And She Was

by Alison Gaylin

  “Wait. There’s something I need to show you.”

  She gave him a look.

  “I didn’t get anything else pierced. I swear.”

  “Okay then.”

  Trent edged next to her on the bed, minimized her home screen. “If you go to the control panel, you’ll see I downloaded Nelson Wentz’s Mailkeep.”

  “The program that saves copies of all e-mails.”

  “Yep.”

  Brenna found the Mailkeep icon and clicked on it. She saw a long list of e-mails, all of which seemed to be from Nelson’s address. “Have you looked at these yet?”

  “Nope. I just transferred it before I came over.”

  There were some e-mails from as recently as two days ago—one from Nelson to what looked like an online memoir-writing course, another to his boss, Kyle, titled “Taking personal day. Back next week.” It struck her anew, the strangeness of his death.

  Trent’s cologne pressed into her sinuses, and she turned to find him leaning to the computer, a pec against her back, his head practically on her shoulder. “A little space please,” she said.

  Trent put a finger to the bottom of the list. “Look.”

  He was pointing at one e-mail—the only one that wasn’t from Nelson. It was from OrangePineapple98, dated September 24, 11:30 P.M. The subject line read: “HOW DARE YOU.” The recipient was rwright@wrightindustries.com. “Her last night alive, Carol e-mailed Wright.”

  “Oh, Mommy.”

  “You can say that again,” Brenna whispered. She clicked open the e-mail. No message beyond an attachment—a jpg, which Carol had named “neff.” The pictures, she thought. Carol e-mailed him the pictures. Wright had learned who Carol was from the e-mail address. That was easy enough for someone as powerful as him. He had learned who she was, and then he had sicced Meade on Carol, on everyone she had spoken to, everyone who might know, all just to keep a secret.

  She stared at the subject line, anger bubbling up inside her, pressing against her wounded skin until she thought she might explode from it. How dare you? she thought. How dare you, you sick, selfish . . . Then she opened the attachment. Her eyes widened.

  “I don’t get it,” said Trent.

  Neither did Brenna. Carol hadn’t sent Wright the three incriminating photos. The attachment was a scan of Iris’s strange drawing—the stick-figure girl, trapped in a flower.

  Trent left twenty minutes later, when a nurse came in to remove Brenna’s IV. “Yikes. Nast. Needles. Gotta go,” said Trent, who less than a week earlier had paid someone to stick silver hoops through his nipples during his lunch hour. Trent LaSalle, ever a mass of contradictions.

  Brenna said good-bye as he hurried out the door, her mind still fixed on Carol’s e-mail to Roger Wright. How dare you, she had written to Wright—not over his affair with Lydia, but over a missing child’s drawing. What could it mean? She cut and pasted Carol’s e-mail, tacked on the attachment, and sent it to Morasco’s personal e-mail address, along with a message: From Carol Wentz to Roger Wright. Last night of her life.

  “How’s your pain?” said the young nurse, surprisingly stoic for someone with pink clouds and rainbows all over her smock. “Scale of one to ten.”

  “I’d say about a two, maybe three.”

  “We’ll hold off on the painkiller then. Buzz me if you feel worse.”

  After the nurse was through removing the IV and had left the room, Brenna stared first at the downloaded image and then at the original drawing, wishing she’d completed the psychology degree she’d begun at Columbia, if only to be able to interpret the meaning behind the crayon lines. What had driven Iris to draw this?

  Of course, she did know of someone who could probably tell her . . .

  Brenna hadn’t spoken to Dr. Lieberman in years, but his e-mail address was safe in her memory and, whimsical ties notwithstanding, she knew of no better child psychiatrist than him. Quickly, she fired off an e-mail to Lieberman, keeping the small talk to a minimum, as he tended to analyze even the most mundane of sentences. I need your professional opinion, she typed, on this drawing by a missing, six-year-old child. Could you please interpret and get back to me ASAP? Then she attached the downloaded image.

  Brenna had just sent the e-mail when an IM flashed across her screen:

  JRapp68: Hi.

  Jim. Brenna inhaled sharply, her knife wound burning with it. The skin around her left eye began to sting and she was sorry now she’d turned down painkillers, though she knew deep down they wouldn’t have done much good. Her jaw was throbbing, the bones in her face ready to split, yet she had no sense of the bandages she wore now. That’s how she knew: the pain in her face wasn’t real but remembered. It was pain from eleven years ago, from a cheating husband whose name she’d never known, bursting to life on October 23, 1998, one night after the husband has inflicted it, with Brenna’s own husband glaring her in the eye, Brenna’s own husband saying, “I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive you.” Brenna’s own husband crushing her heart. Brenna typed: Hi.

  I’m sorry I disappeared last night.

  Brenna stared at Jim’s words. She started to type, That’s okay. But then she deleted it. It wasn’t okay. Why should she say it was? She went for the keyboard: I wasn’t saying that I blamed you for moving on. I don’t blame you at all. I like Faith. She’s good to Maya, and I’m glad she makes you happy. I was just saying: It isn’t as easy for me. The memories I have of us are still alive in my head, and sometimes they hurt bad. That isn’t your fault. It isn’t mine, either. It’s the disorder.

  Brenna sent the paragraph without reading it. She didn’t receive an immediate reply. IM said he wasn’t typing. But Brenna wasn’t sorry she’d sent it. It was something that needed to be said, whether he wanted to hear it or not. He could ignore it in the future, forget she ever said it, but she needed to say it now. She still felt it—that love, that ache. She would always feel it and he ought to know.

  Jim typed: What’s my excuse then?

  Brenna stared at the screen. Typed a question mark.

  He typed: I remember, too, Brenna. I hurt, too.

  Brenna started to reply but stopped herself when she saw that Jim was still typing. His next message flashed on-screen: I can’t keep doing this.

  Doing what?

  IMing every night. I’ve come to look forward to it—probably more than I should.

  Her breath caught. Don’t leave me, she wanted to type. I need you. She thought about telling Jim where she was right now. Thought about saying, Can we at least wait until the stitches from my ABDOMINAL KNIFE WOUND are removed? But she didn’t. It wasn’t fair. Whatever you need to do, she typed instead.

  Jim typed: Thank you. Then he signed off. Brenna read the two short words on the screen—the last words she would see from Jim in a long time—and tears crept into her eyes. She felt someone nearby and looked up to see the stoic young nurse standing over her. Brenna hadn’t even heard her come in.

  “Are you in any pain?” the nurse asked.

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Brenna swatted at her eyes. “Kidding. I’m good.”

  The nurse frowned at her, but thankfully the phone rang at Brenna’s bedside before she had to explain anymore.

  The nurse reached for the phone, but Brenna grabbed it first. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” It was Morasco. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad, I guess.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I got the e-mail.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, “that I would very much like to nail Roger Wright’s ass to the wall.”

  Brenna smiled a little. “Great minds.”

  There was a short pause, and then he spoke again. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Am I in on it?”

  “I’d like you to be. The thing is, it would mean checking out of the hospital and leaving, very early in the morning.” As he told her about the plan—a simple one—th
e remembered pain dissipated, replaced by a strange and very real excitement. This could work. “I’m in,” she told Morasco. “I’m in no matter what.”

  Chapter 31

  “You look like a movie star, ducking the press after undergoing her fifth face-lift.”

  Behind the oversized sunglasses she’d picked up at a Rite Aid near the hospital, Brenna rolled her eyes. That would teach her, she supposed, for asking Morasco how she looked. Doctors had removed the bandages at five this morning, and though the bruises were nowhere near as bad as she’d imagined they’d be, the sunglasses were a necessity, especially considering where she and Morasco were going and whom they were about to see. She had her hair pulled back, and she was all in black—black jeans, black boots, black turtleneck sweater (Trent’s idea of a change of clothes, which, considering what he could have brought, was a fine choice). Morasco, on the other hand, was wearing one of his tweeds, this one with actual shoulder patches, a rumpled white oxford, jeans. Very postgraduate Camus scholar. She imagined they made an interesting-looking pair.

  It was 6:30 A.M., and they were in the unmarked car Morasco drove—brown Impala, because they figured such an obvious cop car would help their cause. When your goal was, after all, to make Roger Wright sweat, appearances needed to be seriously considered.

  They were on Wright’s street now—a parade of turrets, Tudor and spiraling brick chimneys, all tucked away behind downy sprawls of green. “Fancy area,” Brenna said.

  Morasco nodded. “You nervous?”

  “A little.”

  He pulled up to an enormous gate—Wright’s gate—and turned to her. “I can’t tell you how impressed I was by the way you questioned Gayle Chandler.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “No, I’m not. You use the memory to your best advantage. And your technique is just amazing.”

  Brenna felt herself blushing a little, and was glad for the sunglasses. “Thanks.”

  He spoke into the intercom. “Detective Nick Morasco. Tarry Ridge PD.”

  A Spanish-accented woman’s voice replied, “Can I ask what this is regarding?”

  “I need to speak with Mr. Wright, regarding an ongoing case.”

  A full ten seconds elapsed before the woman said, “One moment.” Three solid minutes before the gate finally opened.

  Morasco pulled up a very long driveway, lined with evergreens atop a lawn that could have easily doubled as a golf course. He drove past a thatch-roofed carriage house to an enormous, stately colonial—white brick, black shutters, Ionic columns that brought to mind the Tarry Ridge library, with its unwieldy librarian and screaming bake sale debutantes. Brenna blinked that scene away—hard to believe it had been only yesterday—as Morasco pulled in front of the house and removed the folder from the glove compartment, and they both slipped out of the car to find Wright—Roger Wright all suited up for his morning golf game, Roger Wright in his madras pants and his pink polo, his graying gold hair gleaming in the bright sun and his blue eyes surprising spikes of concern—Roger Wright striding toward them, because this was a man who didn’t simply walk, he strode. “Can I help you?” he said to Morasco.

  Brenna spoke. “Mr. Wright. We’re looking for a former employee of yours by the name of Adam Meade.”

  He glanced at Brenna. If he remembered her at all as Candy Bissel from outside the golf course, he wasn’t letting that be known. “I . . . I’m not sure I’m familiar with the name.”

  “He worked for Wright Industries from 1996 to 1999,” said Morasco.

  Wright stared Morasco in the eye for a long time, saying nothing. His gaze moved from the detective’s face to Brenna’s, as if he might find more help there, a more sympathetic set of features, perhaps even a different question. But she stared right back, silent as Morasco. Waiting.

  “Adam,” Wright said finally. “Was he the orderly from the Bronx VA?”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes.”

  Wright exhaled hard. “I met Adam probably fifteen years ago. The Teasdale Foundation gives money to the hospital and I was there with my wife and mother-in-law, touring the facility. I spoke to Adam. He wasn’t happy with his job. He said he was looking for something in security, and a few months later I wound up hiring him.”

  “Just like that?” Morasco said. “Someone you never heard of.”

  Wright aimed his eyes at him—sharp, defiant. “I’d heard of his father. A true hero. Born right here in Tarry Ridge.”

  “Why did you fire him?” Brenna said.

  “I didn’t.”

  She stared at him.

  “The head of security did. He had his reasons, I’m sure.” He gave her a flat smile. “Perhaps you can understand the fact that I don’t become directly involved with every firing and/or layoff that takes place within my corporation. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Morasco said, “I’d like to show you a few photographs, Mr. Wright.”

  “I’m sorry—I really don’t have time—”

  “Golf, right? No worries, this won’t take a minute.” Morasco moved closer to him, and opened the folder he was carrying—a folder full of crime scene photos. Brenna watched him, the way he stared into the open folder, his jaw going slack, the color slipping from his face.

  “Dear God,” he breathed.

  “This is what happened to Carol Wentz,” Morasco said.

  He showed him another picture, then another. “Here is what happened to Nelson Wentz, her husband.”

  “Please, I . . .”

  “Graeme Klavel. Private investigator in Mount Temple.”

  “Why are you—”

  “Timothy O’Malley. Some face, right? He’s in critical condition. Hanging on by a thread.” Morasco looked up from the folder and into Wright’s face. “Ex-husband of Lydia Neff.”

  Wright’s face went red. He backed away. “Why are you showing me these?”

  Brenna said, “We believe Adam Meade is responsible for all of this.”

  “No,” Wright said. “No, Carol Wentz was killed by her husband. He killed himself. I’ve been following the news.”

  “You can follow whatever you want, Mr. Wright,” said Brenna. “That won’t change the truth.”

  “Can you find Adam Meade?” Morasco said. “Can you tell us where he is right now?”

  “I don’t know where Adam Meade is.”

  Brenna stared at him, her jaw tightening, anger building. She heard herself say, “Carol Wentz e-mailed you the night before she died.”

  “No she didn’t.”

  “Before that e-mail, she’d spoken to Mr. Klavel and Mr. O’Malley.” Brenna took a step closer to Wright, who appeared to be growing smaller by the minute. “So if you honestly don’t know where Adam Meade is right now, I suggest you find out, as he seems to be doing quite a bit of damage on your behalf.”

  “I need to leave,” Wright said quietly. “I have an appointment.”

  Morasco held out his business card. “If you think you might know where Mr. Meade is, give me a call.” He smiled. “Sorry to interrupt your morning. Have a nice day.”

  Morasco and Brenna slipped back into the Impala with Wright staring after them, headed down the sprawling driveway without saying a word. Once they were back on the street, Brenna removed the microcassette recorder from her bag, played back the entire conversation while staring out the window at the lush scenery, mansions parading by . . .

  After it was through, she asked Morasco, “What did you think?”

  “He’s definitely lying about getting the e-mail from Carol.”

  “That’s a given.”

  “But unless he’s either a great actor or incredibly self-deluded, I get the feeling he has no idea where Meade is, or what he’s been doing.” He pulled back onto Main Street and made a left, heading back toward the 287.

  “I vote for self-deluded,” Brenna said.

  “Me too.”

  No matter what the truth was about his connection to Meade, Wright had clearly be
en lying when he said he hadn’t received Carol’s e-mail. When Brenna had mentioned it, she’d actually seen the discomfort, creeping up from his collar and into his face as if it was a solid thing.

  It had been the same when Morasco had said the name out loud. Lydia Neff.

  But what was it about that drawing?

  After Morasco dropped her off at her apartment, Brenna opened the front door and climbed the stairs, her own daughter’s art flashing through her mind like a slide show. Two smiling heads on stick legs—one with curly hair, one with no hair. “Mommy and Daddy,” Maya had said, after handing Brenna the picture, drawn in day care, February 2, 1999. The picture of Brenna—the one in the mommy crown that she’d had reproduced for her key chain—April 12, 2000. A collage Maya had created on January 19, 2002; an imitation Picasso on March 3, 2005; a self-portrait—the teeth and forehead so much bigger than they were in real life, but still, as Maya’s art teacher had said, “exhibiting real talent”—from November 4, 2008. Even the portrait of Miles, the one she’d completed last night . . . All of these works of art so different, but with one thing in common: a signature. First in spidery block letters, then in cursive, then simply in initials, Maya, like most every child, signed her artwork.

  But there was no signature at the bottom of the flower drawing, and it was an aberration. Iris had signed the framed pictures that hung in her mother’s house. She’d even signed the seat of her bicycle. But she hadn’t put her name on this one piece of art, the one her mother had stashed away in a secret place, along with her other dark secret . . .

  Brenna unlocked her apartment door. With Trent not in yet and Maya at Larissa’s house, the place seemed emptier than usual—huge and still. She put down her bag and made for her computer, thinking, What could that drawing mean? Odds were, Lieberman had replied to her query about it—in the past, he’d always been quick with answers—and when she checked her e-mail, she saw he hadn’t changed. She expected a long response. Lieberman had a tendency to overexplain, which was fine. In the case of this drawing, Brenna thought, the more explanation the better.