Maggie reminds herself to be wary and alert. It’s also conceivable that Stephanie’s been turned into a state’s witness. Maybe she’s working undercover for another agency. Perhaps as an informant of some kind? That could explain her sudden turnabout a year and a half ago. It could also lead to big trouble for Maggie depending on the circumstances.
Is she, Maggie the hunter, also being hunted?
Maggie dashes down the subway steps. She’s got a long ride uptown. And despite all of her misgivings, she doesn’t want to be late.
LOOSE ENDS
Catherine,
New York City
I had a heady time in London. I saw Holly three more times, each encounter more urgent than the last. We didn’t talk much, and not at all about Derrick and Miranda. He told me he would handle it. I told him I would let him.
As I had a team on Eva Lombard, I knew she was returning to London the day before I was intending to depart. I parked myself across the street from the Lombards’ townhouse and patiently watched until her arrival. She took a few minutes, visibly composing herself before ringing the doorbell, a choice I thought odd, perhaps intended to make a point to her husband: I’m back, but we are not back to normal.
Eva’s reunion with Baxter was joyous: the woman on her knees, the dog’s meaty paws on her shoulders, his huge tongue lavishing her with kisses. The couple’s greeting was more stilted, Eva reluctantly pulling herself away from the dog and hesitating in the doorway to exchange a few sentences with her husband. I drove away as she crossed the threshold. I’ve since learned she’s pregnant. I hope they work it out.
At least they are safe from any danger at the hands of Derrick Cotter. He drowned in a freak accident one day while out on the Thames in his riverboat. Tragically for the self-made billionaire and noted philanthropist Forrest Holcomb, his young wife perished just a week after his oldest friend. The examining physician ruled it an accidental overdose, but rumors of suicide swirled, generating additional sympathy for Holly. He always does know how to play to a crowd.
I confess that the news of the deaths thrilled me in my darkest heart. Are you shocked? It’s a perverse reaction, I know, especially since I’ve dedicated my life to protecting others. But it feels good to knock Holly off his pedestal and into the muck with me. We are broken together, and aberrant as it may sound, that knowledge comforts me. I have to decide every day who I will choose to help and who I’ll turn away. Aren’t I sentencing someone to possible danger or death with every choice? Is that so different from choosing to eliminate two people so vile they could betray anyone and everyone, including their greatest benefactor?
My perception might be altered if I had a different lens on Holly; I’m honest enough to admit that, but I choose to find the spin that links us.
Remember, every storyteller twists his or her lens to suit an agenda. Or protect a heart.
Steve Harris told his particular story admirably. The scandal exploded across the media, sparking outrage, lawsuits, and Knox Pharmaceuticals’ plummeting stock prices. It’s always a good feeling to sit back and reflect on a job well done.
There are a few loose ends, of course. Where to place the Harrises, if they agree to go. Debriefs of both Jake and Stephanie. An appropriate “gift” to my friend Gracey in Hong Kong. A cleanup of any trails, digital or otherwise, that may have been left behind there.
I’m scheduled to meet with Jake at the Manhattan apartment he and his sister, Natalie, inherited after the murder of their father. He rarely uses it, but it’s always a discreet place for us to talk and I have my own set of keys.
Stephanie has been more elusive, claiming “wicked jet lag,” but I suspect she may just be dodging my suggested plan to dye her hair red. She needs to learn how to take on a more diverse set of identities. A radical change might jolt her into understanding the art of taking on a character.
With the Harrises still in Mexico City, I need to return. I send Stephanie a nagging text. It strikes me that our exchange on this topic has been poignantly familial, as much as I can understand the concept of a family at all.
LINGER
Magali Guzman,
New York City
Maggie hurries up the subway stairs just as dusk throws its magical golden glow on the gritty gray streets. She hasn’t been this far uptown in a long time, and never before to the meeting place suggested by her correspondent: the East 110th Street Playground, set in the northernmost reaches of Central Park across from the Harlem Meer.
Central Park has never figured largely for Maggie despite her living in Jersey her entire life, and she had no idea what the heck a Meer even was until this invitation. As the peaceful rush-encircled lake comes into view, she’s transported back to the time of the city’s original Dutch origins, just as Central Park designers Olmsted and Vaux intended.
The playground that is her destination blends into this bucolic environment, with swing sets flanked by leafy trees and a climbing structure that looks like a giant’s discarded set of Lincoln Logs. Maggie knows the playground is one of the more recent park renovations, featuring the latest in playground design as part of the Central Park Conservancy’s “Plan for Play” initiative. She’d at least had the sense to do a little research and study a map before she hauled herself up here.
She slows her pace, letting her eyes sweep rapidly over the assortment of people in the park. Given the hour, it’s sparsely populated, a few children linger noisily in the sandbox or on swings, their caretakers gather sippy cups and plastic snack containers as they prepare to corral their young charges home.
No one stands out to her as a likely candidate, the mere height of the women in her view eliminating them by dwarfing Stephanie Regaldo’s small size (five feet and one inch, according to her arrest records).
Maggie runs through the information she has, parsing known fact and suspected fiction. She reminds herself once again that she is probably on a fool’s errand. As the time agreed to for their appointment comes and goes and dusk’s burnt umber descends upon the park, it seems more and more likely that is the case.
GONE
Catherine,
New York City
Dusk is my favorite part of the day. It’s the changeling quality of the light during that hour, as well as the reassurance that I’ve survived another day. Even if the night ahead is still in question.
I watch from a ridge above the playground as the woman I’ve identified as Special Agent Magali Guzman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation takes up a position, her eyes as sharply searching as my own. I let her wait. Manipulation of anticipation and expectation is a reliable way of keeping situations under my control.
Guzman’s body deflates. I see defeat in the set of her shoulders. She checks the time for the hundredth time since I’ve been observing her. She shifts to gather her bag as if she intends to leave. It’s time for me to move.
I circle around so I come up to Guzman from behind.
“Don’t turn around,” I warn softly.
I’m disguised, of course, with a curly blond wig and a body belt that adds thirty pounds to my gut and changes my gait. Nonetheless, why take chances if I don’t have to?
“Okay,” she replies instantly. “Are you Stephanie Regaldo?”
“Who’s looking for her?”
“Like I said, I have information about the murders of your father and brother.”
“Bullshit,” I snarl. “I know who you are, Special Agent Magali Guzman, FBI. What do you really want?”
There’s a long silence. I let it build.
“Okay,” Guzman finally replies. “I’m looking for a missing woman and child. Betsy and Bear Elliott.”
She turns her head, the desire to see my reaction to this disclosure burning fiercely in her eyes. My curly blond locks surprise her; she squints at my face, trying to peer past them.
“I said don’t
turn around.” I keep my voice low and menacing. Guzman obediently twists her head away from me and holds her hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. I go on the attack. “Have you no shame, attempting to exploit the most tender and vulnerable wound that woman has to carry?”
“Who are you and why do you care?” Guzman retorts.
She’s got spunk; I’ll give her that.
“I believe Stephanie Regaldo is involved in the disappearance of a woman and her son,” the agent continues. “I think I’m within rights to tell a lie if it means they can be located.”
“Betsy and Bear Elliott are entirely safe,” I assure her. “Now listen to me, because I am going to say this only once. You’ve heard about the Knox Pharmaceuticals scandal?”
Guzman nods.
“Start here,” I say, tucking a flash drive into her palm. “You’ll see that Roger Elliott dumped a ton of their stock just before it broke. Elliott’s also responsible for channeling the money that was used to pay for murdering a Knox employee, Leslie Virgenes.”
Maggie Guzman turns again, unable to hide her shocked dismay at this revelation.
“Turn around! And leave Betsy and Bear in peace. After an argument in Italy last year that got ugly, Betsy tried to leave Roger. He threatened to kill her and their boy if she ever tried again. Betsy’s tip saved the life of the other key witness in the Knox case. Now that Elliott will be exposed, he will be even more vicious.”
I let silence fall again.
“His money can buy a long reach,” I murmur in her ear. “Don’t add any more odds in his favor.”
I back away from Guzman slowly, my sneaker-clad feet padding soundlessly on the playground’s springy flooring. I keep watch on her as trees and the falling darkness swallow me up.
She finally senses my departure and spins, her eyes desperately searching for me in the shadows.
But it’s as if I was never there.
This novel is dedicated with deep thanks to Janet Cooke, who’s believed in my voice since we were students together at the Bronx High School of Science and whose support as my “publishing whisperer” has been invaluable in this chapter of my life.
And also to my dad, the Hon. Edward L. Sadowsky, Esq., always and still a source of inspiration for his conviction, intelligence, and principles. Back in high school, Dad, you thought Janet was trouble. And you were right in the best possible way.
Love you both.
Acknowledgments
I loved writing this novel. I know that part of the mythology of the writer requires us to be tortured, battling the blank page with fevered angst, and while I did have my moments of doubt and struggle in this process, for the most part writing this book was a joy. I attribute that joy to the support I had around me.
Kate Miciak, my amazing editor, knows how much I rely on her support and guidance because I tell her all the time, but I would like to acknowledge her again here. I am also grateful for the support of the entire team at Ballantine/Random House: Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Sharon Propson, Allison Schuster, Quinne Rogers, Loren Noveck, Denise Cronin and her team, and the many others with whom I don’t interact, but who are involved in the process. I’d also like to thank my excellent reps Emma Sweeney, Darryl Taja, Marcy Morris, Andrew Howard, Ian Greenstein, Katie McCaffrey, and Lynn Fimberg.
I am very grateful to David Sebastiani, who generously provided background and technical support about the FBI and became a friend along the way. I also have to thank fellow author Tom Avitabile, who read an early unfinished draft and was both enormously kind and helpful in providing inspiration that allowed me to take the novel to the next level. I’d also like to acknowledge Hannah Phenicie for being a valuable early reader and an especially solid human being, and Richard Geddes for letting me ruthlessly pick his brain about Hong Kong.
A deep and heartfelt thanks to all of my readers. To the Burial Society street team and Facebook discussion group: You are all amazing and I thank you for your support. I also have to give a shout-out to my original super fan Cathy Shouse; I will never forget our weekend of icy rain and spirited conversation in Indy.
My personal team, the friends and family who always have my back, you know who you are, but I’d like to acknowledge you here anyway. My kids, Raphaela and Xander, you amaze me constantly. Keep it up. May only love and peace envelop you always, along with Gary Hakman, Ed Sadowsky, Jonathan Sadowsky, Laura Steinberg, Ivan Sadowsky, Julia Sadowsky, Richard Sadowsky, Mary Clancy, Eric Sadowsky, Katherine Sadowsky, Suzanne Sadowsky, Heather Richardson, Sadie Carter, Josh Carter, Jacob Carter, Arielle Hakman, Daniel Hakman, Darius Margalith, Janet Cooke, Sean Smith, Ralph Hakman, Barbara Zerulik, Debbie Hakman, Robin Sax, Kingsley Smith, Laina Cohn, Michelle Raimo, Deb Aquila, Betsy Stahl (“Betsy Elliott” is for you), Debbie Liebling, Analia Rey, Katrina Kudlick, Tarek Bishara, Matthew Mizel, Sukee Chew, Brenda Goodman, Robin Swicord, Wendy Leitman, Felicia Henderson, Lisa Kislak, Shandiz Zandi, Ruth Vitale, Jeff Stanzler, Kathy Boluch, Linda Bower, Debbie Huffman, and Judy Bloom. Alexandra Seros, Andrew Wood, Jan Oxenberg, Cathleen Young, Nicole Yorkin, Rebecca Asoulin, Sue Ann Fishkin, my wonderful community of USC students, both current and former, and all the women of the Woolfpack. I am indeed blessed.
I would also like to acknowledge Hedgebrook, where I began this draft while co-teaching the screenwriters lab. That place is magic.
By Nina Sadowsky
Just Fall
The Burial Society
The Empty Bed
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NINA SADOWSKY has written numerous original screenplays and adaptations for such companies as The Walt Disney Company, Working Title Films, and Lifetime Television. She was the executive producer of The Wedding Planner, has produced many other films, and was president of Meg Ryan’s Prufrock Pictures. Sadowsky is the program director for NYU Los Angeles, a Global Programs initiative that provides an experiential learning environment for students preparing for careers in the entertainment and media industries. This is her third novel, following Just Fall and The Burial Society. She is at work on her next novel.
ninarsadowsky.com
Facebook.com/nina.sadowsky
Twitter: @sadowsky_nina
Instagram: @ninasadowsky
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