by Sara Shepard
Finally, she couldn’t stand the silence. “You’re looking . . . okay,” she told Vanessa.
“Thanks,” Vanessa said, almost proudly.
Her sister’s hair was greasy. She’d lost at least thirty pounds since Ronnie had seen her last. She had broken capillaries around her eyes, and her clothes were oversize and threadbare, not that she’d ever dressed well. And she’d doused herself in cologne, which Ronnie feared was to cover up the smell of something else, like weed. There was also something wrong with her teeth, and she had a sore on the inside of her wrist that looked infected.
But her eyes were cunning and determined. She had Ronnie cornered, and they both knew it.
“When did you get here?” Ronnie asked next.
“Oh, last night. Drove in.”
“Are you working? Are you . . . you know, healthy?”
“Would I be here if I were using?” Vanessa’s voice was sharp. “I’ve been clean for years.”
Ronnie didn’t trust that. “Did you do a program? NA?”
“I found Jesus.” Vanessa’s voice was mocking, sarcastic. “Praise the Lord.”
Ronnie believed that Vanessa was born-again as much as she would have believed Vanessa if she told her she’d enrolled in law school. There were some things about people that didn’t change; when she and Vanessa were young, they lived across the street from a clapboard Baptist church, and when the parishioners dutifully filed in on Sunday mornings, Vanessa stood at the window in devil horns, snickering at their piousness. It made Ronnie sad to think about that; it was an affectionate memory, all things considered.
“This is quite the place,” Vanessa went on, looking up the boulevard, which was lined in palm trees. “Sunny Cal-i-forn-i-a.” She said the last part like eye-ay. Was there a slur to her voice? Had she always talked like this? “I drove around a little bit this morning before finding you. That beach is gorgeous! Must be nice, living near the ocean.”
Ronnie licked her lips. “It’s okay.”
Vanessa snorted. “So’s the fact that you’re two thousand miles away from me, I bet.”
When Ronnie shut her eyes, she felt hot tears. “Nessie. I wanted you to come. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”
“Yeah, right.” Vanessa’s voice was brisk. When Ronnie opened her eyes, her sister was calmly unwrapping the rest of her sandwich. “Then you would have called me from the road. You would have checked what happened to me instead of just grabbing my kid and getting the fuck out of town without another word. You changed your name, Ronnie. Who the hell is Ronnie Stuckey? And what’s this I hear about changing my girl’s name to Esme?” She made a face. “What kind of name is that?”
The hate was so seething it practically radiated off Vanessa in concentric circles. Ronnie wanted to grab Vanessa across the table and say, Hey. Remember me? Remember playing tag in the backyard, and elaborate stories featuring our dolls, and you squeezing my hand after you gave birth to your girl?
The two women were nothing alike, and they never claimed to be friends. They had fought a lot as kids and adults, and there was a lot of shit that was unsaid. But they’d come from the same family. They had the same memories, up to a certain point. They shared a bed as kids, and helped their mother make pies at Christmas, and sledded down their backyard hill on cardboard boxes. They fought like wild animals, but they always made up. Back then, Ronnie liked to think she had her sister’s best interests at heart, and vice versa, but that was before the bitterness, and her parents’ death, and the drugs, and Jerrod, and finally Esme.
It had been easier imagining Vanessa was dead, Ronnie realized, because then she didn’t have to fully confront what she’d done.
“I’m sorry,” she admitted. It felt like there was a big rubber band around her chest. “I was scared. And . . . well, Jerrod.” She dared to look at Vanessa. “Taylor would have died there, you know.” It felt strange to use Esme’s original name. “And you would have, too, eventually.”
“You’re being dramatic. And also, it’s not up to you.”
“So I was supposed to just stand there and watch it happen?” Bile rose in Ronnie’s throat.
“You always did think you could handle things better. Always got the good grades, had the better boyfriends, made the better money.”
Ronnie shut her eyes. “I love that kid, Nessie. I was just thinking of her.”
“Oh, Ronnie.” Her sister’s voice was almost gentle. She felt Vanessa’s cool, small hand on top of hers, and Ronnie’s heart lifted. “It took a lot to track you down. I almost gave up.”
“How long have you been following me?” Ronnie thought of all the shadows she feared, all the bodies darting into corners. That had all been Vanessa?
“I hired a PI. It cost a ton of money. Said I was looking for my long-lost sister. That we had a lot to talk about.” She smirked. “He looked and looked. It wasn’t easy to find you.”
“Has he been watching me all this time?” If only that could explain her paranoia. “Did he send me the Missing flyer?”
“No!” Vanessa looked intrigued. “You got one? How about that? I put that flyer together years ago—I had no idea they were still printing them.”
“Nessie, I-I’ve felt terrible,” Ronnie stammered. “Terrible that I got her out of there, terrible that I didn’t have enough time to get you.” Her eyes filled with tears, thinking of Vanessa on the ground, unconscious. “I should have,” she decided. “Even if it meant Jerrod coming after us. But I . . . I thought you were gone already.” She lowered her head. “I was just thinking of Taylor. I was afraid Jerrod was going to kill us.”
“He wouldn’t have killed you.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ronnie cleared her throat. “He was about to rape me.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Funny. He told me you came on to him. Told me you came on to him a lot. Wanted to be his wife, wanted me out of the picture. It’s why you took off with Taylor. If you couldn’t have him, then at least you’d have his little girl.”
Ronnie gaped. How could Vanessa say that after all that Jerrod had put her through? She wanted to shake her. “If you knew I was the one who took her, why did it take you so long to find us?”
“Yeah, well. I wanted to.” Vanessa’s eyes lowered. Something dark and heavy passed across her features.
“But Jerrod didn’t?”
Vanessa shrugged. But maybe that made sense. If the police came, they’d see the squalor and Vanessa’s bruises. They’d suspect that they had done something to the baby. So why now, then? Had Vanessa had to save up the money? Was she doing this without Jerrod knowing? Maybe this was her first opportunity to get away? It was all so puzzling.
Desperation roiled up inside Ronnie, along with regret. This was still her sister, and she still loved her. “I wanted you to come with me,” she repeated. “I begged for you to wake up. But then you didn’t, and I heard Jerrod moving around in the bedroom. I was afraid Jerrod was going to come out, and . . . I didn’t know what to do.”
“You should’ve had your own damn kids, if you wanted them so badly.” Vanessa’s eyes blazed. “But it was easier to just take mine, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, so you’d rather I left her there? Where she was unsupervised half the time? Where neither of you were sober, and you barely held down jobs—”
“That’s what it’s about.” Vanessa crossed her arms triumphantly. “Since we didn’t make the same money as you, you thought we were beneath you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Any job would have done.”
“You realize”—Vanessa raised a wavering finger—“that you’re nothing more than a slut, right? All you have is your tits and your ass. It’s not like you’re using your big brain. You’re sticking your cunt in men’s faces—that’s how you’re making money.”
Ronnie recoiled. She could sense that the street had quieted dow
n, like the whole world was listening in. Then she felt the tears come. Vanessa was right. Of course she was right. Yet she wished some karmic spirit would realize that she’d only tried to do the right thing and just . . . make a ruling in her favor, maybe.
“Oh, stop crying,” Vanessa snapped. “Now, where is she?”
Ronnie looked up at her in terror. “No.”
Vanessa scoffed. “I’ve come for Taylor. I want my baby.”
Here it was. Please, Ronnie wanted to beg. Please, don’t you see? She knew it wasn’t fair to ask to keep Esme, but the idea of letting her go felt like walking off a cliff. “We could all stay here,” she tried. “We could have a good life here.”
“She’ll have a good life with her mother, too. Back east.”
“Are you going to take her back to . . . him?”
Vanessa looked away. “Jerrod doesn’t know I’m here. Not yet.”
“You mean you’re still married?” Her heart was hammering now. She couldn’t let this happen. Maybe she could grab Esme and run. Disappear again. She hated to think of leaving Lane behind, but she would do it. She would do anything.
“Taylor’s coming with me. And if you’re going to make trouble, well . . .” She puffed out her cheeks. “Don’t test me. ’Kay?”
“Please,” Ronnie whispered, suddenly feeling like she was going to start hyperventilating. There was so much rushing in her ears. “What about a mediator?”
Vanessa squinted. “Huh?”
“It’s like . . . a therapist. Someone to help us navigate this. Figure out a plan.”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
“Your daughter doesn’t know you. She was two when we left. She thinks of me as her mother. Babies aren’t dogs. They don’t know your smell.” Ronnie couldn’t quite meet Vanessa’s gaze. “We have to ease her into it, get her prepared. You can’t just take her—she’d be traumatized.” Ronnie started crying. “Think of her. Not just yourself.”
Vanessa chewed on the inside of her lip, then lifted up the mug of tea and drained it as though it were a shot of tequila. “Fine. Get your fancy mediator. Schedule it for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? “B-But I need to find someone first. And I don’t know if someone will have an opening for to—”
“I’m coming to your place at noon,” Vanessa said, her eyes turning dark. “I know where you live. I’m gonna gather up my stuff, pay off my guy, get gas, and then I’ll be by.” Then she hefted herself up and grabbed the canvas Safeway bag it appeared she was using as a tote and gave her a final glare. “You’d better be there.”
Ronnie scrambled up, full of both relief and doubt, not sure what she needed to do next. As Vanessa turned, Ronnie felt a strong, protective sensation rush over her. “W-Where are you staying tonight?”
Vanessa didn’t answer; she rolled her eyes and started for the curb. She glanced at Ronnie one more time, then shook her head with disgust. “You always were too fucking pretty, Ronnie.”
And then she was gone. Ronnie sat back down, running her palms against the rough surface of the bench. Then, shakily, she gathered up their trash and walked back into the café to throw it away. The barista glanced at her, but her smile dimmed when she saw Ronnie’s blotchy cheeks and wet eyes. Wordlessly, Ronnie shut herself inside the bathroom, safe from everyone’s gaze.
No one saw her twist the lock. No one saw her bang the mirror with her fist until it created a small hairline crack. No one saw her sink to the filthy floor—still cleaner than anything in Vanessa’s old house—and break into sobs, wondering what the hell she was going to do.
Twenty-Three
Mommy?” On Tuesday morning—five days after Piper’s attack—Arthur had climbed into Andrea’s bed and was lying next to her, stroking her hair. “Can I please, please, please go to school today?”
“No school today,” Andrea said, grateful that this was true. “Remember? You go Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”
Arthur went boneless, flopping over the side of the bed. “But why didn’t I get to go yesterday?” He stuck out his lip. “I miss Johnny and King. Can I have them over at least?”
“Maybe . . .”
It hurt to tell her child no, but any interaction right now felt dangerous. There was the buzz online, for one. The comments the other parents posted weren’t pure vitriol—some of them were more like backhanded compliments: I have to say, she’s much prettier than most women and Ugh if I didn’t have ovaries I’d have skin like that too—but she wasn’t ready for the stares, or for Arthur to feel uncomfortable in any way. Also, after she talked with Ronnie yesterday afternoon, she’d received a voicemail from Detective Allegra. In his message, he asked if she could “check in” with him, as he had a few more questions. About what, Andrea wasn’t sure.
According to the Facebook group, Piper was still unconscious in her hospital room. It rocked Andrea’s core. Unconscious. That meant a coma. That meant something had shaken up her brain. And she’d been right there.
Even worse, the Piper news had spread to the state level; also yesterday, someone from an ABC news affiliate had sent her an email request for an interview. This is Joanna from Channel 10 in San Diego, the message read. Apologies if I’m overstepping here, but I’ve been informed you might have something to say about the director who was attacked at the preschool in your town. Can you please reach out at your earliest convenience? Would love to hear your side of things.
And yet—and yet—this reporter hadn’t made a reference to Andrea being a Vandermeer. Surely, if a reporter had contacted Andrea’s mother, all the press would know by now—meaning it was certainly the blackmailer who’d called Cynthia. Carson?
Arthur slid off the bed and headed for the master bath, and the sound of his urine stream hitting the toilet reflected off the hard surfaces. He was probably peeing all over the bowl and the floor, but Andrea didn’t care. She grabbed her phone and pulled up the Instagram page she’d found for Carson. Up came glamour shots of a vegan meal he’d had the night before, along with a bunch of kissing-face emojis. Then, Andrea noticed he’d posted something on his Instagram Stories. She tapped it, and up came a photo of the same vegan dinner. This disappeared, and next Carson’s face appeared—he was smooshed next to another man at a fancy restaurant. With his shit-eating smile, Carson certainly didn’t look that destroyed that his boss was clinging to life in intensive care.
A final image appeared in the story: Carson and the same guy were standing outside the restaurant, but this was more of a body shot. Andrea was about to click past it, but she noticed that Carson’s messenger bag was printed with a familiar herringbone pattern. She looked closer. Was that Goyard? Her mother had a tote with the same print, except hers was navy. Cynthia didn’t own a handbag that cost less than a normal person’s monthly mortgage. After a quick Internet search, she found the messenger style’s price: $2,100.
This guy had an Audi and an expensive bag, and yet he worked as an assistant at a preschool? Did Carson have some sort of lucrative side hustle? Maybe his family was wealthy after all?
She sat up straighter and typed in Silver Swans’ web address. The school had an audit board, though most of the people on it were parents. If she called and checked, would she find out that Carson was the one managing the accounting? The paper Ronnie took from Piper’s office. Maybe it was a balance sheet. Some sort of cash record after all. She’d heard about schools doctoring invoices. Last year, there were nuns who’d done it at a Catholic school in Iowa.
She slid off the bed. “Honey?” she called to Arthur, who was still in the bathroom. “I’m running to the mailbox, okay?”
The grass was wet with dew, chilling her bare feet as she ran across the lawn. The mailbox hinges creaked as she pulled open the door. The box was stuffed with letters; she’d kind of forgotten mail existed in the past few days. She grabbed the stack between her palms and hurried back to the house, then spille
d all the mail onto the couch.
“Whoa!” Arthur exclaimed, mixing up the junk mail, magazines, bills, like the pile was a stew. At first, Andrea didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but then there it was—an unmarked white envelope, thin with only a single sheet of paper. USPS was on the ball. Andrea tore it open and stared at the swarm of numbers on the page. They marched across six Excel columns and down at least twenty rows—more than a hundred numbers in all. But they didn’t look like expenses—the numbers were too big, and there were no decimal points or dollar signs. They were too long to be social security numbers.
Credit card numbers, maybe? Some of them started with the same four digits. Then, Andrea spotted the beginning numbers for the bank account at First National she’d set up when she moved here. The more she looked, the more she noticed other numbers with the same beginning digits. Were these bank accounts?
Actually, wait a minute.
She stared hard at the numbers in one particular Excel square. Unless she was losing her mind, that was her bank account number. Exactly.
She hurried to the desk in her office and pulled open a drawer. A checkbook sat under a pile of tax forms; the routing number matched what was in the spreadsheet, as did the account number.
What did that mean? Andrea grabbed her phone and called the only person she could think of. “Jerry?” she said when he answered. “It’s Andrea. Sorry to bother you again.”
“You’re not bothering me.” A bird sang in the background. He must have been outside. “But I’m afraid I don’t have any updates. You haven’t been charged with anything. Your mother still doesn’t know the name of that journalist—”
“Is there a reason a nursery school would have my bank account number?” she interrupted.
