. That's what we do."

And suddenly, he got it. How far a man might go for the woman he loved. Or what Thomas Frank had being doing that night, at the scene of his wife's accident, bearing a glove with fake fingerprints.

A desperate husband, taking one last desperate chance . . .

"Stop!" Tessa shouted. She twisted away, pointing at a spot along the darkened road just as their headlights swept by. "That's our turn. The road to the dollhouse. Wyatt, we're here!"

Chapter 39.

I CAN'T STAND still anymore. Thomas has the light, but I don't want to see. I walk away from him. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I put my hands over my ears as if that will help, but it's no use. I can still hear the screams.

She's here. I feel her. In the wind, in the vines, in the hardness of the granite foundation. And it makes me s.h.i.+ver. Because I could handle the Vero in my head. The girl who came to visit. The skeleton who stayed for tea. But this Vero . . .

This Vero can hurt me.

"The first five years," Thomas says from his perch on the granite blocks, "Mother kept things simple. We fostered a couple of girls at a time. Always teenagers; they'd stay a year or two, then leave. Aged out, right? But eventually, Mother became greedier. By then, she'd made some other . . . connections, in the industry. Now no more fostering. She simply brought in young working girls. Got them directly from their pimps. Or, as in your case, purchased them from their own families. No witnesses, no fuss. Everyone's equally guilty, right?

"I think she also started taking requests. Maybe from several of the clients, or just the wealthiest. I'm not sure. But the girls became younger. For example, she brought you in at ten. But that also made things trickier. Younger girls might seem easier to control, but some of the new charges . . . Their backgrounds were more hard-core. They grew up lying, stealing, hitting, punching. I remember my mom slapping one of the new girls. I'd just walked into the room; I was maybe thirteen, fourteen. I stopped in my tracks, shocked. But then the girl, half the size of my mom . . . she slugged my mother back.

"So my mother upped the ante. She drugged them. Claimed they were addicts anyway. She was simply doing them the favor of avoiding the horrors of detox."

Thomas paused, smiled faintly. "Funny the way you can know things aren't right, but still not allow yourself to think of them as being wrong. For example, if I acknowledged my mother was criminal to supply drugs to addicts, then I'd have to also know she was sinful to have a ten-year-old girl shut up in the tower bedroom. Or worse, little Vero, only six years old when she walked through our door.

"I couldn't . . . She was my mom. And I was just a kid. Like the rest of you, I had no place else to go."

Thomas leaves his granite block. He moves to standing in front of me, trying to get me to look at him. But I can't. Too many things are exploding in my head, and the memories are both simpler and more horrible than I want them to be.

The new girls were mean and awful and cruel. Before, we had each kept to ourselves. Now I had to watch my back. It wasn't enough to hate the men. I had to hide my hairbrush, h.o.a.rd my dresses, watch my stash of sweets.

The girls were older and wiser. Especially compared to Vero and me. Madame Sade ended up pairing us up in a single room.

Otherwise you'll be eaten alive, she'd informed us coldly. Seriously. Wise up.

I hated Vero. Whatever mean things the other girls did to me, I turned around and did to her. The trickle-down theory of pain. And maybe that did make us a family. A large dysfunctional family where each member competed to dish out the most hurt.

Vero started telling stories. Whispering them under her breath. Secret realms. Magical queen. Kidnapped princess.

At first, I think she was simply comforting herself. But eventually . . .

I made her keep talking. Tell me more about this mother who loved her daughter. Tell me more about this daughter who knows one day she'll make it home again.

We slowly but surely became allies, as the dollhouse darkened and twisted around us.

"I couldn't pretend things were normal anymore," Thomas says now, as if reading my mind. "At a certain point, even I understood most foster families didn't have kids locked in towers, and normal deliverymen didn't look so shady, nor lick their lips every time a girl walked into view.

"I confronted my mother. At least, I tried. I said we shouldn't be a foster family anymore. I was worried about the girls. Couldn't we just . . . go back to the way things used to be.

"'What?' My mother laughed at me. 'You mean poor?'

"'If you want to help the girls,' she told me, 'then the least you could do is a.s.sist with their medicine.' Which is how at the age of fourteen, I started driving our car into town, meeting with 'business a.s.sociates,' then returning to the home with drugs. I wasn't even legal to drive. Meaning that of course I was extra careful every inch of the way, terrified that I'd be pulled over by some cop. My mother had no patience for fools, not even her own son."

I look up at him. "You became a dope dealer. You made all the purchases. You kept us drugged out of our skulls!"

Thomas doesn't deny it. "Where would I have gone, Nicky? What would I have done if my mother turned me out? Her gift was equal culpability. She turned us all into her partners in crime. Then none of us could escape, because all of us were too terrified of the consequences."

I want to argue with him. I want to yell and scream because it would be easier to blame him. Maybe once, I even did. But now I have an image in my head. A teenage boy with a mop of brown hair, all arms and legs, striding down the front steps of the house, moving with purpose. At the last moment, turning, looking back. The expression on his face. Frustration and longing and rage. Before turning once more toward the vehicle.

He was a prisoner, too. I remember thinking it then. The irony that he was her son, her actual son, and he was just as much a victim as the rest of us.

Vero once said she felt the sorriest for him. The rest of us didn't belong here. But Thomas had been right: Where else could he go? Madame Sade was his family. This was his home. How do you escape that?

Vero and I lasted longer than most. But eventually, years and years of hopelessness took their toll. Vero talked about the magical queen less and less. I no longer imagined long, quiet conversations with the boy I'd once watched mow the lawn. We succ.u.mbed. Depression. Fear. Anxiety.

Then, when we refused to turn out at night, do as we were told-because what did it matter?-Madame Sade shot us up. First me. Then Vero.

I should've protested. I should've run, fought, anything. I would've liked to have been the girl who at least hit back.

But I didn't. I stood there. I held out my arm. And when the meth first hit my vein . . . the rush. Suddenly I was alive for the first time in years.

While Madame stood there smiling with the syringe.

She didn't just victimize us. She taught us to victimize ourselves. Go along to get along. So we did, so we did, so we did.

Until the day I started h.o.a.rding my drugs instead.

"I figured out what you were doing," Thomas says now, with his uncanny ability to read my mind. "It took me a few days to notice it; that your eyes weren't as glazed over, your expression was more alert, your responses quicker. I kept handing over your supply, and you kept accepting, but clearly . . . I didn't say a word. If you wanted off, I wasn't going to rat you out. I admired you, Nicky. You were up to something. And I thought it was about time someone had a plan."

"I'd had enough," I say simply. "And I don't mean of being an addict. I mean of living. My first plan wasn't to sober up and escape. Once, I'd thought about it. But even sober, walking out the front door . . . I had no hope in the woods; they're too thick, the terrain too steep. That left the driveway, but she'd simply send you to fetch me."

Thomas doesn't argue. That's what would've happened, and we both know it.

"My first thought wasn't escape; I was going to OD. Which meant, of course, I needed to build up a certain quant.i.ty. Then I'd take it all at once. Vero watched me. She knew what I was doing. Then one day . . .

"She's the one who told me what to do. And you want to hear something funny?" I smile at Thomas, and even now, all these years later, my eyes well with tears. "My first thought was that she just wanted my stash. She was looking out for herself, manipulating me. Of course, I wouldn't hear of it. She'd OD on my drugs? Then I'd simply take her place in the body bag. No way!

"But Vero . . . she always had a way with words. An ability to tell a story. 'Vero wants to fly,'" I murmur. "All those years later. Vero wanted to fly; she knew she was never going home again.

"She hurt, you know. We all hurt. But she really was dying on the inside. She kept at me. Telling me what needed to happen. There is only one way out of the dollhouse." I look at Thomas. "We'd been there for so long," I say softly. "The other girls, they pa.s.sed through. But Vero and me, did you think your mother would, could, ever let us go?"

Thomas doesn't say a word.

The wind is blowing. Or maybe it's Vero's breath, whispering across my cheek. She's here. I know she is. Because Vero got it only half right. She died; but she still didn't escape the dollhouse.

"I weaned myself off the drugs. I h.o.a.rded the stash. Then, after a particularly bad night . . . Vero took it. I watched her walk over to my mattress, dig into the box spring. I watched her take it all out. I watched her shoot it all up.

"Protest. Intervene. Take it away. Throw it out. So many things I could've done. But I didn't. 'Vero wants to fly.' And so I watched her take flight."

"None of the girls had OD'd before," Thomas says softly. "Mother didn't know what to do. She sent me in to check Vero again and again. I remember you sitting curled up in the corner. You'd been crying."

Young Thomas, the mop-haired boy, bending over Vero's body, checking her pulse. Young Thomas glancing over at me. Our eyes meeting. And for just one moment, I'm sure he knows what I did. But he never says a word.

He leaves the room. When he returns, a decision has clearly been made. He positions her body carefully on the old blue rug. He rolls it up, slowly, even gently. I have to look away because it hurts too much to stare.

"I'll take her out later," he tells me. "After dark. Will you be okay until then?"

I don't speak, only nod. When I glance up, he's staring right at me. He knows what I did, I think again. The question is, does he know what I'll do next?

I wait most of the afternoon. Maybe something will change. Thomas will return early. Madame Sade will demand to see Vero's body. There are only two other girls in the house; they are both eighteen, older than Vero and me. Maybe they will want to visit. But nothing happens.

All day long, the house is quiet. Just the sound of the rain against the gla.s.s.

November, the saddest month of the year.

When the sky starts to darken, I finally move off the floor. I unroll Vero's body, not as slow, not as gentle. My heart is beating too fast. Her limbs flop and my limbs shake. I don't think either of us can take it. Finally I have her out of the rug, onto the bed. Swapping out our clothes, pulling up the bedcovers.

Putting Vero to sleep in my bed. And placing myself inside death's shroud.

It smells of her. Of vanilla lotion and almond soap. Of the smile she used to flash before the days grew too short and the nights too long. Of the stories she used to tell, when she still hoped to see her mother again.

I'd hated her. But then I'd loved her. She became the only family I ever had. The younger sister who was prettier and wiser and funnier, but I forgave her everything because she loved me more than I deserved and we both knew it.

I wonder if she's already escaped. Up to some bright light in the sky. Or maybe back into her mother's loving arms.

Then I cry, but I keep it silent because that's how you learn to cry in a dollhouse; without ever making a sound.

Eventually, footsteps down the hall. The door opening. A long pause.

Thomas, I remember now. Returning to fetch the corpse, to do his mother's bidding.

I feel myself tense. Force myself to relax. I can't be afraid, I remind myself. I am already dead.

The sound of footsteps slowly approaching. I can hear his breathing as he leans down.

Don't unwrap. Don't check. And if he does?

I think of the way his eyes met mine just hours before. I think of the way I've seen him stare at this house. And I'm not frightened anymore.

As Thomas lifts me up into his arms. As Thomas carries me out of the room, down the stairs, into the hall.

"Wait!" Madame Sade's imperious voice.

"What, Mother?"

"Surely she's not still dressed. Clothes are not cheap, you know. Isn't that a sock I see?"

"You don't need these clothes."

"Don't be ridiculous. Set her down. Losing a girl is bad enough. We might as well keep the clothes."

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not setting her down. I'm not stripping off some dead girl's clothes. You told me to take care of her. That's what I'm doing. Now, get out of my way or you can dig the grave yourself."

A long pause. I try not to breathe, not to hear the thunder of my own heart. Because I can feel the tremors in Thomas's arms. I understand what this conversation is costing him. What it might yet cost me.

Then . . .