by Kava, Alex
It was her fault. Her bad decision. That was what Iris Malone told Brodie so many times that Brodie knew it had to be true.
When Iris told her that her mom and dad didn’t want her back, she believed her. She wanted to talk to them. She pleaded with Iris to let her explain to them that she was sorry, but Iris said it was too late. Iris said they didn’t want her back.
“They told me to keep you,” Iris said. “But you’re so naughty, I don’t know if I want you.”
When her parents didn’t come to get her, Brodie knew it had to be true. Iris told her that she had given them directions, told them exactly where to come to get her. When you’re eleven years old you believe the adults around you. After all, why would they lie?
Dozens of times Iris Malone got on the phone and talked to Brodie’s mother. Now she knew Iris only pretended to talk to her parents. But back then, Brodie heard the one-ended conversations and believed them to be real. Iris made them convincing enough that knots tied up Brodie’s stomach and tears smeared her face. By the time she realized Iris Malone was an evil woman, she had forgotten what was true and what were lies. She was too scared, too hungry, too tired or too cold. She couldn’t remember whether she was Brodie or whether she was Charlotte. And after a while, she no longer cared.
At some point, even she was relieved to be free of Brodie. Brodie was a frightened crybaby, a naughty, selfish girl who disobeyed her parents. But Charlotte...Charlotte was brave and strong.
When Ryder first told her—back in the hospital—that he and their mother had traveled all over the country for years trying to find her, Brodie wasn’t sure she believed him.
He saw her cynicism immediately and said to her, “I tell you what. I promise never to lie to you.”
“No matter what?” she had asked.
“No matter what.”
“Even if the truth is painful?”
She could still remember the look on his face: a combination of sadness, concern and a whole lot of hesitation.
“The truth can’t possibly hurt as much as the lies already have,” she told him that day, not having a clue about the heartache and sorrow that would result from what he had to tell her.
The death of her grandmother happened only months after Brodie had been taken.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ryder had insisted. “Gram was sick the last time you saw her, remember?”
“And dad?” she asked. “What happened to him?”
It took Ryder longer to tell that story. How he had found their father with a bullet in his temple.
“Mom blamed him, didn’t she?” Brodie asked.
“She didn’t have to. He blamed himself.”
“Is that why they got a divorce?”
“You’ll need to ask her.”
At first, it was too much to comprehend. The idea that her disappearance had caused such devastating consequences to her family, to everyone she loved. Her knee-jerk reaction was to take on the blame. It was her fault. All her fault. Iris Malone had drilled that into her head. She was so stupid for following the little girl named Charlotte.
Something occurred to Brodie at that moment that she hadn’t considered before. Maybe she was lucky that Ryder didn’t blame her. That, despite all of Iris Malone’s lies, her mother didn’t blame her for walking away and getting into that RV. But how could Brodie not blame herself?
34
South of Montgomery, Alabama
Maggie felt the tension forming a knot in her back. She adjusted the rental car’s seat even as she changed lanes. Frankie Russo wasn’t answering her burner phone. Maggie had left several voicemails, but obviously Russo wasn’t checking them.
The woman wasn’t checking them or she wasn’t able to check them.
If Agent Alonzo was right, sometime in the wee small hours of the morning, the man who had murdered Tyler Gates and stole his phone had made it to the same hotel where Russo was staying. If the woman had been able to escape, she still had to drive from Nashville to Montgomery without the killer interrupting her trip with a car accident. Maggie knew that was a four-hour drive.
She glanced at the car’s navigation panel. She’d be at the restaurant in ten minutes. Soon enough she’d find out. The problem was, she didn’t know what she was going to do if the woman didn’t show up.
Maggie had spent most of the trip from Atlanta bargaining with herself. If Russo didn’t answer her phone by the time she crossed the Georgia/Alabama border, she’d call Hannah.
The border came and went.
Then she decided if Russo didn’t call her back by the time she stopped to fill the gas tank, she’d call Hannah. Each time, Maggie talked herself out of her own deal, telling herself there was no reason to worry Hannah until she knew something. But the truth was, she worried she had already let Hannah down.
At the last stop Maggie did call Ryder. She had tried to sound as casual as possible. Her pulse was racing from all her second-guessing about Russo. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.
“Hannah said you’re working a site close to Montgomery. Are you still there?”
“Yep, Jason and I are sticking around. Weather’s supposed to be crazy all day.”
When she heard that Jason was with him she went from disappointed to relieved in a matter of seconds. And then she wanted to kick herself. That feeling of relief simply confirmed how much of a coward she was. Gwen was right.
“I’m meeting Hannah’s friend for lunch at a diner just south of Montgomery before she heads down to your place. If you and Jason have time, you want to meet for coffee later? Before I head back to Atlanta?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
There had been no hesitation in his voice. He sounded genuinely pleased. She gave him the address of Southern Blessings, and that was that. She still had no idea what she’d do if Frankie Russo didn’t show up. Then she realized that Ryder would help if she needed to search for the woman. There was something very comforting in knowing that. The two of them had dealt with more difficult situations than this one.
Now, as she maneuvered the exits and streets she allowed herself the flutter of excitement. She wanted to see Ryder. Months ago she’d convinced herself that she needed to give him space to deal with his sister, but to be honest, she was having some difficulty dealing with her own feelings...denying her feelings. She had gotten good, almost too good, at compartmentalizing her emotions in order to manage and cope with all the things she experienced at crime scenes. All the psychological fallout from profiling madmen and serial killers. She told herself things she wanted to hear. But Gwen was right. Maggie knew she wasn’t being fair to Ryder.
She almost missed the entrance for the restaurant. She’d expected a small diner tucked away in the middle of a busy crossroad intersection. Instead, she saw that Southern Blessings was a large freestanding building with its own parking lot. Across the street, 18-wheelers filled every slot, filling up their tanks at the gas station/mini mart. Some of them were parked off to the side while truckers walked over to the restaurant.
She was early and parked in a far corner, pulling under the shade of the beautiful magnolia trees that were blooming. She opened the car window and was hit by a blast of hot, humid air that immediately fogged up her sunglasses. She closed the window and started the car again, so she could wait with the A/C.
The entire trip she had watched the blue skies disappear as clouds gathered. Now they were starting to look more threatening. There wasn’t much blue left, but Maggie had been in the South before. Thunderstorms rolled in, dumped rain and rolled out. Certain times of year, it was a daily occurrence. She hadn’t turned on the radio because she didn’t want to miss a call from Russo.
She checked her phone. No messages from Russo or Agent Alonzo. She pulled up the photo she had downloaded and compared it to a couple of women going into the restaurant. More diners were leaving than entering. Hannah had been smart in choosing one o’clock.
A few cars pulled out of the parking lot. A t
rucker left his rig at the gas station and walked across the street to the restaurant. A black sedan came into the lot and drove slowly up and down the aisles like the driver was looking for a place to park. Except there were plenty of spots. Maggie raised her phone, so anyone who noticed her might think she was reading her text messages. But as the car crossed her aisle, she snapped several photos getting a profile of the driver in one and the license plate in another.
She watched the car drive the final loop, and then just like that, it exited the lot. Her eyes followed it all the way to the interstate entrance. From what she could tell it had turned onto the northbound entrance.
Maybe it was nothing. A lost traveler or someone having second thoughts about the restaurant. She pulled up the photo with the license plate and messaged it to Agent Alonzo. It had taken her a minute at the most to send it, and yet, the next time she looked up she saw a small SUV pull in and do almost the exact same thing.
Up one aisle and down another. The woman’s head pivoted from side to side as though she were looking for the best spot. She finally settled on a space in the far corner. She backed into the slot, and only then did Maggie see that in doing so, the woman had a direct shot out of the parking lot.
Maggie sat back, holding up her phone again and blocking her face. It didn’t matter. The woman hadn’t looked her way as she left the vehicle. She had a tangle of dark hair. She wore blue jeans, a T-shirt, running shoes and oversized sunglasses. Her head swiveled back to the street then the gas station across from the restaurant. She definitely had someone else on her mind, but she walked with purpose. So maybe she knew that she was being tracked.
Maggie watched her all the way to the restaurant door then whispered to herself, “I am so glad to see you’re still alive, Frankie Russo.”
35
Southern Blessings
South of Montgomery, Alabama
Frankie Russo felt like every nerve ending in her body was on high alert. She had been functioning on adrenaline since she’d left Nashville. Her mind wouldn’t shut off. Her eyelids felt like lead shutters. The humidity had turned her thick hair into unruly waves. At one point she had looked in the rearview mirror and didn’t recognize the image staring back at her. But as soon as Frankie walked through the restaurant’s door the scent of fresh baked bread and batter-fried food brought back a wave of good feelings and good memories.
The entire drive she kept telling herself she just needed to get to Southern Blessings. Just get there! But she quickly reminded herself that this place definitely brought a false sense of security. She couldn’t let her guard down. Not here. Not yet!
The hostess led Frankie to a table in the center of the restaurant.
“Would it be possible to have that booth by the window instead?”
The hostess didn’t look pleased. Frankie could tell they were finishing a busy lunch hour, and the booth she was asking for still had dirty dishes.
“I’ve been cooped up in the car since sunrise,” Frankie told the woman, slipping into an old familiar southern accent. “It would do my soul some good to be close to the window.”
“As long as you don’t mind waiting while we clear.”
“Not at all.”
It took two minutes at the most before Frankie was able to sit down. A waitress handed her a menu while she set a glass of water in front of Frankie and placed a bowl of fried dill pickles in the center of the table.
“What can I get for you, Hon?”
Odd as it seemed, the waitress looked familiar, and Frankie wondered if she had worked here when Hannah and Frankie had come as children. The woman looked to be in her fifties, tall and skinny with deep creases around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Painted on eyebrows gave her a look of being eternally anxious for your order. Frankie glanced at her nametag.
“I’m waiting for a friend, Rita, but I would love a cup of coffee.”
“You got it, Hon.”
Frankie picked out one of the fried dill pickles as she surveyed the rest of the guests. She had made a good decision choosing this booth. With her back to the wall she could get a good look at everyone inside and anyone who came in the door. Several people waited to pay their bills. There were probably about a dozen guests still eating or waiting to be served. A large man in a ball cap occupied a booth close to the door. Sitting at the counter, a well-dressed older gentleman was eating a slice of pie. Two women were being served their lunches at a table next to where the hostess had originally wanted to seat Frankie. In the other corner, a middle-aged couple had only coffee cups left. His arm stretched across the table to touch her hand. She was blushing and smiling too much. It had to be a new relationship.
Frankie felt a wave of relief when she realized the man with the scar wasn’t here...yet. But her anxiety kicked up a notch when she also realized that the FBI agent wasn’t here either.
Rita brought her coffee and a small covered basket.
“Something for you to snack on,” she said, “until your friend gets here.”
Frankie lifted the cloth napkin and could smell the buttery, warm biscuits. Her mouth watered. She finished the fried dill pickle and plucked one of the biscuits out from under the cover. In the window she caught a look at her reflection even while she scouted the parking lot.
She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth down the wild curls. This restaurant and her reflection reminded her of the first summer she’d spent with Hannah and her grandparents. Hannah’s grandmother had tried to tame Frankie’s hair with bows and barrettes. After Frankie pleaded with her, the woman finally did up Frankie’s hair in cornrows to match Hannah’s.
When her father saw her, he’d laughed, so hard. Frankie hadn’t seen him laugh like that before, or since. It made her smile just thinking about it.
Her father loved and respected Hannah’s grandfather so much he would have been pleased to have him and his wife raise Frankie full time. And it would have been better if they had. Instead, Frankie had to live with her father’s regret and despair, all the while looking forward to the next time she could escape to Hannah’s.
For the first time, she noticed the sun had disappeared completely. She’d watched storm clouds gather in the west the last hour of her trip. But still, the sun had been relentless. The temperatures spiked in the upper eighties but the humidity made it feel like a slow boil. Inside the rental SUV she had hardly noticed until she was forced to stop and refill the gas tank. She’d left Chicago needing a jacket, not realizing she’d be wishing for a pair of shorts twenty-four hours later.
A man and a woman came in the door. Frankie thought they were together until the man seated himself at the counter and the woman waited. A teenaged boy joined the woman before the hostess came to seat them.
The man wore khakis and a green polo shirt, a designer one with a little logo on the breast pocket. He was older. Maybe in his fifties, possibly early sixties. She used to be better at reading people when she first started at the advertising agency and was obsessed with demographics. One thing for certain, there was something about this guy that bothered Frankie, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. For some reason, he didn’t look like he belonged. He didn’t look like the type of guy who dropped in at a meat-and-three for lunch on a Saturday. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but her gut instinct had saved her ass already several times. Before she could study him further another woman walked in.
And just with a glimpse Frankie knew. This was the FBI agent.
Shoulder length auburn hair, taller than average, blue jeans and leather flats. A V-neck T-shirt but with a lightweight collared shirt over it, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, tails untucked and billowing so it could hide the shoulder holster. No one would notice the strap or the weapon unless they were looking for it.
The woman glanced around the restaurant, taking off her sunglasses and allowing a second for her eyes to adjust. But that’s all it took was a second or two before she found Frankie and headed directly for her. She slid
into the booth across from Frankie, put her hands on the table and laced her fingers together.
Then she smiled and said, “Hi Frankie. I’m Maggie O’Dell.”
36
Florida Panhandle
Ryder had told Brodie that their mother had wanted to be at her side in the Omaha hospital. Brodie didn’t remember. While her body was hooked up to IV fluids and connected to a variety of machines, her mind went into a delirious fever. Ryder said she slept in fits and starts, waking up wild-eyed, fists flying, legs kicking and not recognizing him or where she was. In the midst of all the chaos, one thing seemed certain. Her mother’s presence panicked her, so much so, that after several days the doctors asked she leave.
Although Brodie didn’t remember any of that, she’d never be able to forget her last days before she was rescued. Like a nightmare looped in her memory, it played over and over again. Instead of her sweat drenched hospital bed she was still imprisoned in the Christmas house where Iris Malone had left her.
The old rundown farmhouse, less than a mile from Iris’ house, had been abandoned when Iris and her brother Eli Dunn had committed their mother to a nursing home. The old woman had loved Christmas, and the entire place remained as she had left it, untouched for years, forever decorated and ready for the holiday.
For Iris Malone, the Christmas house was the last stop for the Charlottes she wished to be rid of. She left them there for her brother, Eli to pick up and do whatever he wanted. Some he sold. Others he murdered and deposed of after he was finished with them.
Iris Malone claimed she didn’t know what her brother did with the women. Now that the man was dead—along with Iris’ son, Aaron—the woman could say whatever she wanted and no one could contradict her.
The last years of Brodie’s captivity, and especially the last days, she had been starved. The Omaha doctors said it would take a long time for her to recover from the damage her malnourished body had endured. When they found her, she was severely dehydrated, too. Dr. Rockwood had tried to explain to Brodie how the mind tried to compensate, sometimes shutting down for long periods.
