by John Locke
“Ben says they’re camped out at the house.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No. But he’s left a dozen messages.”
“They’re showing live footage of your office and your house. They’re interviewing your neighbors! They’re showing your baby pictures—you were really cute, by the way—and your grade school and junior high pictures.”
“Not the one where my two front teeth are missing!”
“That’s the one!”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Oh, hush. It’s adorable.”
“I don’t believe this!”
Ugh.
“Let’s talk about your neighbors,” I say.
“What about them?”
“I’ve been staying with you two nights a week for months. Someone’s bound to turn me in.”
“They’re not thinking Nashville, so it won’t cross anyone’s mind.”
“It might from here on out.”
“True. Call just before entering the neighborhood and I’ll open my garage. You can pull right in and I’ll shut the door behind you.”
“I should disguise myself. You don’t by any chance happen to have a wig, do you?”
“I’m a country singer, remember?”
“Where do you keep them? I’ve never seen any wigs at your place.”
“I just have two, and one’s blonde, so that’s no good. I keep them in a dresser drawer. You’ve never gone through my drawers when I was out?”
“Of course not! Have you gone through mine?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I have! Every square inch!”
“You’re terrible!”
“But thorough.”
“What’s happening now?”
“Hang on, I’ll turn up the volume.”
I hear her TV in the background, but can’t understand what’s being said, so I keep driving till Sophie says, “They’re interviewing people at the gym where you work out.”
“I don’t know any of the afternoon people.”
“Maybe not, but they’ve all got something to say about you!”
“What’s the verdict?”
“You’re quiet. You don’t cause any trouble. You seem nice enough, but some find it odd you won’t shower there. Now a psychologist is explaining you probably have some deep-seated issues that preclude you from getting naked in front of others.”
“Maybe they’ll interview Carter Teague or Roy and hear a different story.”
Sophie laughs, then says, “Where are you now?”
“East of E-town. Thanks for letting me stay, Sofe. You’re a good friend. I hope I don’t create problems for you.”
“We’ll get you through this, Dani.”
BY THE TIME I arrive, Sophie’s got the coffee brewed, the TV on, and a blanket on the sofa. First thing I do is try on her wig.
“It’s auburn,” I say.
“It’s perfect,” she says.
I get to the nearest mirror and start laughing.
“I look ridiculous!”
“You look incredible!”
We sip coffee and talk and soon it feels like old times. I tell her the things Roy said in my office. When I get to the part where he claimed Ben had a thing for me at age fifteen, she raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. I go all in and tell her about sleeping with Ben Tuesday night.
“You really sniffed my perfume while doing it?”
“I really did.”
“Dani, it’s time for me to break the news to you.”
“What news?”
“You’re officially gay!”
“You think?”
“I’d love the chance to find out!”
“If we do, I’ll put Ben’s cologne on my hand first.”
She calls me a shithead and we laugh hysterically.
Why?
Because there’s a lot of estrogen in the room and we’re together. And Sophie feels needed, and I feel safe.
It’s a good combination.
Sophie says, “All jokes aside, I’d know in a heartbeat if you brought a different scent into the bedroom.”
“I’d know, too. So why not Ben?”
“Why do you think? He’s a man.”
Speaking of Ben, I feel bad about not checking in with him, especially if he’s picked up a flu bug. But I’m afraid to call the house in case the phone’s been tapped. I’m also concerned they might have cell phone monitoring devices that could pick up our conversation. I’d hate for the whole world to hear us talking about Meg Worthington, or about how great the sex was for Ben on Tuesday night!
“Since you’re already paranoid,” Sophie says, “you might want to remove the battery from your cell phone. That way they can’t pinpoint your location.”
“Good point,” I say.
I text Ben to let him know I’m safe and in hiding, and tell him I hope he feels better soon. I tell him not to worry about me, and end with the numbers 143, which means, I Love You.
As soon as the text is sent, I remove my battery.
“I’ve just gone dark, Thelma!” I tell Sophie.
“You’re on the lam, Louise!” she responds.
We make popcorn and channel surf into the night as one station after another rolls out the old photos of Colin Tyler Hicks, and the basement where he kept me, and the footage of my bruised and battered face when I walked into the precinct house. Each station trots out behavioral experts and psychiatrists and asks their own version of the question, Where is Dani Ripper, a.k.a. Mindy Renee Whittaker, and what’s going on in her head right now?
“And why does anyone care?” I say to the TV.
FRIDAY MORNING
I WAKE TO the scent of freshly-roasted coffee and wonder if I’m dreaming. Then remember where I am, and what happened yesterday. I take a quick shower, towel-dry my hair, wrap myself in a white, terrycloth robe and pad downstairs.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Sophie says. “I’m so glad you were able to sleep in.”
I yawn and look at the clock.
7:15 a.m. And I’m already showered.
“You call this sleeping in?”
“For you? Today? Yeah, Dani!”
She points to the morning paper on the counter.
“Already?” I say.
“Front page.”
I hold out a mug, Sophie fills it.
“And on TV?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t want to know.”
I smile. “How bad can it be?”
“They found out you’ve been trying to find ManChild.”
I do a double-take. You may not believe this, given my reaction to recent events, but I’m probably the least moody or bad-tempered person you know. But this announcement takes me from zero to furious in one second flat. I feel the red creeping into my cheeks. This is as pissed as I get. I’m so angry I can’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Dani,” Sophie says. “I wish it weren’t true.”
“Do they have any idea what they’ve done?” I shout. “Now he’ll never get caught!”
She brings some fresh cut pineapple to the table, and a little box of toothpicks. I’m still furious, but the scent of her coffee is heavenly, and I do love my fresh pineapple in the morning. She sits quietly till I sip some coffee.
“It’s good, Sofe.”
She reaches across the small wooden table that cost tons of money to craft into what appears to be an authentic early American antique, and puts her hand on my mine.
I put my other hand over hers and look into her eyes and say, “Now he knows I’m after him. He’ll be on his guard. He’s going to kill more children.”
“Actually, on TV they’re saying just the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“People love you, Dani. You have no idea how much! They said more than a dozen private detectives from all over the country have already called in to radio and TV stations to offer their services, free of charge. They want to find the bastard and put him away as a favor to
you. They’re challenging PI’s all over the country to pitch in and help you get this guy.”
“People love me? What are you talking about? They don’t love me. They just want to hear the details about what Colin Tyler Hicks and I did to each other in that basement.”
“Honey,” she says, “nine years ago it was about the crime. This time it’s about you.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Last time you were their victim. This time you’re their hero.”
“I don’t want to be a hero, Sofe, I just want a normal life and a chance to catch ManChild.”
“Dani, this could be huge! Not twenty minutes ago The Today Show said, and I quote, ‘Dani Ripper, the little girl who got away, is once again the most famous face in America.’”
“How do they know what I look like?”
“They’re posting pictures.”
“Recent photos?”
“Yup.”
“Where did they get them?”
“From your business manager.”
“My what? I don’t have a business manager! Who’s making that claim?”
“The vodka bottle.”
“The…Ben?”
“Yes. The Ben.”
“BEN WOULDN’T DO that!”
Sophie gives me a look that embodies all the things I love about her. In the space of a few seconds I see sadness, sympathy, compassion, and best of all, understanding—in her face and eyes. Then she says, “I’m sorry, Dani. But Ben’s trying to cash in.”
I stare off into space a full minute before turning back to her. When I do, I fix my eyes on hers and say, “You’re insulting my husband. And when you do that, you’re insulting me.”
She nods.
Without taking my eyes off hers I say, “I think you owe me an apology.”
She bites her lip.
“Ben would never, ever do that,” I say.
She holds my gaze, but doesn’t apologize.
As the tears well in my eyes, I stand and say, “I’m going to remove all my things from your house now.”
I start walking out of the kitchen, but Sophie says something that stops me in my tracks.
“Ben made a public announcement this morning.”
I turn back to face her. “If you want us to remain friends, tell me only what you know to be true. If Ben were talking about you, I’d make him do the same.”
She gets to her feet and walks toward me, but stops when we’re three feet apart. Her cheeks are streaked with tears.
I say, “You’re crying worse than I am.”
“That’s because I love you more. It’s moments like these when I realize just how much I adore you. You’re the most loyal person in the world. It warms my heart to see you standing up for Ben like this, even as it crushes me to tell you what he’s done.”
“What’s he done?”
“He announced he’s accepting bids from publishers for his book.”
“What book?”
“Mindy and Me. The true story of what happened to Mindy Renee Whittaker.”
“WHAT HAPPENED?” I say.
I’m on the floor in Sophie’s hallway, with a pillow under my head. She’s lying beside me. I notice a pillow under her head, too. There’s also a blanket over us.
“You passed out,” she says. “I tried to catch you, but you took me down with you. You woke up instantly, and said you wanted to stay on the floor. So I got up, got the pillows and blanket.”
“Why the blanket?”
She pauses.
I look at her.
“You’re blushing,” I say.
“Well…you only had the robe on, and…”
I lift the blanket high enough to peek under it.
“How much did you see?”
“Not everything.”
“No?”
“Your shoulders and arms were covered.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t seem to remember the whole pillows and blanket thing,” Sophie says. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. How long have I been lying here?”
“You don’t know? I mean, we’ve been talking to each other.”
My expression tells her I don’t have a clue.
“We’ve been like this for nearly an hour. You’ve been crying, and staring into space. I’ve talked to you, stroked your hair, and you kept telling me to let you lie here.”
We lie silently a few more minutes. Then I say, “I suppose you have proof about Ben writing the book?”
“I saw the interview where he said it. I’m sure we can find it on the internet.”
“Sofe?”
“Yeah honey?”
“Help me up?”
“I’d be glad to.”
She does.
“Are you dizzy?”
“Not at all. Why, did I hit my head?”
“No. You sort of fell on me.”
“Did you hit your head?”
She smiles, takes my left hand in hers, and places it on the back of her head so I can feel the lump.
“Sofe! I’m so sorry! You’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
We’re a foot apart, eyes locked. Mine are blue, hers, brown. I’m blonde, she’s brunette. Our heights are so closely matched you’d need a carpenter’s level to see who’s taller. But I’m high-waisted, so my legs are slightly longer. We’re both petite. She’s got boobs and hips, I’m more athletic in shape. I’m twenty-four, she’s twenty-nine.
In other words, we’re identical. And perfect together.
I keep my left hand on the back of her head, and touch the palm of my right hand to her cheek. And there, in the hallway between Sophie Alexander’s kitchen and den, at precisely 8:18 a.m. on the morning my world has imploded, I close my eyes and kiss my best friend full on the lips, hear her joyful murmur, accept her tongue, share mine, and finally, pull away.
“Holy shit!” Sophie says, moving in for another.
I hold her away with a reluctant hand. Then give her a quick kiss and say, “I’m still married, Sofe.”
“As married as you are straight?”
“Probably.”
“And I suppose you’ll want to check your computer about Ben’s book.”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Want to take some pineapple upstairs with you?”
“Depends on what you’re going to do.”
“If I were a guy I’d take a cold shower! Since I’m not, I plan to get comfy in the den, turn on the TV, and watch for breaking news about my best friend.”
“Can I bring my laptop down and surf the net while we watch TV together?”
“Are you going to wear your silly pajamas?”
“Can I?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“In that case, I’ll see you in five minutes. In the den.”
SOPHIE WASN’T LYING about Ben. Three of the Big Six publishers are considering entering a bidding war for his book, provided I give my blessing. Ben says he found time to write every Monday and Tuesday for nearly a year, and only recently completed his journal. He claims he never intended to it into a book, but when the news about my identity broke, he thought, “Why not?”
I check several online sources and find similar content. Ben’s credentials are mentioned, and he explains he’s been my teacher, my confessor, and my lover, and claims to have practically raised me these past six years. Those claims are generally true. Not to mention he helped me cope with the loss of my mother after she died on the operating table at City Hospital four years ago.
Sophie interrupts me from time to time, with, “Dani! Check it out!” or “Did you hear that?” But it’s mostly a rehashing of old news. I’m pleased and gratified to see the list of private eyes who’ve signed the pledge to bring down ManChild has grown to twenty. They’re calling themselves Dani’s Detectives!
