by John Locke
Charlie didn’t prepare me for what I see on TV tonight. Apparently I’ve been offered a million dollars to appear nude in a girly magazine. I feel violated, somehow, even though a couple of weeks ago I got naked in a hotel room for five thousand bucks.
“Guess I’ve hit the big time,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Dani,” Sophie says.
SUNDAY
SPEAKING OF SOPHIE, she’s been amazing. She’s my rock, my best friend. We’re sleeping in the same bed now, but there’s no kissing, touching, or even a hint of playfulness. I’m emotionally spent, and Sophie’s okay with it.
Every morning I apologize for crying half the night, but she says she’s got it better than a newborn’s parents.
“At least I don’t have to change diapers,” she says.
I’m most gratified by the fact she’s not hovering. She never asks if I’m okay, never follows me around, never goes out of her way to do things for me. She talks sparingly, and has a wonderful instinct for what I need right now, which is normalcy.
The FBI agents have moved out of the house and been replaced by a police security detail. Of course, they’ve explained they can’t continue providing security indefinitely, and Sophie and I are trying to decide what to do when we’re left completely alone. We’re convinced the paparazzi will break into her house and photograph us to death if ManChild or some other kook doesn’t get to us first.
MONDAY MORNING
TWO THINGS HAPPEN today.
First, Janie Ramirez calls to say she’s completed the first draft of our book, which she’s fittingly titled, The Little Girl Who Got Away. She says she’ll send the manuscript by email. I thank her for her time and for the flowers she sent to the funeral home.
Second, less than a minute after Janie hangs up, I get a call from my new attorney, Chris Fist.
“Have they got there yet?” he says.
“Who are we talking about?”
“The FBI. If they get there before me, tell them to wait, and don’t say anything. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I start to ask why they’re coming, but he’s already hung up.
Moments later Detective Marco Polomo enters the house with two FBI agents. He introduces them, and asks Sophie to leave us alone.
“You may as well let Sophie stay, because first, it’s her house, and second, I’m going to tell her everything the minute you leave.”
Polomo gives in. “Where can we sit and talk?”
“My attorney just called. He’s on his way.”
“Figures,” one of the G men says.
We twiddle our thumbs until Chris shows up. Then we sit in the den and Agent Chase opens a manila envelope and places a photograph on the coffee table in front of me.
“Recognize this?” he says.
Chris says, “You can answer the question honestly.”
“No.”
“No you don’t recognize it?”
“I don’t. Nor do I have any idea what it is,” I say.
“It’s a voice altering device.”
“Like the kind Roy used when he left that message?”
“Yes. Except this one was found in your home.”
“My home? Where?”
“Ben’s desk drawer.”
He pulls out another photo and sets it before me. It’s a picture of what appears to be a decorative, handcrafted wooden keepsake box. The wood appears to be walnut, and features angled sides and contrasting box joint corners made of oak or ash. It’s exquisitely crafted. Someone has taken great care to polish it to a high luster. It appears to be half the size of a shoe box, and has a keyhole.
“Ever seen this?”
“No, but it’s gorgeous.”
“It was found in your basement, in a cardboard box, under a pile of old college essays and lesson plans.”
“When?”
“The day you authorized the Cincinnati police to conduct a thorough search of your home.”
“That was a week ago! Why are you just now showing me this?”
“What difference does it make?” he says. “You’ve either seen it or you haven’t.”
“She hasn’t,” Chris Fist says.
“It took us two days to find the key,” Agent Chase says.
“Okay.”
“Know where we found it?”
Chris says, “If she’s never seen the box, how would she know where you found the key? Assuming there’s a point to these questions, can you get to it?”
Agent Chase gives Chris a long, hard look. Then turns to me and says, “You know the small, framed photo of you on Ben’s desk, to the left of his computer? You’re younger, big smile, wearing a yellow blouse. There’s a horse fence and a tree in the background.”
I blot the tears from my eyes.
“I know the picture,” I say. “It was Ben’s favorite.”
“The key was hidden between the photo and the backing, between two pieces of cardboard.”
Sophie says, “What’s in the box?”
Chase says, “Glad you asked.”
He pulls three photos from the manila envelope and spreads them out in front of me.
It takes me a moment to realize what I’m seeing.
Then I start screaming.
I WANT TO turn my head away, but can’t.
Sophie’s hand flies across the coffee table and connects against the side of Agent Chase’s face so hard it knocks him back.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” she screams, and cocks her arm to slap the other guy just for being there. But Chris Fist lunges and manages to restrain her.
“Your client just assaulted a federal agent!” Chase yells, rubbing the side of his face.
“Fuck you!” Sophie says, trying to squirm out of Chris’s grip so she can slap Chase again.
“I could have you arrested for this!” he says. “Tell her, Mr. Fist.”
Chris says, “First of all, Sophie’s not my client. Second, she asked you a fair question. Why the hell would you ambush Dani with these photos? You think she hasn’t been through enough in her twenty-four years?”
“Watch your tone, counselor.”
“Watch yours, you piece of shit.”
Sophie says, “Dani?”
…And everyone turns to me.
I CAN’T STOP looking at the photos. The first one isn’t so bad. It’s a photo of the same box, with the lid open. There’s some sort of cloth inside. No big deal, right?
The second photo shows the piece of cloth spread out beside the box. Only it’s no longer a random piece of cloth.
It’s a pair of blood-stained panties.
A little girl’s panties.
And of course the third photo is a picture of little Jaqui Moreland.
She’s naked, and her mouth is duct-taped. Her arms and legs are duct-taped so that she’s lying spread-eagle on the floor. It’s not clear what the tape is attached to outside the area of the photograph, nor is it important.
What’s important is Jaqui’s eyes. They’re wide with terror.
Agent Chase says, “The photo’s authentic. This is Jaqui Moreland, moments before her death. We’re still waiting on the DNA results, but the panties match the description in her mother’s original statement. By the way, we never disclosed Jaqui’s panties were absent the crime scene.”
I can’t stop looking at the photo. I can barely see through my tears, but I can see enough.
“Put the photos away,” Chris says.
It still hasn’t dawned on me the significance of why they’re showing me these photos. Then Agent Chase says, “We’ve spent the past week trying to decide if you had any knowledge your husband raped and killed Jaqui Moreland.”
“What?”
I don’t know why his words shocked me. For five minutes he’s been showing me positive proof that my husband, Ben Davis, the man I tried so hard to love, was ManChild.
Now, suddenly, it makes sense.
According to Roy, Ben fell in love with me when he was tw
enty-nine.
Back then I was…
I was fifteen.
It fits.
But still. Ben?
“Maybe ManChild set him up,” I say.
Chase says, “We lifted Ben’s fingerprints off the photograph. The threatening call you received was made with a voice-altering device exactly like the one in Ben’s home office.”
“Why would Ben try to frighten me?” I ask, though Ben himself already gave me the answer. He was hoping the revelation about my identity, and the book deal, and my fear of ManChild, would drive me back into his arms.
I think about how Ben always compared our relationship to an orange in a vodka bottle. Like Sophie said, I was his prisoner.
I wonder why he allowed me to live.
Is it because I grew older than the age he liked to kill? Is it because he needed me by his side to keep others from being suspicious? Did he love me too much to kill me? Or was he planning to kill me when I returned from Sophie’s?
I think about the days he spent helping Jaqui’s family search for her. Up to ten hours a day he combed the woods and fields with the other volunteers. Colin Tyler Hicks attempted to do the same thing after abducting me. I saw a TV show where they claimed killers and kidnappers often volunteer to search for their victims, and are often the ones who “find” the bodies. Ben must have loved the irony of how hard I worked every day to catch the pervert who was living in my own home.
“I knew nothing about it,” I tell Agent Chase. “I’ve spent endless time and money trying to catch ManChild. Everyone knows that.”
“Which is exactly what made us suspicious,” he says. “If you’re trying to protect Ben Davis, what better cover could you possibly have than to act like you’re spending every waking hour searching for Jaqui’s killer?”
Chris says, “Do you have anything to charge her with, or were you just trying to get her reaction to the photos?”
“We were testing her reaction.”
“And?”
“My professional opinion? She’s either completely innocent, or one hell of an actress.”
TUESDAY MORNING
TODAY WHEN I wake up, Sophie’s not in the room, but my cell phone is, and it’s ringing.
“Hello?”
“Good news, Dani!” Chris Fist says.
“I could use some. What’s up?”
“The police and FBI have cleared you of any wrongdoing.”
“Did they establish a cause of death?”
“Ben died of heart failure. His autopsy showed a previously undetected congenital heart defect. It was like a time bomb waiting to go off, and any sudden exertion or stress could have triggered it. They think his recent bout with the flu weakened him, and the stress of being hounded by the media probably did him in.”
“In a sense he killed himself?”
“In a very real sense. His heart couldn’t take the stress of the media storm he, himself caused.”
We talk until I hear a noise down the hall. Then I hang up and get out of bed to investigate. When I enter Sophie’s room, I find her taping a cardboard box.
“What’s up, Sofe?”
“I’m tossing some stuff away.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing important.”
“Show me.”
She opens the lid, reaches her hand in the box, and pulls out some plaid schoolgirl skirts.
“What gives?” I say.
“Are you kidding me? After what happened yesterday with Jaqui’s photos? I thought about the whole teacher’s pet thing and wanted to vomit.”
“Why?”
“My fantasy game isn’t cute or sexy, it’s perverted. I’m no higher up the food chain than Colin Tyler Hicks, or…ManChild.”
“You can say Ben. I’ve accepted it.”
“Well anyway, the skirts are going straight to Goodwill.”
“Sofe.”
“What?”
“There’s a huge difference between teacher’s pet and the other kinds of thoughts.”
“There is?”
“Of course.”
“Enlighten me,” she says.
“Well…um…”
“Yes?”
“Okay, so nothing comes to mind. But I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m done with it.”
“No more teacher’s pet?”
“Never again. I can’t believe I never saw the creep factor before yesterday.”
I sigh.
“What?”
“I can’t believe I’ve done this to you.”
“What?”
“I’ve taken the fun out of something you enjoyed. It wasn’t dirty, wasn’t perverted. You played your games with grown women, yes?”
“Not that many women,” she says.
“How many exactly?”
“Two. But I’ll never be able to play it without thinking of that poor child. So I’m done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“That’s so sad,” I say.
She shrugs.
“No more sex games? Really, Sofe?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
She enters the closet and comes out with a sparkly outfit in her hand and a smile on her face. “We can still play casting couch!”
SOPHIE AND I spend the rest of the day reading Janie’s manuscript. Then I call her to discuss the passages she highlighted, where she asked for additional input.
“I loved it,” I say. “Thank you so much for all your hard work.”
After I hang up Sophie says, “Did you mean that?”
“What?”
“You told her you loved the manuscript. Did you?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
“It was very difficult for me to read.”
“I know. But the way it’s written is exactly what happened.”
“You never told me Hicks said those things to you.”
“I know. But it’s a huge part of the story.”
“Still.”
I look into her eyes. They’re welling with tears.
“What’s wrong, Sofe?”
“I mean, it’s really creepy.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes appear to have contained the tears, but she blinks, and suddenly half her face is wet.
She says, “I can’t believe you went through all that. It’s…I mean…I could never…”
“Never what?”
“Your attitude. It’s…so perky. So bubbly. And positive.”
“I survived.”
“Yes.”
“Colin Tyler Hicks took several years from me, but I’ve come all the way back. You helped.”
“I did?”
“Yup.”
She kisses my cheek. Then says, “Are you sure you’re comfortable publishing it?”
“It’s exactly what happened.”
“I know, but still.”
“I know, Sofe. But it’s exactly what happened.”
“Jesus, Dani.”
MONDAY
THE POLICE ARE gone now, and only a dozen reporters are hanging around. I doubt they’ve ever encountered anyone as stubborn as Sophie and me. We haven’t so much as opened a curtain since returning from the funeral ten days ago. We’ve gone through the original provisions Betty’s pilots secured for us in Cincinnati, but she stops by nearly every day to work with Sophie on the songs for her new album. When she does, her bodyguards always bring at least one basket of goodies for us.
