She nodded. “Five is considered a few. And anyway, I can drive if you’re too tired to stay awake, Mr. Glass. I’ve driven that kind of distance before, and I know exactly where to find the grave if you have a flashlight.” She moved back to the front door and lowered herself onto a knee to start loosening the laces on her work shoes.
No, something didn’t feel right at all. “Where is this place, Monica?”
“Just on the outskirts of Twilight Creek, Wisconsin.” That explained the five-hour drive. “Outside of that, I can’t really tell you because it’s not marked or anything.”
Catching himself nodding at her remarkably vague explanation, Donovan had a better idea. “If we left now, you’d be late for work tomorrow, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugged and looked up at him, shifting from one knee to the other. “I’ll call in sick.”
“Then why don’t we wait until tomorrow morning?” He didn’t like the thought of driving through the dark, all the way into the backwoods of Wisconsin, of all places, with a young woman who’d not only conned him out of $10,000 but whose boyfriend looked to have spent some time in prison. “After a good night’s sleep, we’ll both be refreshed.”
Monica rose, letting out another sigh. She was not just tired; she was exhausted. Donovan could see that in the deep lines around her eyes, the lazy blinks, and the way her body seemed to move so slowly.
“If you want, you can stay in the spare room,” he offered.
“Where’s the money, Donny?” she asked, and it felt surprisingly abrupt from her, not so much a question but a demand.
After a moment of brief consideration, he nodded at the closet. “Top shelf.”
Smiling, she turned to the closet and opened the door. There was only one shelf, and the Apple Store bag stood out. Grabbing it, she brought it down to her feet and opened it, pulling out a couple of bundles of cash. “Cash?”
“Ten thousand.”
Monica chuckled, a half-giddy, half-incredulous display. “What am I supposed to do with all of this cash, Mr. Glass?”
“What, you wanted a check?”
“Well, a check is a lot more believable when I go into the bank to make a deposit, don’t you think?” She chuckled some more, then played with the money the way Elizabeth had played with the sand the first time he and Amelia had taken her to the beach on Chicago’s North Shore. When she finally stopped playing with the money, she met his watching stare. “I’m sorry, I’m being ungrateful. It’s just that the bank will think I’ve done something illegal.”
Donovan wanted to point out that, illegal or not, she wasn’t exactly playing by the rules here. Even if the cash wasn’t part of some elaborate scam to strip him out of his money under the guise of knowing his missing daughter, Monica wasn’t running to the authorities to point out where the kidnapper had kept Elizabeth captive, was she? Even this alleged grave site—why wasn’t she sharing that location with the FBI?
“I can get you a check instead,” he said, deciding to play along. He knew she wouldn’t go for it, not after feeling all that cash in her hands.
As Donovan reached for the Apple Store bag, he saw the deliberation cut across Monica’s tired eyes, but then she drew the bag back at the last second. “I’ll make the cash work,” she said, forcing a bit of laughter to keep the mood light. “Are you ready for a road trip?”
Checking his watch again, Donovan said, “Let’s go tomorrow instead. First thing.”
Her eyes seemed to dig into him, but Donovan could tell she was anxious to get out of there. Like she wanted to go home and shower herself and Leo under a stream of cash. The thought annoyed him, but he bit down on the inside of his upper lip to stay quiet.
“All right, Mr. Glass. How about we meet here at six? That puts us in Twilight Creek at eleven if traffic’s great, but definitely by noon if it’s not.” Her big eyes seemed a little desperate, almost begging him to agree to this scheme of hers. “Even if you spend two or three hours at the site, we’ll be back home by seven or eight o’clock.”
“Sure, that works.” He reached for the bag. “Should I hold on to that until tomorrow?”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Don’t trust me, do you, Mr. Glass?”
Not if my life depended on it, but instead he half grinned and nodded. “Of course I do. You were friends with my daughter.”
Monica nodded and then backed out of the house, practically skipping down the porch stairs and across the front yard to the Mustang parked at the curb. He watched her place the cash in the trunk before turning to him and giving a big, elaborate wave.
“Six tomorrow!” she said.
He waved back. “Can’t wait!”
Monica seemed to watch him for a long moment before slipping into the driver’s seat. The prolonged stare felt like a goodbye of sorts, and that hurt. Not so much because she’d walked away with $10,000 and it looked like she might never come back. It hurt because their conversations about Elizabeth had added life to his memory of her, and now, he feared, the last of that life was about to disappear for good.
CHAPTER 16
By five thirty, Donovan had already showered and donned a pair of comfortable cargo pants and a long-sleeved shirt over the top of a long-sleeved undershirt to keep him warm and safe from a mosquito feast. Layers, Amelia had always told him to wear layers.
He hadn’t slept well the previous night, too riled up about how easily he had made it for Monica to extort $10,000 and run off with it. That bull roar about wanting a check had only fueled his doubts, adding to his restlessness all night.
Once dressed and ready, Donovan slipped out to the front porch with a single bottle of water, making sure to lock the door. He watched the street as the early-morning crowd started heading out of the neighborhood, getting a head start on the workday. When he’d been a professor, Donovan had preferred to work out of his house in the morning instead of the office at the university. He was something of a homebody that way, but it also meant fewer distractions from students and his peers. If he’d ever gone to the university before eight in the morning, it could not have been more than twice in his entire career.
Surprised by the amount of people fleeing North Williamson, Donovan checked his watch. Six ten. If she showed up at all, Monica was late.
Part of him hated that Eric had been right about her being a con artist. In the past four days, however, Donovan had been able to admit that, if Elizabeth had indeed been friends with Monica, his daughter’s days in captivity, no matter how awful, were probably made a little less horrific. There was something with the way Monica spoke and looked at him that he felt could’ve made anyone’s suffering less horrifying, his daughter’s included.
Another part of him hated himself for being so damn gullible. Even if he hadn’t spoken with Eric, the signs of Monica’s fraudulence were pretty obvious.
But then he snapped back to reality and saw her.
With a big smile on her face, Monica strutted up the front walkway toward his house. “I said, good morning,” she said, rolling her eyes as she climbed up the porch stairs.
“Good morning.” Donovan rose from the Adirondack chair, brushing his hands across his butt and thighs to get rid of the cobwebs. “Are we all set?”
She nodded, glancing back toward the street. “Unless you tell me the direction that the wind’s blowing isn’t up to your standards.” Sarcasm. Ever since she’d gotten her hands on his money, Monica seemed a lot more relaxed and casual. The first time he’d met her, Donovan could’ve sworn she was treading lightly. Now that he’d demonstrated just how gullible he was, she seemed at ease.
“I was too tired last night. I’m sorry.”
Turning her attention back to him, Monica shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I realize you probably weren’t expecting me to drag you out to Lizzy’s final resting place in the middle of the night. But I don’t want to keep you waiting. I know . . . or, actually, I can’t even imagine how horrible this wait has been for you.” Her eyebrows had r
isen, causing her forehead to crease. Monica was good at pretending to be genuinely empathetic.
“Yes, well . . .” He nodded at the stairs. “We should leave. Beat the traffic.”
Monica didn’t move out of the way. It felt as if she might be trying to block him on the porch.
“Everything okay?”
She groaned, glancing back at the street. “Do you think we can take your car, Mr. Glass? I left mine at home and took a cab here instead.” When she brought her attention back to him, Donovan swore he detected some sort of mild fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry to impose.”
Now it was his turn to groan. “I don’t know . . .”
“I’ll drive the entire way,” she said, blurting the offer. “I can see you didn’t sleep well last night.” She was right, he hadn’t. He’d barely slept three hours, and even then he would not have believed it if he hadn’t been watching the time on the alarm clock. “I’ve got a clean record, Mr. Glass, not even a speeding ticket, and like I said, I’ve driven a lot. I’m very experienced.”
He considered her words, wondering if she would take his car from him just as easily as she’d taken the $10,000. But when he clued in to the fact that his decade-old Impala wasn’t worth the Apple Store bag that the cash had come in, he scolded himself for being overly paranoid. It happened these days. In fact, the paranoia happened more often than he cared to admit.
At last, he gave her a nod. “Yes, we’ll take my car.” He turned to the door, unlocked it, and waved Monica into the house ahead of him. He followed, locking up again, and then steered her through the kitchen to the back door, grabbing the car keys on his way.
They made their way across the backyard to the detached garage, but when he opened that door, Monica stayed back a little. It was dark inside, the smell of gasoline and other automotive odors tickling at their nostrils.
“Are you okay?” Donovan asked, stepping inside the garage and holding the door for her, but she didn’t budge.
Monica shook her head. “I can’t go in there, Mr. Glass.”
“It’s just a garage,” he said, chuckling at the ridiculousness of her fear. He even surveyed the interior of the garage, spotting the lawn mower along the far wall on the other side of the Impala, the ladder hanging from a pair of hooks, the weed trimmer directly below the ladder, and the car parked right in the middle of the floor. Probably looked exactly like 90 percent or more of the other garages on the lane.
“There was a building where he kept us, just like this one, and a door underneath, right below where he’d park his car, that led to the dungeon.” She sniffed at the air. “It even smelled like this, Mr. Glass. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t go in there.” She shook her head and looked away, her eyes filling.
Donovan didn’t understand why Monica might fabricate a story about some dungeon underneath the kidnapper’s garage floor. Did she think he might try something untoward once he got her inside the garage? It barely seemed logical—this garage was relatively bright, and there was nothing in it that he could use to hurt her or anyone else. Plus, if he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d have tried to harm her inside his house on the many occasions she’d come to visit.
At last, he nodded. “Okay, Monica. I’ll pull the car into the lane.” He pointed to the gate in the fence. “You can meet me there.”
Nodding, Monica walked over to let herself out of the yard. From the garage’s doorway, Donovan watched her, the way she took hesitant steps like her abdomen might’ve cramped up. Her hands trembled as she worked the latch on the gate. She didn’t seem to notice him watching, something else he found incredibly odd.
Once Monica stepped out of the yard and closed the gate, Donovan slipped behind the wheel of the Impala and pressed a button on the ceiling console that opened the garage door. Pulling into the lane, just like he’d promised he would, Donovan noticed how Monica hurried to his side of the car instead of the passenger door. She opened it.
“Move over,” she said, gesturing him to slide over to the passenger seat. “I’m driving, remember?”
Donovan opened his mouth to argue but then thought better of it. He hadn’t slept well the night before. He also had no clue where they were headed. Without objection, he unbuckled his seat belt, got out of the car, and walked around to the other side.
* * *
A few miles outside the city marker, northbound traffic opened up and the tension in the Impala’s cabin dissolved. From the passenger seat, Donovan watched Monica lower one of her hands off the steering wheel and place it in her lap. Her shoulders slackened, and she even offered an appeasing smile.
“I appreciate you letting me take your car, Mr. Glass.”
He shrugged, curious to see how this day trip to Twilight Creek would turn out. She hadn’t mentioned the cash at all, and her asking him to take his car seemed to validate his earlier suspicions that she might take it from him as easily as she’d taken the $10,000. In his mind, he wondered if Monica and Leo would kill him and make it look like he’d driven out to Twilight Creek to walk down the same path his wife had taken.
“Lizzy was always very generous, too,” Monica said, as if she knew that she could keep him on a short leash, keep him captive by talking about Elizabeth. “Sometimes, one of us wouldn’t get to eat. Or, in the heat of some bad experience, we’d have an accident and, well, pee ourselves, or worse. Lizzy was always the first to offer her own clean, dry clothes or share some of her food. Most of the other kids in there, they became animals and really held on to every last little thing. We knew what was coming, we knew that our fate was waiting around the corner, so it was easy to justify our actions as a matter of self-preservation. But Lizzy found satisfaction in helping. And that generosity and selflessness had a big impact on me.” Monica sounded guilty about that, as if, like the others who didn’t want to share their food or clothing, she preferred to self-preserve and avoid sharing at all costs.
“As a child, Elizabeth wanted a sibling, at least one. Maybe she found that companionship while in captivity.” Donovan turned his attention out the window, blinking back the emotions twisting through his chest. He wished he had saved his daughter, wished things had turned out differently for everyone, but especially Elizabeth.
“Lizzy always told me it was the little things, Mr. Glass.” By now, Monica was watching the road, just talking off the cuff. “A smile in the morning, offering to listen to some silly story, or massaging a sore muscle. It was those small things she’d do that had such a big impact on the worst of days.” She chuckled absentmindedly.
Still staring out the passenger window, Donovan felt the burn in his eyes, an approaching yawn. He didn’t want to release it, didn’t want to admit that he was too tired to fully listen to the stories Monica was telling about his daughter.
“Then one night, closer to the end for Lizzy, I’d had a really bad experience. My one eye was swollen shut, and I could barely see out of the other one. She helped me get to where I needed to be, helped me find my way through the dark, and reassured me it would be okay. I’d never seen anyone else beaten as badly as I’d been, Mr. Glass, but the way Lizzy consoled me, I had to wonder if she’d experienced worse herself. That night, she lay with me, even though she knew it wasn’t going to end well if Roger found us together. She told me about that trip to the Navy Pier, talked about it like it was the moment that brought you all so close together. I didn’t realize until later that it was the trip where Roger kidnapped her.”
A smile crept onto Donovan’s lips as they rolled past a transport truck. Its trailer had the silhouette of a Ferris wheel on the back. Donovan couldn’t read the name of the company that would use that wheel as part of its logo. But, between that image and Monica’s story, Donovan slipped into something of a dream state. Not quite asleep, though; he could still hear Monica’s soft, hypnotic narrative.
“That first time around on the Ferris wheel, she told me how you were acting all scared. You were holding her and her mother’s hands, sitting opposite them w
ith your back to the water. She’d watch you fake being scared as the wheel climbed up, but that only lasted a couple of rotations.”
Donovan remembered staring into his daughter’s face, her eyes growing wide and her back straightening with each ascent. As if she’d wanted to go higher and higher, even though Donovan agreed with Amelia that they were high enough, higher than they should be. He remembered Elizabeth’s little hand squeezing his, a tiny but fierce grip that had become clammy from her own nervousness.
“You’re being silly, Daddy,” Elizabeth had said. He couldn’t remember her voice, but he knew it possessed an innocence he’d taken for granted. God, he missed it, and for the millionth time, he wished he’d kept some kind of recording of it, her voice by itself and not just the videos he’d recorded in her earlier years—the parties with all the noise, Christmas morning when she was overly tired—and then stopped. “You’re not ascared, Daddy! Stop squeezing my hand so tight!” She’d giggled the entire trip down, relaxing as the wheel descended before it began its upward rotation once again.
Amelia had laughed at his antics that day, always softened by the special way Donovan had with their daughter. There was no indication that they were less than four hours away from losing her forever.
While Monica kept talking about the way Elizabeth had described that ride, how she’d been lost in the joy and happiness of the rotations and incredibly annoyed by her father’s overdramatized fear, Donovan felt himself slipping into sleep. As the fingers of his thoughts clung to the edge of consciousness, he tried to hold onto the image of his daughter inside that Ferris wheel gondola. But he couldn’t. His consciousness was slipping away quickly, and he found that he could barely picture the missing-tooth smile, couldn’t hear the squealed laughter, or marvel at the way her neck elongated with each upward rise in the rotation. Like the real-life version of her, his fleeting version was dissipating before his eyes.
And for the first time ever, Donovan felt okay about it. He felt at peace. He let go of his consciousness, because something raw inside him assured him that he would soon be reunited with his baby.
The Last Friend Page 8
