Finding Tessa

by Finding Tessa (epub)

  FINDING

  TESSA

  A Novel of Suspense

  JAIME LYNN HENDRICKS

  SCARLET

  NEW YORK

  For my parents, Hank and Geri

  1

  JACE

  Flashing blue and red lights late into the night always spelled trouble. Jace’s neighbors may have had their fill in the past, but that wasn’t his fault. Tessa was the one with a flair for dramatics—a fallen branch meant calling a landscaper before the tree collapsed onto the roof. Grab a bat when the dog barked, in case someone was breaking in. Rush the plumber over for a leaky faucet before the flood destroyed their new home.

  This time, it was Jace who had made the emergency call—to the cops. Because Tessa was nowhere to be found.

  Three taps. A nightstick on the front door. Candy, their cattle dog, shot up and barked.

  “No, girl!” Jace pointed, disciplining her. She took two steps backward before she turned and went obediently to her bed in the corner of the kitchen and slumped down with a sigh. Jace rose from the silver paisley-patterned chair that Tessa always called “fancy” and answered the door.

  “Officer Cannon, sir. You the one that called?”

  Officer Cannon stood at least six-foot-five, and even Jace had to crane his head north to look him in the eye. The man was mammoth. “Yes, I’m Jace Montgomery. Come in.”

  The screen door squeaked as Jace opened it for the cop, who revealed a typical officer crew cut under the hat he removed before stepping into the foyer.

  “Great entryway,” Cannon said.

  As an interior designer, Tessa had taken advantage of the lofted ceiling. The walls were painted a faint silver, almost white, and so anyone could detect the slight metallic tint, especially now with the moonlight bouncing in from the front bay window. All the fixtures that held candles and pictures were chrome, and large crystals hung from the overhead chandelier. Tessa always said first impressions mattered.

  “Thanks. My wife designed it,” Jace said, wincing at her mention, and wanting to get on with it. The reason for the officer’s presence wasn’t to discuss home furnishings. “I think something happened to her. She’s missing. Look over here.”

  Jace walked the officer to the back of the house and pointed to the window next to the kitchen table. It was his favorite part of the house. Five big windows in a semicircle surrounded their breakfast nook and had an unfettered view to the lake in the yard. It was a decent sized body of water for suburban New Jersey, and they were lucky enough to be at the end of the cul-de-sac. Private. Water on one side, woods on the other.

  Now, one of the windows was broken. Shattered glass on the ceramic tile floor. A sideways chair. Strands of Tessa’s dark hair, more than usual, in a clump on the ground. There were a few drops of blood. More than a few, actually. Splatters.

  Just like the splatters on his shirt, which he’d already changed out of.

  “Did you touch anything over here?” Cannon asked.

  “No. Well, the back doorknob, which was unlocked, and I thought that was weird. We always lock it after we come in or let the dog in. I opened it when I couldn’t find Tessa inside. I thought maybe she was having a glass of wine in the yard.”

  Cannon’s eyebrow rose. “At nine at night? On a Thursday?”

  Jace hesitated. “It wouldn’t be the first time. But she wasn’t feeling well. She said she didn’t work today. I mean, she works from home, but said she was going to have soup and lie in bed. She texted me this morning. It was the last time I heard from her.”

  Cannon wrote in a pad. “Anything else?”

  “It was late when I got home from work. Candy greeted me at the door and—”

  “Candy?”

  “The dog.” He pointed to the now curled-up ball of fur breathing steadily on her bed. “She’s usually upstairs in bed with Tessa when I get home late. Anyway, the house was dark, so I went right upstairs, thinking Tessa was sleeping. Her side of the bed was pulled back, but didn’t look slept in. I checked the bathrooms, and she wasn’t there. God forbid she had to go to a walk-in clinic or the emergency room if she was really sick, but I didn’t get any Uber receipts to my email.”

  Officer Cannon looked at him with doubt.

  “Tessa doesn’t drive. She either walks or Ubers everywhere. So, I came into the kitchen.”

  Cannon took dictation like a pro, never asking for clarification, jotting down quick notes. “And that’s when you found the broken window and the blood?”

  “Yes. And her purse is over there on the counter.” He pointed to the beige Michael Kors bag that he bought her. “Her phone is plugged into the charger. That’s when I knew she couldn’t have left on her own. Women don’t leave the house without their purse and phone.” His hand went to his head. “The blood, officer. Do you think it’s hers?”

  Cannon pressed a button on the radio on his shoulder. “Can you get a forensics team and Detective Solomon down to 32 Lovett Road in Valley Lake?”

  “Forensics?” Jace leaned his arm against the wall to steady himself.

  Cannon’s eyebrows rose and he pressed his lips together. “It doesn’t look good.” He stared pointedly at Jace, his eyes accusatory. “You always get home past nine?”

  “No, not always. I—I had a meeting that ran late.”

  “And where do you work, Mr. Montgomery?”

  “I’m the branch manager at Valley Lake Bank. We’re trying—we, as in me, my boss, and my coworker—we’re trying to secure the financing for the new shopping center that’s going up off Main Street.”

  Officer Cannon shook his head and curled his lip. “All of those big stores are going to put our mom-and-pops out of business. We like our two-block Main Street. We don’t need a Big Lots or a TGI Fridays in Valley Lake.”

  Neither of those were contracted with the builder as far as Jace knew, but it wasn’t the first time he’d heard pushback from the locals who wanted to preserve their Norman Rockwell painting.

  Since the local officer wasn’t on board with the Town Center plans—most weren’t—it was about twenty you’re-the-reason-this-town-is-going-to-shit minutes later until the rest of the team showed up. A man and a woman, both with forensics, wore hip length coats emblazoned with the letters "CSI" on the back and dusted for fingerprints. Their long Q-tips swiped the blood drops on the window and the floor. The hair, Tessa’s hair, was placed into clear evidence bags.

  A man whom Jace assumed was Detective Solomon entered after forensics, and he looked right out of a true crime movie from the fifties. His beige trench coat hung to his knees and he wore a fedora tilted to the right. He was short and round, with a bulbous red nose and wire-rimmed glasses that attempted to distract from his lazy left eye that Jace noticed regardless. He reeked of cigarette smoke.

  Detective Solomon approached Jace and shook his hand. “Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Hello, Detective,” Jace said, shaking firmly. Solomon’s hand was damp.

  “It seems we have a bit of a problem?”

  Jace repeated the story he told Officer Cannon, right to the last detail.

  Solomon stood, deep in thought, and went into what was likely a prepared speech.

  “Anything else missing?” he asked as he looked around, right into their living room where the sixty-inch television still hung on the wall, with speakers and other various electronics surrounding the space, not a rogue wire anywhere.

  “No sir. Everything is here, as far as I can tell.”

  “Mmm. So, we have no reason to think this is a robbery gone wrong, then?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “Did you have any problems in your marriage?”

  It’s always the husband. “No, Detective. We’re newlyweds. We got marri
ed on Memorial Day weekend, almost four months ago. Kind of a whirlwind romance. We eloped.”

  “I see.” He, too, wrote down details in a pad. “How long were you dating?”

  “About a month,” Jace quickly lied. It was even less than that, and he suddenly felt stupid for rushing into something so huge. “It was fast. I know.” He felt like he needed to defend his rash decisions to the detective.

  “Mmm. And where did you meet?”

  “In a bar.” Jace paused, not wanting to give out all the real details of their initial meeting. Their situation back then was precarious at best. He’d lied to her in the beginning, but he didn’t think those details were pertinent to the investigation.

  “Aha.” It was a statement. “Do you know if anyone wanted to hurt her?”

  Yes, Jace knew of her past relationships. One in particular. But there were many bad situations from her past, even if she kept the details close to the vest. “She had some pretty terrible luck with men, from what I understand. A couple of abusive boyfriends. An abusive ex-husband too. She said she always jumped from relationship to relationship. She said didn’t like to be alone, and I guess she made some mistakes.”

  Solomon looked up from his notepad. His eyes stared from above his glasses, which were now at the tip of his nose. “His name? The ex-husband?”

  Jace shrugged. “I don’t know. She refers to all her exes only as ‘Asshole.’ She's never given me any of their names. I don’t think she wanted to be reminded of them.” He shook his head slowly. “I've never pushed her for details. Maybe a mistake. It all just happened so fast, and I wanted to protect her. To show her that all men weren’t like that.”

  Even if he’d heard they were.

  “Mmm.” The detective was a man of many words. “Is she originally from New Jersey? Age? Maiden name?”

  “She’s thirty-one.” Jace thought back to one of their earlier conversations. “I don’t know much about her upbringing except that it was bad. Foster homes and stuff. I never met her family. I think she has four siblings, but I don’t know if they all have the same mom or dad. She said once that Tessa meant ‘fifth child’ so I just assumed. I don’t know where she was from.” He paused for a beat, then continued. “Her maiden name is Smyth, with a Y; she hadn’t changed her last name to Montgomery yet. She’s still Tessa Smyth.” Jace, realizing his stupidity, put his hand on his head. “I don’t even know if Smyth was her ex-husband’s name or her maiden name.”

  “Mmm.”

  “She had it rough growing up. Clammed up every time I tried to talk to her about it. I don’t know shit, Detective. I’m sorry.”

  The detective blew out a puff of air. Scanned the kitchen again. Looked at Candy. “I think there’s a good chance, whoever did this, your wife knew him. Or her.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The dog.” Solomon nodded his chin toward Candy. “If a stranger breaks in, a dog will lose its mind. Most likely would’ve attacked, or at minimum warned your wife with excessive barking. Does your dog have any wounds on her?”

  Glancing in her direction, Jace said, “I don’t think so, but I didn’t think to check.” He waved her over. “Come here, girl,” he said quietly.

  Candy rose and walked toward him, her head low like she’d just destroyed another pillow. Jace pet her, from her black and gray head, down her brown spotted paws, and to her tail with the white tip, pressing insistently on her bones to see if she yelped from an unseen bruise. There were no visual cuts, nor any blood on her fur.

  “No. She’s okay,” Jace said, and kissed her on the head. “Good girl, it’s okay, girl. We’ll find Mommy,” he whispered in the dog’s ear, and looked at her like he expected an answer. In English.

  Solomon’s notebook snapped shut and he asked for a recent picture.

  Jace crept into their dining room to the sideboard where they kept their wedding pictures. They’d had someone snap them with his cell phone while they were at the courthouse at city hall, and then he had them printed from a photo app. He opened the drawer and they were still in a pile, unorganized.

  His favorite picture had the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, but he realized that was a profile shot and would be of no help to the police. He placed it to the side in favor of one that had them both facing the camera. He was in a black suit with a white shirt and a yellow tie—yellow, her favorite color. Daffodil. She’d always called colors by what they represented. The designer in her and all. She wore a flowy off-white dress with lace sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, but not a proper wedding gown. Her dark hair cascaded in waves just past her shoulders, and her storm-colored eyes glowed with happiness.

  Her expert makeup job covered the bruises.

  Jace held on to it for a few seconds before handing it to Detective Solomon.

  “She has bangs in this picture, but she’s been growing them out. Tucks them behind her ears now,” he said, making the same gesture she always did when she moved the hair out of her face. “Please find her, Detective,” he said, and pushed out a tear.

  Jace still wanted to keep their early life a secret. To be honest, he knew she’d lied about her past anyway, and with good reason. People lie all the time. But was she really Tessa Smyth? He still didn’t know.

  And he needed to make sure the detective didn’t find out what really went on between them earlier that week.

  Thankfully, he’d already destroyed the note he left her that morning.

  2

  TESSA

  To say I’m a creature of habit is an understatement. I have a type, and I have a cycle with men that I’m unable to break, always overlooking their flaws. No matter how obvious they are—all my exes practically wore a flashing neon sign that said “Fix Me.” Asshole One, Asshole Two, Asshole Three—I lost count. Eventually, I just called all of them Asshole. Asshole Number Whatever.

  And now, here I am, running out after yet another man punched me. Again. And again. Then, he crossed a line, even for me. But this time, I thought ahead. This time, he’ll pay.

  After walking all night, I finally got to a bus station in a town twenty miles away. Yes, I walked twenty miles in the dark, following the side roads, careful not to be spotted by traffic cameras. It was warmer than it should’ve been this time of year. Even for nighttime, the heat bounced off the gravel and made my clothes stick to my body, but I had to get far, far away.

  After purchasing my ticket with cash, I waited. The area around me smelled of homelessness and despair. The walls were piss yellow and reminded me of my first foster home when I was twelve. I’ve been separated from my half siblings and my full brother Kenny for a long time. Unfortunately, my mother was a Monopoly board and the little silver penis game piece always trotted all over her, passed GO, and ironically never had two-hundred dollars. Last I heard, Kenny had a few kids with a few different women, half-brother Christopher was doing some hard time, and the half-sister twins, Sara and Tara, ran off. No one cared about the well-being of me, the youngest one. And thus began my cycle of LOVE ME.

  I was giddy for the bus that would propel me away from yet another situation where I was in too deep. Married this one, too. I never learn. Get abused once, shame on you, get abused ten times, shame on me. This one, though, he was the best at hiding it. Not like the other Assholes. The first one I married—which wasn’t even legal because I was underage and he, well, wasn’t—was a tattoo artist. The one who threw boiling water on me and gave me the dimpled scar on my arm. The other men through the years varied from beer distributor to truck driver to landscaper. This last Asshole was legit nine-to-five, except when he had to work late, which was often. “Entertaining,” he said. Because he had a stable job, I thought he was the ticket out of my hellish round-and-round of bad men. I thought I was finally going to be the lead in the rom-coms that raised me—girl gets cheated on, trusts no one, has hijinks with a new guy, falls in love despite their differences, and lives happily ever after.

  Nope. Instead, he sniffed out t
he girl who needed to be rescued, and, pretending I was the heroine in said rom-com, I fell for it. He told me later that he saw my bruises when we met and knew I’d be a good little punching bag. Someone who wouldn’t make waves. Someone who would let him do whatever the hell he wanted, because where was I going to go? Like I didn’t know he was sleeping with his coworker too. The one with the Spanish name. Worst-kept secret in town.

  Still in my hard plastic chair at the depot that makes my butt numb, I fiddle with my purse, where I have some newly purchased makeup. I open a compact. Peering into the mirror, I’m thankful the cut that probably needs stitches is hidden under my hair and you can’t see the huge lump. The blue and purple around my left eye has slightly faded into a putrid yellowish green that is hard to cover with foundation. I press the foam pouf into the cream-to-powder mix and dab it under my eye, which cakes a bit under my not-enough-sleep wrinkles. Checking the clock on the wall, the one that looks like it belongs in a school classroom, I see I have enough time to check my bandage.

  The bathroom in the public facility stinks like shit and bleach. I set my brand-spanking-new roller bag by the sink and place my purse on top, then remove the gauze on my upper arm. I cut myself on the glass that I staged in the kitchen. Which was good, actually. More blood than I intended to leave at the scene. The gauze doesn’t stick to my lacerated skin as I peel it back—God knows I used enough ointment before I applied the dressing. The wound throbs and the covering with the dollop of bacitracin has given it a pus topping that begs for air, but experience tells me that I need to keep it hidden for now. A hefty pour of hydrogen peroxide and an airy, good night’s sleep are at least a day away.

  As I’m reapplying the ointment, the door creaks open and a woman, who could be sixteen or forty, drags herself in. She’s carrying only a torn backpack and she gives me a half smile and a shrug when she notices our matching bruises before she disappears into the stall. I wash my hands and use the air dryer, which isn’t one of the high-powered ones that are at all the restaurants now. This one spits out cool air that wouldn’t move a feather. I pull back and wipe my hands on my clothes. I check again in my purse for two prepaid burner phones with all the bells and whistles—one for me to use at my leisure, and one for my contact to be able to get in touch with me. I’ll need to assimilate into life, wherever I land.