by Shari Lapena
“Ms. Foegle,” Rasbach says. “I’m Detective Rasbach. This is Detective Jennings. Thank you for coming in. We have a few questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
She gives him a resigned frown. “To be honest, I’ve been expecting someone to call me,” she says.
They take her to one of the interview rooms. She looks tense when they mention the video camera, but she doesn’t complain.
“You knew Anne Conti in high school—she was Anne Dries then—when you were at St. Mildred’s,” Rasbach begins, once the preliminaries are out of the way.
“Yes.” Her voice is quiet.
“What was she like?”
Janice pauses, as if unsure of what to say. “She was nice.”
“Nice?” Rasbach waits for more.
Suddenly her face crumples and she begins to cry. Rasbach gently pushes the tissue box within her reach and waits. “The truth is, she was a nice girl and I was a total bitch. Me and Susan and Debbie, we were awful girls. I’m ashamed of it now. I look back at what I was like and I just can’t believe it. We were so mean to her, for no reason.”
“Mean to her how?”
Janice looks away and blows her nose delicately. Then she looks up at the ceiling and tries to compose herself. “We teased her. About her looks, about her clothes. We thought we were above her—above everyone, really.” She gives him a wry look. “We were fifteen. Not that that excuses anything.”
“So what happened?”
“This went on for months, and she just took it. She was always nice back to us and pretended it didn’t bother her, but we thought she was just pathetic. Actually, I thought it was a kind of strength, being able to pretend you’re not bothered, day after day, when she obviously was, but I kept that to myself.”
Rasbach nods, encouraging her to continue.
She looks down at the tissue in her hands, sighs heavily, and looks back up at Rasbach. “One day she just lost it. The three of us—Debbie, Susan, and I—we’d stayed late after school for some reason. We were in the girls’ bathroom, and Anne walked in. She saw us and froze. Then she said hi and gave a little wave and went into one of the stalls to pee. That took a certain amount of guts, I have to admit.” She pauses, then continues. “Anyway, we started saying some things.” She stops.
“What kinds of things?” Rasbach asks.
“I’m ashamed to say. Things like ‘How is your diet coming along? Because you look like you’ve gained weight’—things like that. We were pretty awful to her. She came out of the stall and went right for Susan. None of us were expecting it. Anne grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. It was one of those cement walls, painted a glossy cream, and Susan hit it hard with her head. She just kind of slid down. There was a big smear of blood all down the wall.” Janice’s face twists, as if she is back in that school bathroom seeing her friend crumpled on the floor, the blood smeared on the wall. “I thought Anne had killed her.”
“Go on,” Rasbach encourages.
“Debbie and I were screaming, but Anne was completely silent. Debbie was closer to the door, so she ran for help. I was terrified to be left alone with Anne, but she was between me and the door and I was too scared to move. Anne looked at me, but her eyes were blank. Like she wasn’t really there. I didn’t know if she was even seeing me. It was creepy. Finally one of the teachers came, and then the headmistress. They called an ambulance.” Janice falls silent.
“Did anyone call the police?”
“Are you kidding?” She looks at him in surprise. “That’s not the way things are done in private schools. The headmistress was all damage control. I know they worked something out. Anne’s mother came in, and our parents, and it was all just . . . handled. You see, we had it coming, and everybody knew it.”
Rasbach says gently, “What happened after they called the ambulance?”
“When it arrived, they put Susan on a stretcher and took her down to the ambulance. Debbie and I and the other teacher followed Susan. Debbie and I were crying, hysterical. The headmistress took Anne to her office to wait for her mother. The ambulance took Susan away, and Debbie and I waited in the parking lot with the other teacher for our parents to come.”
“Do you remember anything else?” Rasbach asks.
She nods. “Before the headmistress took Anne away, Anne looked at me, like she was completely normal, and said, ‘What happened?’”
Rasbach says, “What did you think when she said that?”
“I thought she was crazy.”
• • •
The mailman is outside the front door trying to push the volumes of mail through the slot in the door. Anne stands in the kitchen and watches. She could open the door and take it from him, to make his job easier, but she doesn’t want to. She knows all that hate mail is for her. He looks up then, through the window, and sees her. Their eyes meet for just a second, and then he looks down and works on pushing more envelopes through the slot. She and this same mailman used to exchange pleasantries, less than a week ago. But everything is different now. The letters have dropped onto the floor by the door in a jumbled pile. He’s struggling to push a large, thick envelope through the slot, but it won’t go. He pushes it halfway in and then turns and goes back down the walk and on to the next house.
Anne stands staring at the pile on the floor, at the package stuffed in the slot. The package is holding the slot open. She goes to the door and tries to pull it through. It’s one of those bubble envelopes. It’s stuck, and she can’t unwedge it. She will have to open the door and grab it from the outside. She peers through the window to see if anyone is out there. The reporters who were there earlier in the morning while the police were packing up have cleared off. Anne opens the door and yanks the package out of the slot, quickly slips back inside, closes the door, and relocks it.
Without thinking, she opens the package.
There’s a mint green onesie inside.
SIXTEEN
Anne screams.
Marco hears her scream and bolts downstairs from the bedroom. He sees her standing by the front door, a pile of unopened mail at her feet, a package in her hand. He can see the green onesie peeking out of the package.
She turns to him, her face white. “This just came in the mail,” she says, her voice strange and hollow.
Marco approaches her, and she holds the package out to him. They look down at it together, almost afraid to touch it. What if it’s a prank? What if someone thought it would be funny to send a mint green onesie to the awful couple who left their baby home alone?
Marco takes the package from Anne and gently opens it further. He draws out the onesie. It looks right. He turns it over. There’s the embroidered bunny on the front.
“Oh, God,” Anne gasps, and bursts into tears, her hands up to her face.
“It’s hers,” Marco says, his voice harsh. “It’s Cora’s.”
Anne nods but can’t speak.
There’s a note pinned to the inside of the little outfit. It’s typewritten, in a small font.
The baby is fine. Ransom is five million dollars. Do NOT tell the police. Bring the money on Thursday at 2 pm. Any sign of police you will never see her again.
There is a detailed map at the bottom of the note.
“We’re going to get her back, Anne!” Marco cries.
Anne feels as though she might faint. After all they’ve been through, it seems too good to be true. She takes the onesie from him and holds it to her face and breathes in. She can smell her baby. She can smell her. It is overwhelming. She breathes in again, and her knees weaken.
“We’ll do exactly what it says,” Marco says.
“Shouldn’t we tell the police?”
“No! It says not to tell them. We can’t risk screwing this up. Don’t you see? It’s too risky to involve the police. If he thinks he’s going to get caught, he might just
kill Cora and get rid of her! We have to do it his way. No police.”
Anne nods. It scares her, doing this on their own. But Marco is right. What have the police done for them? Nothing. All the police have done is suspect them. The police are not their friends. They will have to get Cora back on their own.
“Five million,” Marco says, his voice tense. He looks up at her, suddenly worried. “Do you think your parents will be okay with five million?”
“I don’t know.” She bites her lip anxiously. “They have to be.”
“We don’t have a lot of time. Two days,” Marco says. “We have to ask your parents. They have to start getting the money together.”
“I’ll call them.” She moves toward the phone in the kitchen.
“Use your cell phone. And, Anne, tell them right up front—no police. No one can know.”
She nods and reaches for her cell.
• • •
They sit on the sofa in the living room, Anne and Marco, side by side. Anne’s mother perches elegantly on the edge of the armchair while Anne’s father paces the floor of the living room between the front window and the sofa. They all watch him.
“You’re sure that’s the right outfit?” he says again, pausing in his pacing.
“Yes,” Anne says sharply. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“We just need to be sure. Five million dollars is a lot of money.” He sounds petulant. “We have to be sure we’re dealing with the person who actually has Cora. This has been all over the papers. Somebody could take advantage.”
“It’s Cora’s sleeper,” Marco says firmly. “We recognize it.”
“Can you get us the money or not?” Anne asks, her voice strident. She looks anxiously at her mother. Just when she was getting her hopes up again, this might all fall apart. How could her father be doing this to her?
“Of course we can get the money,” her mother says firmly.
“I didn’t say we couldn’t get the money,” her father answers. “I said it might be difficult. But if I have to move mountains, then I’ll move mountains.”
Marco watches his father-in-law, trying to keep his dislike from showing itself on his face. They all know it’s mostly Anne’s mother’s money, but he has to act like it’s all his. Like he earned it all himself. What a jerk.
“Two days isn’t much time to raise that much money. We’ll have to cash in some investments,” Richard says self-importantly.
“That’s not a problem,” Anne’s mother says. She looks at her daughter. “Don’t worry about the money, Anne.”
“Can you do it quietly, without anyone knowing?” Marco asks.
Richard Dries exhales loudly, thinking. “We’ll talk to our lawyer about how to handle it. We’ll figure it out.”
“Thank God,” Anne says in relief.
“How exactly is this going to work?” Richard asks.
Marco says, “Just like the note says. No police. I’ll go, with the money. I give them the money, and they give me Cora.”
“Maybe I should come with you, so you don’t screw it up,” Anne’s father says.
Marco regards him with open malice. “No.” He adds, “If they see someone else, they might not go through with it.”
They stare at each other. “I’m the one with the big checkbook,” Richard says.
“Actually, I’m the one with the big checkbook,” Alice says sharply.
“Dad, please,” Anne says, terrified that her father is going to ruin everything. Her glance darts anxiously from him to her mother.
“We have no proof that Cora is even alive,” Richard says. “It could be a trick.”
“If Cora isn’t there, I won’t leave the money,” Marco says, watching Richard continue to pace in front of the window.
“I don’t like it,” Richard says. “We should tell the police.”
“No!” Marco says. The two men glare at each other. Richard looks away first.
“What choice do we have?” Anne asks, her voice shrill.
“I still don’t like it,” Richard says.
“We will do exactly what the note says,” Anne’s mother says firmly, giving her husband a sharp glance.
Anne’s father looks at her and says, “I’m sorry, Anne. You’re right. We don’t have a choice. Your mother and I had better get started on the money.”
• • •
Marco watches his father- and mother-in-law get into their Mercedes and drive off. He’s barely eaten since this all started. His jeans hang loose on his body.
It was an awful moment when Richard was being difficult about raising the money. But he’d just been grandstanding. He had to make sure everybody knew what a great guy he was. Had to make sure everybody appreciated how important he was.
“I knew they would come through for us,” Anne says, suddenly beside Marco.
How did she always manage to say exactly the wrong thing? At least when it came to her parents. How could she not see her father for what he was? Couldn’t she see how manipulative he was? But Marco is silent.
“It’s going to be okay,” Anne says, taking Marco’s hand in hers. “We’re going to get her back. And then everyone will see that we were the victims here.” She squeezes his hand. “And then we should make the damn police apologize.”
“Your father will never let us forget that they bailed us out.”
“He won’t see it that way! He’ll see it as saving Cora, I’m sure of it! They won’t hold it over us.”
His wife can be so naïve. Marco gives her hand a squeeze back. “Why don’t you lie down and try to get some rest? I’m going to go out for a bit.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, but I’ll try. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to pop into the office and check on a few things. I haven’t been there since . . . since Cora was taken.”
“Okay.”
Marco puts his arms around Anne and gives her a hug. “I can’t wait to see her again, Anne,” he whispers.
She nods against his shoulder. He lets her go.
Marco watches her walk up the stairs. Then he grabs his car keys from the bowl on the table in the front hall and heads out.
• • •
Anne intends to lie down. She’s too keyed up, though—almost daring to hope she might get her baby back soon, yet still terrified that it might all go horribly wrong. As her father said, they have no proof that Cora is even still alive.
But she refuses to believe that Cora is dead.
She carries the green onesie with her, holding it to her face and breathing in the scent of her baby. She misses her so much it physically hurts. Her breasts ache. In the upstairs hall, she stops, leans against the wall, and slides down to the floor outside the baby’s room. If she closes her eyes and presses the onesie to her face, she can pretend that Cora is still here, in the house, just across the hall. For a few moments, she lets herself pretend. But then she opens her eyes.
Whoever sent them the onesie has demanded five million dollars. Whoever it is knows that their little girl is worth five million dollars to them and obviously has a pretty good idea that Anne and Marco can get the money.
Perhaps it is someone they know, if only slightly. She gets to her feet slowly, pauses on her way into their bedroom. Perhaps it is even someone they know fairly well, someone who knows they have access to money.
When this is all over, she thinks, after they get Cora back, she will devote her life to her child—and to finding the person who took her. Maybe she will never stop looking at people they know, wondering if that person is the one who took their baby—or knows who did.
She suddenly realizes she probably shouldn’t be handling the onesie like this. If it all goes wrong and they don’t get Cora back, they will have to turn the onesie—and the note—over to the police, as evidence and to convince them of their innocen
ce. Surely the police will no longer suspect them now. But any evidence that the outfit might have offered up has probably been ruined by the way she has been touching it and breathing on it and even wiping her tears with it. She puts it down on her dresser in the bedroom and lays it flat. She looks at it, forlorn, on the dresser. She leaves it there, with the note pinned to it containing their instructions. They cannot afford to make a mistake.
It’s the first time she’s been alone in the house, she realizes, since midnight on the night Cora was taken. If only she could go back in time. The last few days have been a blur, of fear and grief and horror and despair—and betrayal. She told the police that she trusted Marco, but she lied. She doesn’t trust him with Cynthia. She thinks that he might have other secrets from her. After all, she has secrets from him.
She wanders from her dresser over to Marco’s and pulls open the top drawer. Aimlessly, she rummages through his socks and underwear. When she has finished with the top drawer, she opens the second. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she’ll know when she finds it.
SEVENTEEN
Marco gets into the Audi and drives. But not to the office. Instead he takes the nearest exit and drives out of the city. He weaves in and around traffic; the Audi is responsive to his touch. After about twenty minutes, he turns off onto a smaller highway. Soon he reaches a familiar dirt road that leads to a fairly secluded lake.
He pulls in to a graveled parking area in front of the lake. There is a small, stony beach with some old, weathered picnic tables, which he has rarely seen anyone use. A long dock projects out into the lake, but no one launches boats from here anymore. Marco has been coming here for years. He comes here alone, whenever he needs to think.
He parks the car under the shade of a tree, facing the lake, and gets out. It’s hot and sunny, but there’s a breeze coming off the lake. He sits on the hood of the car and looks out at the water. There is no one else here; the place is deserted.
He tells himself that everything will be all right. Cora is fine; she has to be. Anne’s parents will get the money. His father-in-law would never pass up an opportunity to be a hero or a big shot, even if it cost him a small fortune. Especially if it looks like he’s bailing Marco out. They won’t even miss the money, Marco thinks.
