“Nice,” Jack comments, steepling his fingers.
“The only one who might have ever seen us together would be her younger sister, Molly. She was there once, on the playground, when I went to talk to Carleen. But she was so little, I doubt she’d remember . . .” He thinks about what Molly Connolly had said on the phone the other day, though. She had asked him if she knew him, saying he sounded familiar.
“And now Molly’s missing,” Jack reminds him. “What if she did remember? What if she had told someone that she thought she knew you from someplace? They’re going to try to link you to her disappearance.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about that ever since you told me what happened to her. But look, Jack, I’m obviously innocent. I wasn’t even in town last night when Molly disappeared. I was sitting here under lock and key in this godforsaken North Carolina jail cell. Somebody else is behind this, probably the same person who kidnapped Carleen and the others ten years ago.”
“Possibly. But I wish you had stayed out of it, Barrett. If anyone recognizes you from hanging around town that summer—”
“I didn’t hang around town much. You know where my parents’ place is, way the hell up in the foothills, totally out of the way. I was working on a mystery novel that summer, my first one. It sucked,” he adds ruefully, wrinkling his nose at the memory. ‘‘The only time I ever really came to town that summer was to meet Carleen, and that was always after dark. She’d sneak down through the woods in her backyard to the road by the lake, and I’d pick her up there, and we’d go back up to my parents’ place. That was the summer they were in Europe; there was no one around except me.”
“And you left immediately when you heard what had happened to Carleen?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid. I’d been sneaking around with this girl, and she was underage, and it was like a witchhunt around there at that point—people just going nuts, suspicious of everyone. And . . .”
“And?”
“Because the night she vanished, she was supposed to meet me. I was waiting in my car on Lakeshore Road. She never showed up. So I finally went home. I couldn’t call her. And the next morning, I heard on the radio that she was missing. So I left.”
“Jesus, Barrett. Do you think she had told anyone she was meeting you that night?”
“I told you, I’m pretty positive she didn’t.”
Jack sighs. “What did you do when you left Lake Charlotte?”
“I went straight to New York to stay with my brother, found a job in publishing right afterward, and that was that. My parents sold their place that fall and bought the villa in Tuscany, and that was the last time I ever set foot in the Adirondacks.”
“Until this summer.”
“Until this summer,” Barrett repeats, nodding.
“Why did you decide to write this particular book?”
“Guilt, like I said.” He shrugs. “I guess I never forgave myself for running away like a coward that summer. Hell, or for sneaking around with Carleen, when I knew she was young and screwed up. I should have known better than to get involved with her; and when she disappeared, I shouldn’t have run scared, thinking that somebody was going to think I did it.”
“That very well could have happened, Barrett,” Jack says with a shrug. “I can see why you’d want to get out of there. You were just a kid. But to go back to Lake Charlotte now, when it’s been behind you for ten years . . .”
“I don’t know why I did it, exactly, Jack. When I proposed the book to my agent, it was just, you know, an idea that had been eating away at me for a while. And my agent happened to mention it to my editor, and the next thing I knew, they wanted to see a proposal, and wham! I had a book deal.”
“You could have said no. God knows you don’t need the money,” Jack says. He, of all people, is well versed in the Maitland family’s financial status. The bottom line, of course, is that Barrett will never have to worry about money, thanks to the trust fund courtesy of his great-great-grandfather’s vast New England banking fortune.
“You’re right, Jack. I could have said no to the deal,” Barrett agrees. “But I guess, in a way, it’s like I told Rory—that I was hoping to find something in my research, some clue that would point to the person who abducted all those girls. And even if I don’t solve the mystery, I feel like writing this book as a way of doing something, somehow, for Carleen. In her memory. Because I really think she’s dead, Jack. I really do. And I wish to God that I could find out what the hell happened to her.”
Tears stream down Michelle’s cheeks as she stares at the miniature red face of her newborn daughter in Lou’s arms. He stands next to the bed, handling her with utmost gentle care now that she’s been released from the ICU nursery.
“Can I hold her?” Michelle asks, looking from her husband to the nurse, Patty.
“It would be difficult with your incision,” the woman says hesitantly.
“Please.” Michelle desperately needs to hold that tiny bundle close.
“All right,” the nurse says, coming closer to the bed and pressing a button to raise the mattress, bringing Michelle’s head and shoulders a bit more upright. “Put her up near Michelle’s shoulders,” she instructs Lou. “Careful not to touch anywhere near her stomach.”
Lou obeys, gingerly laying the blanket-wrapped bundle across Michelle’s chest just below her neck. He stands there, holding the baby steady, and her daughter’s eyes blink, staring into Michelle’s from mere inches away. They’re puffy from the drops placed in them after birth, and the slate-blue color Ozzie’s were for months after he was born.
Michelle sobs, thinking of her son, and clings to this child she battled to bring into the world, trying somehow to draw strength from her very existence, needing to believe that another miracle—just one more miracle, please, God—is possible.
Rory drums her fingertips on the kitchen table, still clutching the telephone receiver.
Lydia McGovern’s words ring in her ears, chilling her to the bone.
Sister Mary Frances, David Anghardt’s mysterious visitor, is actually one of the girls who disappeared?
Which girl is it; which girl is still alive?
Which girl has become a nun, and is visiting St. Malachy’s?
“It has to be Emily,” Rory murmurs aloud, pacing across the kitchen floor. That’s the only thing that makes the slightest bit of sense. She had barely known Kirstin Stafford and Allison Myers, but she dismisses the notion that one of them would have any connection to David Anghardt. Carleen, either.
But Emily—she would need to keep visiting her twin brother, bringing him little gifts: chocolate-covered raisins, and the quilt and paintings for his room.
But why would Emily have become a nun? And why wouldn’t she tell anyone at the home who she was? Surely someone would have recognized her—
Rory suddenly remembers something else Lydia McGovern had said. That the entire staff had been replaced not long after Emily vanished, and that the former director of the home, Sister Margaret, had been suffering from glaucoma and eventually went blind. It stood to reason that her eyesight would have been failing long before her retirement. So she probably wouldn’t have been able to recognize Emily even if Emily came face-to-face with her, if Emily didn’t tell her who she was. Only David would have known that the nun was his sister.
But again, why, if Emily’s still alive, would she have faked her disappearance?
What possible reason could she have had to vanish, abandoning her poor widowed father, whom she loved so much?
It doesn’t make sense.
But then, Rory obviously hadn’t known her best friend as well as she’d thought. Emily hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about David, or about the shoplifting arrest—
Rory stops pacing and frowns.<
br />
Emily had been caught shoplifting a ring.
Rory had already concluded that she must have shoplifted most or all of the things she had claimed her father had given her. What she couldn’t figure out was why.
Now she wonders, not for the first time, if Emily was desperate to convince herself that her father loved her . . . because maybe he didn’t. Maybe he blamed Emily for his wife’s death. After all, Emily’s mother had died giving birth to her and David.
It makes perfect sense, Rory realizes.
Maybe that was why Mr. Anghardt had shut David away in that home, and why he was always so gruff and distant with Emily.
Maybe he resented his own children’s very existence.
And maybe Emily took advantage of what was happening in Lake Charlotte that summer, with the missing girls. Maybe she simply faked her disappearance and ran away to some convent.
Hadn’t she suggested to Rory that Carleen might have done that very thing? Not the convent part, of course, but Rory clearly remembers Emily saying that Carleen must have run away, trying to reassure her that Carleen was alive, and that she’d turn up again someplace, someday.
Only Carleen never did.
But . . .
What if the person visiting David Anghardt at St. Malachy’s isn’t Emily, but Carleen? It seems unlikely, but . . .
There’s always a chance.
Rory feels a twinge of exhilaration at the prospect that her sister might still be alive. It’s quickly replaced by doubt.
It doesn’t make sense that Carleen would be out there somewhere, dressing up as a nun and visiting David Anghardt in Poughkeepsie. As far as Rory knows, Carleen hadn’t been aware of his existence, either.
No, it has to be Emily.
But even if Emily faked her disappearance and is still alive, where is Carleen?
Where are the others? This strange discovery about Emily doesn’t explain what happened to the rest of them.
Or to Molly, Rory thinks desolately, swallowing hard over the lump in her throat.
I’ve got to find Emily Anghardt, if she’s still alive. I’ve got to find out where her church is. Lydia McGovern said it was someplace near Albany.
Then, suddenly, it occurs to her that Emily might not actually be a nun. That the habit might be a disguise.
But why?
A disguise would make sense if she didn’t want anyone to know she was still alive, but a nun? Sister Mary Frances.
“Sister, sister . . .”
David Anghardt’s urgent cries echo in Rory’s ears, and she’s sure she gets why Emily would choose to disguise herself as a nun. Because she knew David would recognize her anyway, and if she didn’t want anyone else to know who she really was, it would be okay if he called her Sister. Nobody would suspect that she was really Emily, his lost sister.
So, most likely, she isn’t really Sister Mary Frances living near Albany.
Where are you, Emily?
And why did you run away?
Rory realizes it doesn’t matter. Not now. When this is all over, and Molly is home where she belongs, maybe she’ll look for Emily, and find out what happened.
But right now, she has to concentrate on finding Molly.
What if it’s already too late? she wonders, staring out the window at the rain pouring down.
Finally, he’s made it, after hours stuck in traffic—first on the clogged Mass Pike leading west out of Boston, then on the Northway, where a horrendous accident had closed the road just short of the exit for his destination.
Now he’s here, driving through the downpour battering the town of Lake Charlotte, following the familiar route to Hayes Street.
Along the way he passes several familiar landmarks—the big stone library, the brick post office with white-paned windows, Talucci’s Pizza Parlor. Amazing how some things look exactly the same.
But not everything. There’s a new, trendy-looking cafe where the Rainbow Palace used to be, and McShane’s Hardware has closed down, along with the old A&P supermarket on Front Street. And the entire town seems to have had a face-lift—there are quaint, hand-painted shingles hanging from brackets above some shops, and hanging flowers dangling from the lampposts, and far fewer potholes than he remembers.
It’s comforting, in a way, to see that the little town he’d once called home has lived up to the potential he always sensed. And yet the changes leave him with a hollow feeling—the knowledge that if he hadn’t been forced to flee years ago, he might have enjoyed spending the rest of his life right here in this picturesque town after all.
You weren’t forced to flee, he reminds himself. You made your choices. You knew the risks. And you paid the price.
He slows the car on the wet brick pavement, approaching the corner of Hayes Street.
“What the . . . ?”
There’s a roadblock, and a cop in a bright orange raincoat is standing beside it, talking to people in a white van marked Eyewitness News.
He pulls to a stop and watches as the van turns around and drives away.
The cop spots his car, and glances at the Massachusetts plates. He walks over to the window.
He rolls it down and tries to sound casual as he says, “Good morning, Officer.”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I have to get down Hayes Street.”
“You don’t live there.”
“No,” he admits. “But I need to visit someone.”
The officer looks dubious. “They expecting you?”
“No.”
“Which house?”
“Number 52.”
The officer raises his brows. “The Connolly place? You know—”
“That Molly Connolly is missing. Yes. I know.”
“You’re a reporter, right?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m not. Really.”
“Yeah?” the officer smirks. “But you urgently need to get over there, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Mind if I ask why? I’m assuming you’re not selling Mary Kay cosmetics.” He laughs at his own joke.
“No, I’m not.” He forces a chuckle, then hesitates.
“Well?” The cop is waiting, an expectant look on his face. “Why are you going to the Connollys’ place this morning?”
Here goes.
He takes a deep breath, looks the officer in the eye, and says, “Because I’m Molly’s father.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The phone rings as Rory is sitting on her mother’s bed, watching Maura just lying there, staring at the ceiling. She hasn’t spoken a word all day. It’s frightening.
“I have to go down and answer that, Mom,” Rory says, getting up and hurrying to the door. “But I’ll be right back.”
No reply.
Rory tells herself that after she takes this phone call, she’ll have to get in touch with Dr. Desiderio. She doesn’t want to bring Mom to his office—she can’t take the chance of leaving home in case the police need to get in touch with her. But maybe the doctor will make a house call under the circumstances.
She dashes down the steps and into the kitchen, wondering if it’s Detective Mullen. He had called a while ago, back at police headquarters from the accident scene. He’d asked Rory more questions about Barrett Maitland, and said he’d be in touch again shortly.
Or it could be Sister Theodosia, Rory figures, reaching for the phone. She’d left a message for her at the rectory in Buffalo.
She hadn’t had any luck in tracking Kevin down. She’d realized belatedly that she should have asked him for a number where he could be reached when he’d called last night. She just hadn’t thought of it at the time And even if she had, she might have decided against it. She had been so adamant that Kevin deserved to
cut the ties that for so many years had bound him to home in a stranglehold. She had wanted him to get away for once, carefree, the way she had done when she was his age.
Maybe it’s better he doesn’t know what’s going on with Molly, she tells herself now. He’d want to come rushing home. And maybe he won’t have to. Maybe she’ll turn up, safe and sound. In fact, maybe this was all just some crazy misunderstanding, and maybe this is her calling now.
She snatches up the telephone receiver and says, “Hello?” even as she realizes that it can’t possibly be Molly, that it isn’t just a misunderstanding, that this is real.
Molly is missing, and Rory has to face the truth: Molly, like Carleen, is most likely gone forever.
“Rory?”
She freezes, clutching the phone against her ear.
That’s Molly’s voice.
On the phone.
It’s Molly.
It’s Molly.
She’s alive.
“Oh, my God,” Rory breaks down, sobbing. “Where are you, Molly? Are you okay?”
“I need you, Rory. Please, please come.” Her sister’s voice is trembling, high-pitched and unnatural. She sounds out of her mind with fear.
“Where are you, Molly? Where are you?” Rory is frantic.
There’s a pause. “You can’t tell anyone. Don’t get the police, Rory. You can’t bring the police. You have to sneak in.”
“I won’t. I swear. The police are gone. There’s no one here but me, Molly.” And Mom, but she’s catatonic. “Hurry, tell me—where are you?”
“I’m next door,” her sister says in a strangled whisper. “At the Randalls’.”
“What?”
“I’m being held prisoner in this secret room, Rory. With Ozzie. And Rebecca. And we need you. Hurry, Rory. Come now—”
“But how do I find you?”
“The room’s behind Ozzie’s bookcase. Come, Rory, please—”
“I’ll be right there,” she blurts, hanging up and dashing toward the back door.
Halfway there, she pauses, and scurries back to yank open one of the cluttered kitchen drawers. With violently shaking hands, she rummages through the measuring spoons and shish kebab skewers until she finds what she needs.
All the Way Home Page 32
