A murderer. “Monica . . . what happened? Start from the beginning.”
Monica shook her head, reached into the pocket of her pants, and tossed the Impala’s key fob at him. By instinct, he opened his hand and caught it.
“I have to get out of here.” Monica spun on her heels and reached for the door.
This time, Donovan didn’t care about her previous warning to keep his hands to himself. He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulder. “Not so fast, Mon—”
She moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to calculate what was happening. Snapping her body sideways, Monica reached up with her opposite hand, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it so hard that he stepped forward, at which point she used her other elbow to bring his face against the cold, hard surface of his wooden front door.
Donovan winced, but luckily, Monica was able to exercise some last-minute restraint. She could’ve broken his nose and caused some serious damage just by picking up where her psychotic boyfriend, Leo, had left off the other night. But she didn’t. In fact, once his face was pressed against the door, she released him and stepped away.
And, truthfully, Donovan was a little surprised by her quick reflexes and sudden movement. For someone who had spent so much time in captivity, Monica sure knew a thing or two about self-defense, didn’t she? Part of Donovan wondered if she’d left that detail out the other night when she told him about how she’d rebuilt her life after wandering out of the forest—the jobs, all that time she’d spent in the library looking for Roger. The degree in mixed martial arts must have slipped her mind.
“The money is in the trunk,” she said, glancing down at her hands and the blood on her forearms. She winced. “Trust me, Mr. Glass, you don’t want me in your house right now. With all of this evidence on me, I need to be on my way.”
He shook his head. She wasn’t herself; she was all over the map. “You’re not going anywhere.” He rubbed the side of his face, checking for blood after the way she’d pressed him against the door, even though his common sense told him there wouldn’t be any.
“I’m sorry about that,” Monica said, pulling her lips back into an apologetic grin. “It’s instinct. Especially after what I’ve been through.”
Nodding, he asked, “What have you been through, Monica? Tell me, and then you can get cleaned up before spending the night in my guest room.” When Monica started to shake her head, Donovan simply kept nodding the way he used to when he’d been a father to Elizabeth. “And then tomorrow, you can show me where this Roger character lives, okay?”
She considered his offer. At least she was calming down.
“Thank you for getting the money,” he continued, “but what have you been through?”
Groaning, she grabbed her purple hair and pulled, her eyes jumping to him. Something seemed to be holding her back. She spun away and walked to the door, and for a moment Donovan thought she might run out. Instead, she banged her forehead against the surface, the same spot where Donovan’s own face had been pressed a few seconds earlier.
“What is it, Monica?” he asked, watching her from behind.
When she turned around to face him, she had tears in her eyes. “I did what Elizabeth told me you would do.” She blinked hard. “I lured the bad guys out.”
CHAPTER 30
Once Monica finished in the shower, she came downstairs to the living room, wearing one of Amelia’s old T-shirts, a pair of her shorts, and the luxurious housecoat Donovan had bought for their last anniversary, which she’d never worn. By the end, her behavior had drifted to the side of paranoid. As much as Donovan had loved her when they first met, a lot of her comments suggested she’d no longer trusted him.
“All cleaned up,” Monica said, entering the living room and performing a mock runway pose. She settled on the sofa and crossed her legs, revealing a tattoo on the outside sole of her foot. It said “Never Let Go.” Sensing his curiosity, Monica leaned forward and saw what he was staring at.
“Sorry,” he said, but his gaze lingered. In his head, he repeated those words over and over, searching for some sort of relevance and link to his daughter. If there was one, it hadn’t been in anything he’d told Elizabeth.
“It has nothing to do with your daughter, Mr. Glass,” Monica said, her voice cracking like a fading, tired campfire. “Yet it seems to have everything to do with her.”
Looking up at Monica, he asked about the past twenty-four hours. “You said you lured the bad guys out.” He leaned forward to mask the shiver that rolled through his shoulders, narrowing his eyes because he wanted to pay close attention to how she responded. “What did you mean when you said that?”
Monica seemed to need a bit of time to put her response together. She nodded and looked at her fingernails, picked at them. When she brought her attention back to Donovan, she had a careless expression on her face. To him, she looked numb.
“She always knew you’d never give up on her.”
Refusing to let the emotion distract him, Donovan nodded, but he kept his eyes glued to Monica. “I still haven’t.”
A sad, pitying grin lifted the edges of her lips. “When I escaped, I knew what a smart man like you would do.”
He raised an eyebrow, caught a little off guard. “You did?”
Monica looked down at her fingers again and used them like beads from an abacus. “University professors typically make good money, which means they have savings accounts. They also have access to technology. In those days during my and Elizabeth’s captivity, you’d have had insight into leading-edge technologies like Tor and Intute that let you access parts of the deep web hidden from the rest of us. I wouldn’t know about those things until after my escape. At that time, I didn’t even know about the less sinister online forums like chat rooms and groups. And that was when I’d realized that you’d have tried to infiltrate some of those rings. Right? You’d have posed as a john looking to take advantage of young girls for your own twisted pleasure, and then you’d have him. You’d have Roger itching to rent out one of his little girls, a new customer in his very own hometown.” When her puffy eyes rose to his, she nodded. “Right? Isn’t that what you’d do? What you did?”
How did she know? In the days of secret chat rooms and groups on the internet, that task had been so much simpler. Even after Yahoo deleted some of those private groups, members had managed to keep in touch and share photos and every other dirty little detail of their pathetic lives in unlisted, anonymous forums that now met in an underworld of the internet known as the deep web. And Donovan had followed RodgeDam all the way there. He’d kept buying disgusting photos and heartbreaking videos until Donovan made a comment that enticed RodgeDam to finally take the bait.
“So that’s what I did,” she went on. “And last night, I came face-to-face with another Roger, a pedophile who arranged one-on-one time between prepubescent girls and grown men. This Roger I met, he was expecting a man when he knocked on my hotel door.”
It all sounded so familiar to Donovan. Except when that knock happened at his hotel room door, it hadn’t been Roger, or RodgeDam, or anyone else with knowledge of where his daughter was being caged when she wasn’t being exploited and molested—and that was it, wasn’t it? It was molestation, pure and simple, and those men deserved the worst kind of punishment.
If Donovan’s experience had been any indication, the type of people who could afford such exploits were not hardworking blue-collar people with some weird fetish; they were well-paid professionals who could not only hire expensive lawyers if they were ever caught but could hide their sickness from a spouse who wouldn’t freak out when the joint bank account dropped by the type of amount that funded their sick molestation (people like RodgeDam didn’t accept checks or credit cards, after all). When that knock had come on Donovan’s hotel room door, it had been the Wayne County sheriff, acting on a tip from an informant.
“That was the end of that man’s life,” Monica said, nodding firmly and without regret. “And the new start to a ni
ne-year-old girl’s.” More firm, regretless nodding. “I performed a public service.”
“Not just one,” Donovan said, his voice low and thoughtful, possibly even a little amazed by just how brave Monica really was. “You not only saved the young girl, but you’ve saved so many others from being abducted and victimized by that man.”
After rubbing her eyes, Monica stared sideways at Donovan. “What if I was wrong, though? What if that girl never finds her way back to a normal life? She won’t. None of us do.” Monica nodded, distracted as her eyes filled with tears. “I never did.”
Donovan watched her attention shift down to her feet, the tattoo that read: Never Let Go.
“That man took everything from her,” she continued. “Gerald Tepperman. One thirty-two Oneida Way, Saginaw, Michigan.” She shook her head some more. “He’s got a wife and a daughter of his own.”
Was he hearing her correctly? Was she remorseful over what she’d done? “And he ruined people’s lives, Monica. From his victims to his victims’ families, he killed their souls.” Donovan knew that better than anyone else.
Staring at him, Monica nodded. “That’s what I’m saying here. The girl he brought, she was already dead, Mr. Glass. She didn’t want to be saved. It was like Elizabeth used to say, she was too damaged. That girl, she cried when I hit him. And do you know what she said to me? ‘How will I get back to the others?’” Monica covered her face and sobbed. “I suggested she ask the police that question. And by now, I’m sure she’s told them all about me, what I look like, what kind of car I drove off in.” She wiped her eyes dry and shook her head. “Let’s get on with this, Mr. Glass. Like I said, you don’t want me here.”
He considered pushing for more information, but he could tell she was exhausted and mentally cracking. “I’ll show you to the guest room,” he said, staring down at the floor as Monica stepped past him and started up the stairs.
CHAPTER 31
While Monica slept in the guest room upstairs, Donovan’s cell phone vibrated as he snuck out the front door. It was a notch past four in the morning, a strange time of day for anyone to be sending a text, but when he saw that Leo Fletcher had sent the message, it didn’t surprise him. The psychotic man with the lion tattoo on the side of his scalp was probably taking his midshift break.
Where is she? Time’s ticking away for you, bro.
Using the key fob to unlock the Impala’s doors, Donovan settled behind the steering wheel and considered sending Leo a response. He glanced back toward his small house and noticed the guest bedroom’s window upstairs, dark and quiet. There was no chance he would tell Leo that she was asleep at his house.
At least not until he saw where his daughter’s alleged abductor lived.
Tucking the phone away, Donovan got the engine started and pulled away from the curb. He watched his headlights cut through the late-morning darkness; still too early for the birds, even.
In the lane behind his house, he noticed a large rat scurry through the headlight beams and disappear into a neighbor’s yard. He’d seen all kinds of rats since moving here but realized it had been a long time since seeing one that size.
Once he’d backed his car into the garage, Donovan turned on the interior cabin lights. He wondered if he would find any traces of blood, a murder weapon—anything that could put him in bigger trouble with the FBI than he felt he’d already taken on. How long before Agent Klein called about the last cash withdrawal? It surprised him that the call hadn’t come in yet.
For having murdered someone, Monica had clearly taken care to not drag any of that mess into his Impala. It surprised him just how clean the vehicle’s cabin was, considering the blood on her clothes and arms when she’d knocked on his door. And when he reached the trunk, the only thing Donovan spotted was the Second City canvas bag he’d given her a couple of days ago.
A quick count of the bundles—two bundles of fifties, five bundles of twenties—confirmed it was all there, in its original condition, too. He wondered if they were exact same bills. As happy as he was to see that she’d returned his cash, he worried about the why. The only indications that Monica had been in any trouble at all were the red stains on her arms, thighs, and clothing. Her story sounded legitimate enough, but there was nothing to support it in the Impala.
If it had all been made up, why would she take the money in the first place?
He didn’t waste any time dwelling on the finer details. Until he saw where Roger lived, he would accept her story as the truth.
Leaving the garage with the canvas bag, he retreated through the darkness to the back door. Donovan had to use a key to let himself into the pitch-black kitchen area. As much as he realized a murderer could be sleeping in his house tonight, it didn’t bother him. In fact, he was a lot more worried about Leo Fletcher or the FBI showing up.
CHAPTER 32
The following morning, Monica woke up at ten. She’d slept less than six hours. Judging by the dark rings under her eyes, those six hours hadn’t been the highest quality sleep, either.
Seated at the breakfast bar with the Trib under his nose, Donovan looked up and smiled. He wanted to make everything feel normal for her, welcoming after her reaction last night. Plus, having a young woman in his house felt good. Although she wasn’t his daughter, Monica had the kind of messy hair and pillow indents across her face that were like she was offering him something of a glimpse into life, into what it would be like if Elizabeth were still around—if she had returned to him after all those years of being gone.
“Hungry?” he asked, offering a good-morning smile.
Monica nodded and stretched her arms. The housecoat looked comfortable to Donovan, and, since Amelia had never used it, he considered letting Monica keep it. It didn’t fit him.
“I’ll make some eggs. Is that okay?”
“Perfect, Mr. Glass, but unnecessary.”
As Donovan stepped away from the breakfast bar and started working on breakfast, Monica climbed onto a stool. She grabbed his paper, flipped it over, and seemed to read something on the front page that froze her. Donovan noticed this from the refrigerator, but he kept working. He grabbed the eggs, some milk and cheese, butter, and a few other ingredients, glancing over at the young woman with the purple hair every opportunity he had.
“Everything okay?” he asked, getting the stove started and then cracking five eggs into a stainless steel bowl.
She poked at the newspaper’s headline. “I remember this. The paper dedicated a Sunday edition or something to Lizzy’s abduction.”
“That’s right. Turns out one of my students was a journalism major and ended up working at the Trib.” Donovan was nodding, remembering the details. “A couple of weeks after Elizabeth was taken, this former student convinced his editor to run the story. All I’d have to do was give them an exclusive interview at some point. It was all very generous.”
“The local paper where I grew up didn’t do that much.”
When Donovan cracked the next egg, the entire thing slipped out of his shaky grip and dropped into the bowl. He had to carefully draw the shell pieces out. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he should even say what was on his mind, but when he looked up and saw Monica’s expectant stare, he mentioned it to her anyway. “Monica, I looked online and there’s no mention of a body being found in the Detroit River. Also, my car is incredibly clean.”
She looked away and grinned, as if she had expected that little detail to surface. It looked half-defiant, the way she stared out the window that overlooked the rusting, sun-faded patio furniture on the deck. “That’s because they haven’t found the body yet, Mr. Glass. And I took extra care to make sure I didn’t ruin your car.”
Or it was all a lie. “I’m supposed to believe that?” he asked, using a whisk to scramble the eggs. He mixed in some milk.
“Yes.”
He worked in silence before asking something else. “What’s your real name, Monica?”
She gave him a head-shaking motion. “It�
��s not important.”
“To me it is.” Trying to keep the mood light, he offered a chuckle. “I like to know the names of my daughter’s friends. Especially if I’m making them breakfast. Call me old fashioned.”
“Do you want to know what’s important, Mr. Glass?” She looked up from the Trib. “The truth is important.”
“I agree.” Which was why he’d mentioned the nonexistent reports about a body in the Detroit River, the sparkling-clean Impala’s cabin, her name . . .
“Then why did you lie to me on that first day?”
He stopped whisking and frowned, thinking back to that day when he’d opened his front door to this young woman. He remembered being extremely curious, cautious even. But what had he lied about? The renovations had been a lie he’d told Brenda, not Monica.
“About Lizzy’s bedroom?” she reminded him. “You said you converted it, remember?”
He vaguely remembered. But he was also something of an insomniac, which impacted his memory.
Monica pointed over her shoulder at an elephant seated in one of the kitchen table chairs. It was the type of stuffed animal that had buttons concealed in its paws, and if you pressed them, a soft five-minute melody would play to help you fall asleep. More than that, the stuffed elephant was seated where his daughter used to sit for family meals or breakfast in the morning before school. It was odd to find one of Elizabeth’s favorite stuffed animals in that spot but more weird that this was the same elephant that Donovan had discovered on the bathroom counter when Amelia had cut her wrists. It was almost as if Monica had placed the elephant there to prove, without a doubt, that the two of them had truly been friends while being held prisoner.
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