by Lisa Gardner
D.D. swallowed, forced herself to briskly nod her head. Bone was smaller than she would’ve imagined. Impossibly delicate.
“Found a clothing tag, size 6T,” Ben continued. “Fabric remnants are mostly pink. Also consistent with a female child.”
D.D. nodded again, still eyeing the rib bone.
Ben moved it to one side of his palm, revealing a smaller, corn-sized kernel. “Tooth. Also consistent with a prepubescent girl. Except … no root.” The ME sounded puzzled. “Generally when you recover a tooth from remains, the root is still attached. Unless, it was already loose.” The ME seemed to be talking more to himself than to D.D. and Bobby. “Which I suppose would be right for a first-grader. A loose tooth, coupled with the force of the blast … Yes, I could see that.”
“So the tooth most likely came from Sophie Leoni?” D.D. pressed.
“Tooth most likely came from a prepubescent girl,” Ben corrected. “Best I can say at this time. I need to get the remains back to my lab. Dental X-ray would be most helpful, though we have yet to recover a skull or jawbone. Bit of work still to be done.”
In other words, D.D. thought, Tessa Leoni had rigged an explosive powerful enough to blow a tooth right out of her daughter’s skull.
A flake of snow drifted down, followed by another, then another.
They all peered up at the sky, where the looming gray snow clouds had finally arrived.
“Tarp,” Ben said immediately, hurrying toward his assistant. “Protect the remains, now, now, now.”
Ben rushed away. D.D. retreated from the clearing, ducking behind a particularly dense bush, where she leaned over and promptly dry-heaved.
What had Tessa said? The love D.D. currently felt for her unborn child was nothing compared to the love she’d feel a year from now, or a year after that or a year after that. Six years of that love. Six years …
How could a woman … How could a mother …
How did you tuck in your child one moment, then search out the perfect place to bury her the next? How did you hug your six-year-old good night, then rig her body with explosives?
I love my daughter, Tessa said. I love my daughter.
What a fucking bitch.
D.D. dry-heaved again. Bobby was beside her. She felt him draw her hair back from her cheeks. He handed her a bottle of water. She used it to rinse her mouth, then turned her flushed face to the sky, trying to feel the snow upon her cheeks.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you to the car. Time for a little rest, D.D. It’s going to be okay. Really. It will be.”
He took her hand, pulling her through the woods. She trod dispiritedly behind him, thinking that he was a liar. That once you saw the body of a little girl blow up in front of your eyes, the world was never okay again.
They should head for HQ, get out before the rural road became impassable. She needed to prepare for the inevitable press conference. Good news, we probably found the body of Sophie Leoni. Bad news, we lost her mother, a distinguished state police officer who most likely murdered her entire family.
They reached the car. Bobby opened the passenger-side door. She slid in, feeling jumbled and restless and almost desperate to escape her own skin. She didn’t want to be a detective anymore. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren hadn’t gotten her man. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren hadn’t rescued the child. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren was about to become a mother herself, and look at Tessa Leoni, trooper extraordinaire who’d killed, buried, and then blown up her own kid, and what did that say about female police officers becoming parental units, and what the hell was D.D. thinking?
She shouldn’t be pregnant. She wasn’t strong enough. Her tough veneer was cracking and beneath it was simply a vast well of sadness. All the dead bodies she’d studied through the years. Other children who’d never made it home. The unrepentant faces of parents, uncles, grandparents, even next door neighbors who’d done the deed.
The world was a terrible place. She solved each murder only to move on to the next. Put away a child abuser, watch a wife beater get released the next day. And on and on it went. D.D., sentenced to spend the rest of her career roaming backwoods for small lifeless bodies who’d never been loved or wanted in the first place.
She’d just wanted to bring Sophie home. Rescue this one child. Make this one drop of difference in the universe, and now … Now …
“Shhh.” Bobby was stroking her hair.
Was she crying? Maybe, but it wasn’t enough. She pressed her tearstained cheek into the curve of his shoulder. Felt the shuddering heat of him. Her lips found his neck, tasting salt. Then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean back and find his lips with her own. He didn’t pull back. Instead, she felt his hands grip her shoulders. So she kissed him again, the man who’d once been her lover and one of the few people she regarded as a pillar of strength.
Time suspended, a heartbeat or two when she didn’t have to think, she only had to feel.
Then, Bobby’s hands tightened again. He lifted her up and gently set her back, until she sat squarely in the passenger seat and he sat in the driver’s seat and at least two feet loomed between them.
“No,” he said.
D.D. couldn’t speak. The enormity of what she’d just done started to penetrate. She glanced around the small car, desperate for escape.
“It was a moment,” Bobby continued. His voice sounded rough. He paused, cleared his throat, said again: “A moment. But I have Annabelle and you have Alex. You and I both know better than to mess with success.”
D.D. nodded.
“D.D.—”
Immediately, she shook her head. She didn’t want to hear anything more. She’d fucked this up enough. A moment. Like he said. A moment. Life was filled with moments.
Except she’d always had a weakness for Bobby Dodge. She’d let him go, then never gotten over him. And if she spoke now, she was going to cry and that was stupid. Bobby deserved better. Alex deserved better. They all did.
Then, she found herself thinking of Tessa Leoni and she couldn’t help but feel the connection again. Two women, so capable in their professional lives, and such total fuckups in their personal ones.
The radio on the dash crackled to life. D.D. snatched it up, hoping for good news.
It was the search team, Officer Landley reporting in. They’d followed Tessa’s trail for two and half miles, as she’d run down the snow-packed rural road to the larger intersecting street. Then her footsteps had ended and fresh tire tracks had begun.
Best guess: Tessa Leoni was no longer alone and on foot.
She had an accomplice and a vehicle.
She had disappeared.
32
When Juliana and I were twelve years old, we developed a catchphrase: “What are friends for?” We used it like a code—it meant that if one of us needed a favor, most likely something embarrassing or desperate, then the other had to say yes, because that’s what friends were for.
Juliana forgot her math homework. What are friends for, she’d announce at our lockers, and I’d hastily share my answers. My father was being an asshole about letting me stay after school for track. What are friends for, I’d say, and Juliana would have her mother notify my father that she’d bring me home, because my father would never argue with Juliana’s mom. Juliana developed a crush on the cute boy in our biology class. What are friends for? I’d sidle up to him during lunch and find out if my friend stood a chance.
Get arrested for murdering your husband. What are friends for?
I looked up Juliana’s number Saturday afternoon, as my world was imploding and it occurred to me that I needed help. Ten years later, there was still only one person I could trust. So after the man in black finally departed, leaving my husband’s body down in the garage, buried in snow, I looked up the married name, address, and phone number of my former best friend. I committed the information to memory, in order to eliminate the paper trail.
Shortly thereafter I built two small ex
plosive devices, then loaded up the Denali and went for a drive.
My last acts as a free woman. I knew it even then. Brian had done something bad, but Sophie and I were going to be the ones punished. So I paid my own husband’s murderer fifty thousand dollars in order to gain twenty-four hours’ lead time. Then I used that time to desperately get two steps ahead.
Sunday morning, Shane had arrived and the games had begun. One hour later, beat within an inch of my life, head concussed, cheek fractured, I went from brilliant strategist to genuinely battered woman, dazed, confused, and somewhere in the back of my scrambled head, still dimly hoping that I’d been wrong about everything. Maybe Brian hadn’t died in front of my eyes. Maybe Sophie hadn’t been snatched out of her bed. Maybe next time I woke up, my world would be magically whole again and my husband and daughter would be by my side, holding my hands.
I never got that lucky.
Instead, I was confined to a hospital bed until Monday morning, when the police arrested me, and plan B kicked into gear.
All prison calls start with a recorded message to the receiver that the collect call has originated from a correctional institute. Would the other party accept the charges?
Million dollar question, I thought Monday night, as I stood in the commons area of the detainee unit and dialed Juliana’s number with shaking fingers. I was as surprised as anyone when Juliana said yes. Bet she surprised herself, too. And bet she wished, within thirty seconds, that she’d said no instead.
Given that all outgoing calls are recorded, I kept the conversation simple.
“What are friends for?” I stated, heart hammering. I heard Juliana suck in her breath.
“Tessa?”
“I could use a friend,” I continued, quickly now, before Juliana did something sensible, such as hang up. “Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call again. What are friends for.”
Then I hung up, because the sound of Juliana’s voice had brought tears to my eyes, and you can’t afford to cry in prison.
Now, having just taken out Officer Fiske, I snatched his cellphone. Then I sprinted one hundred yards down the hardpacked snow of the rural road until I came to an enormous fir tree. Ducking underneath its canopy of green branches I quickly dialed Juliana’s number while withdrawing a small waterproof bag I’d previously tucked beneath the branches.
“Hello?”
I talked fast. Directions, GPS coordinates, and a list of supplies. I’d had twenty-four hours in prison to plan my breakout, and I’d put it to good use.
On the other end of the cellphone, Juliana didn’t argue. What are friends for?
Maybe she would call the cops the second she hung up. But I didn’t think so. Because the last time that phrase was spoken between us, Juliana had uttered the words, while handing me the gun that had just taken her brother’s life.
I put down Officer Fiske’s cellphone and opened up the waterproof bag. Inside was Brian’s Glock .40, which I’d removed from our gun safe.
He didn’t need it anymore. But I did.
By the time the silver SUV slowed to a halt on the main road, my confidence had fled and I was jumpy with nerves. Gun tucked into the pocket of my black coat, arms wrapped tight around me, I kept to the fringes of the bordering woods, feeling conspicuous. Any second now, a police car would roar by. If I didn’t duck for cover in time, the alert officer would spot me, execute a tight one-eighty and that would be that.
Had to pay attention. Gotta run. Gotta hide.
Then, another vehicle looming in the distance, headlights bright against the thickening gloom. Vehicle was moving slower, more uncertainly, as if the driver was looking for something. No roof rack bearing sirens, meaning a pedestrian vehicle versus a cop car. Now or never.
I took a deep breath, stepped toward the asphalt. The headlights swept across my face, then the SUV braked hard.
Juliana had arrived.
I clambered quickly into the backseat. Second I closed the door, she was off like a shot. I hit the floor and stayed there.
Car seat. Empty, but half-covered in a baby blanket, so recently occupied. Don’t know why that surprised me. I had a child. Why not Juliana?
When we were girls we planned to marry twin brothers. We would live in houses side by side and raise our kids together. Juliana wanted three children, two boys and one girl. I planned on having one of each. She was going to stay home with her kids, like her mom. I was going to own a toy store, where of course her kids would receive a family discount.
Next to the car seat was a dark green duffel bag. I got on my knees, keeping out of sight of the windows, and unzipped the bag. Inside I found everything I’d requested—a change of clothes, all black. Fresh pair of underwear, two additional tops. Scissors, makeup, black cap and gloves.
Hundred and fifty in cash, small bills. Probably the best she could scrounge up on short notice.
I wondered if that was a lot of money for Juliana these days. I only knew the girl she’d been, not the wife and mother she’d become.
I started by taking out all items in black and laying them on the backseat. It took a bit of wiggling, but I finally managed to shed the orange jumpsuit and redress in the black jeans and a black turtleneck. I twisted my hair up onto the top of my head and covered it with the dark baseball cap.
Then I turned around to study myself in the rearview mirror.
Juliana was staring at me. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
Newborn, I thought immediately. She had that look about her—the frazzled new mom, still not sleeping at night and frayed around the edges. Knowing the first year would be difficult, surprised to discover it was even harder than that. She glanced away, eyes on the road.
I sat down on the rear bench seat.
“Thank you,” I said at last.
She never answered.
We drove in silence for another forty minutes. The snow had finally started, lightly at first, then falling heavily enough that Juliana had to reduce her speed.
At my request, she turned the radio to the news. No word of any officers involved in a situation, so apparently D. D. Warren and her team had survived my little surprise, and had chosen to keep a lid on things.
Made sense. No cop wanted to admit she’d lost a prisoner, especially if she believed she would recapture the inmate shortly. Last Detective Warren knew, I was alone and on foot, meaning D.D. probably had believed she’d round me up within an hour.
Not sorry to disappoint her, but relieved everyone was okay. I’d done my best to rig the twin pressure-sensitive devices to blow back, away from the recovery team and into the relative shelter of the fallen tree. But given that it was a rookie effort, I had no way of knowing how successful I’d be.
I’d sat behind Officer Fiske, both hoping and dreading what would happen next.
SUV slowed again. Juliana had her blinker on, was preparing to exit the highway for Route 9. She’d driven under the speed limit the entire way, eyes straight ahead, two hands on the wheel. The conscientious getaway driver.
Now our adventure was almost over, and I could see her lower lip trembling. She was scared.
I wondered if she thought I’d killed my husband. I wondered if she thought I’d murdered my own daughter. I should protest my innocence, but I didn’t.
I thought she of all people should know better.
Twelve more minutes. All it took to travel back in time, to return to the old neighborhood. Past her old house, past my parents’ shabby home.
Juliana didn’t look at any of the buildings. Didn’t sigh, wax nostalgic, say a single word.
Two final turns and we were there, at my father’s garage.
She pulled over, killed the lights.
Snow was falling heavily now, blanketing the dark world in white.
I gathered up the last of my things, tucked them into the duffel bag, which I would take with me. Leave no evidence behind.
“When you get home,” I said now, my voice
surprisingly loud in the silence, “mix ammonia with warm water, and use it to wipe down the car. That will erase any fingerprints.”
Juliana looked at me in the review mirror again, but remained silent.
“The police are going to find you,” I continued. “They’ll hone in on the call I placed to you last night from jail. It’s one of the only leads they have, so they’re going to follow up on it. Just tell the truth. What I said, what you said. The whole conversation was recorded, so you’re not telling them anything they don’t already know, and it’s not like we said anything incriminating.”
Juliana looked at me, remained silent.
“They shouldn’t be able to trace today’s call,” I told her. “Our only point of contact has been someone else’s cellphone, and I’m about to take an acetylene torch to it. Once I’ve melted its circuits, there’s nothing it can give away. So you went for a drive this afternoon. I deliberately chose a location that didn’t involve any toll roads, meaning there’s no way for them to trace where you went. You could’ve gone anywhere and done anything. Make them work for it.”
It went without saying that she would hold up under police questioning. She had before.
“We’re even.” She spoke up suddenly, her voice flat. “Don’t call again. We’re even.”
I smiled, sadly, with genuine regret. For ten years, we’d kept our distance. And would’ve continued if not for Saturday morning and my stupid husband dying on our stupid kitchen floor.
Blood is thicker than water. Actually, friendship was, and so I had honored what I’d known Juliana had needed. Even when it hurt me.
“I would do it again,” I murmured, my eyes locking on hers in the rearview mirror. “You were my best friend, and I loved you and I would do it again.”
“Did you really name her Sophie?”
“Yeah.”
Juliana Sophia MacDougall nee Howe covered her mouth. She started to cry.
I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the snowy night. Another moment, the engine started up. Then the headlights flicked on and Juliana drove away.
