“The long version is that someone was at her place, and she managed to escape.”
“I don’t know,” Tessa replied. “I didn’t see him. I don’t even know where he was hiding. I checked every room in the house before I went into the basement.”
“Were you worried that someone was there?” Wren asked.
“I had a weird feeling that things were...off.”
“You should have called me,” Henry said.
“I tried to call you several times today. You weren’t available,” Tessa muttered, her eyes closed, her dark lashes coated with ice. Just like her hair. He turned up the heat and aimed the front vents directly at her.
“Then you should have called the police,” he responded.
“I felt like something was off. I had no proof, and with everything that has happened lately, I couldn’t be certain it wasn’t my imagination.”
“Always trust your gut,” Wren said.
“My gut has been wrong one too many times, and I stopped trusting anything it told me a long time ago,” Tess replied.
There was a story there. Probably the one she’d been refusing to tell him. Henry didn’t ask. Not yet. He had other things to focus on.
“I’ll bring you two back to my in-laws. Then I’m going over to the cottage.”
“Better to go now,” Wren replied. “I’ll call the chief and have him meet us there. Maybe we’ll hit the lottery and the perp will be standing around waiting for us to arrive.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Tessa asked, her eyes still closed, her hands fisted in her lap.
He lifted one. He meant to simply will some warmth into her skin, but he found himself giving it a gentle squeeze.
She opened her eyes, met his gaze, offered a tired smile that made him wish he could change all the things in her past that had made her doubt herself.
“I need to tell you some things about my life,” she said. “I was thinking about that while I was nearly freezing to death out on the beach.”
“Thinking about what?”
“All the things I should have said but didn’t.”
“There will be time to say them later,” he said, and she nodded.
“I know. But, just in case you find out before they’re said, I want you to know that I’m ready.”
“For what?”
“To break the silence, to say everything I should have said a hundred years ago,” she responded and closed her eyes again.
She didn’t open them when Henry brushed moisture from her hair. She didn’t move as he pulled away from the curb. When they reached the cottage, her eyes were still closed, whatever story she planned to tell locked tightly behind her placid expression.
EIGHT
The cottage had been ransacked. Boxes dumped. Papers strewn everywhere. Couch cushions sliced open to reveal their fluffy innards. Her schoolbooks were on the floor, scattered like trash through the dining room. Tessa reached for one, but Henry stepped in front of her, preventing her from touching it.
“Don’t. When the evidence techs arrive, they’ll want to take photos of an undisturbed scene.”
“Is moving one book really going to matter?” she replied.
“Maybe not, but why take chances?”
“I have that makeup test on—”
“Monday,” he said, because she’d mentioned it before. Just like she mentioned her dreams of finishing college, of getting her nursing degree and passing the national RN exam.
What she hadn’t mentioned was why it had taken her until she was nearly thirty to pursue those dreams.
“I know I’ve told you about the test before,” she said. She could feel her cheeks go pink with embarrassment. “I need to stop repeating myself.”
“You need to keep that coat buttoned,” he responded, tugging his coat tighter around her shoulders.
“I need to...” She shook her head.
“What?”
“Pass the test,” she responded with a quick grin. Even she could see the humor in her answer, in the nearly obsessive way she focused on one of the few things she could control.
“You will,” Wren assured her. “The police will process the scene, and we’ll make sure you get your books back quickly.” She’d taken position at the living room window. The curtains were open, and she was staring out into the freezing rain. She’d just returned to the house after checking the exterior of the house.
She didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.
“I found a few footprints in the yard,” she commented. “The cellar door was opened. The exterior lock was cut. I found it lying under a bush near the back stoop.”
“That explains how he got in,” Tessa murmured. “But I checked the house when I arrived home. I know it was empty. Maybe he broke in while I was in the basement, but I don’t think he had enough time.”
“Why not?” Henry asked.
“I walked to the bottom of the stairs, and the door closed. He locked me in, and a few seconds later, he shut off the electricity.”
“He could have killed you, if he’d wanted to, so that couldn’t have been his motive for breaking in.” Henry crouched near one of the corner hutches and studied a handful of heart-shaped rocks that had been tossed on the floor. “It seems like he was searching for something.”
“What?” she asked, even though her gut was telling her she knew.
“You’re the only one who can answer that question.” He’d been in the cottage before. He’d seen the collection of heart-shaped rocks, but he’d never commented on them. Now, he poked at one with the end of the Maglite he’d carried from the SUV. “You had a couple dozen of these.”
“Yes.”
“Where are the rest?”
“I don’t know. Maybe under the papers?”
“No.” He lifted a few sheets with the edge of the light and let them fall back into place. “We’d be able to see them.”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“Heart-shaped stones are a strange thing to take, don’t you think?”
“Everything about this is strange,” she murmured.
She was used to Henry’s warmth, to his kindness.
Now, he seemed coldly focused.
“There’s a crawl space above the house. Where’s the access point?”
“In my bedroom closet, but I never use it.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t used.”
“You think someone was in the crawl space when I checked the house?” She’d thought about the basement, but the crawl space had never entered her mind.
“This is not a big place. There aren’t many other places to hide.” He straightened. “Aside from the rocks, does anything appear to be missing?”
Right. That’s what she was supposed to be doing. Checking to see if she’d been robbed.
“My laptop is still here.” She pointed to where it sat on the floor. “Other than the stones, everything seems to be here.”
“So, nothing is missing from the living room. Nothing from the dining room. Want to check the kitchen next?”
“I don’t have anything in there worth stealing,” she said wearily.
“How about your bedroom?”
“As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing in this house that anyone would possibly want.”
“What about information?” Henry suggested, and she stiffened.
“That’s possible.” She wasn’t going to lie. She’d done enough of that when she’d lived with Patrick. She’d lied about her age to his friends. She’d lied about her level of happiness. She’d lied about the bruises when doctors noticed. She’d lied about Patrick being a great boyfriend and a wonderful person, about having money and freedom and the easy life all Patrick’s associates valued.
She’d continued
to lie after she’d left Napa Valley.
Her new life was built on one lie after another, and she wanted to change that. Even if it meant going to jail. She’d thought about that a lot when she was on the beach, cold wind seeping deep into her bones. About how she could die, and no one would know who she really was. No one would know her deepest truths.
“What kind of information?” he asked, and she had the strange feeling he knew the truth, that somehow, he’d discovered that she wasn’t Tessa Carlson.
At least, not the real one.
She wanted to tell him about the twenty-six years she’d spent before she’d become the woman who lived in Provincetown. She wanted to tell him about her desperation to make something good out of her life. She wanted to explain how she’d met Patrick, how quickly she’d fallen for his charm, how all of it had been a sham, and she’d become trapped in a life she’d hated with a man she’d feared.
“Tessa, I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me the truth.” He spoke calmly, no hint of emotion in his voice, but the coldness in his eyes brought back memories she tried hard to suppress—Patrick staring at her across the dinner table, asking calmly where she’d been when he’d returned from work, his gaze dispassionate and cold. Patrick asking why she was wearing blue instead of green. Why she’d taken out her contacts. Why she hadn’t run to the door to greet him.
Always with that look in his eyes.
As if it didn’t matter.
But, of course, it had mattered a lot.
“I’ll check the bedroom,” she murmured, but he was blocking the path to the hall, and she’d have to brush past him to get there.
She stayed where she was, her feet burning as they thawed, her finger aching.
It was her heart, though, that hurt the most.
She’d been hoping for something she hadn’t been willing to put a name to. Family, maybe. Love.
Mostly she thought she’d just been hoping to have what Henry had been giving her. Easy conversations and relaxed meals. Quick smiles and loud laughter. Life without apology or fear, shared with someone she liked.
Her lies had ruined that.
She could see the truth in his mist-colored eyes.
He reached for her, and she flinched, taking two quick steps back before she realized what she was doing.
“The coat is slipping,” he said in the same calm tone.
He tugged it into place again, buttoning the first few buttons and pulling the hood over her wet hair.
“Whatever you need to say, it’s going to be okay,” he promised, and she knew this was her last chance. She could either come clean, or she could wait for Henry and his colleagues to discover the truth.
Either way, all the lies she’d told, all the secrets she’d kept, were going to be exposed.
“I’m not, or wasn’t, Tessa Carlson,” she finally admitted, her heart racing, her chest so tight, she could barely breathe.
“Who are you, then?”
“Me. The person who rents this house and works at the diner and is trying to become a nurse.”
“Who were you?” Wren asked, turning away from the window she’d been staring out.
“Tiffany Freeman. I changed my name when I left California.”
“Not legally?” Wren asked.
“No. Not legally.”
“Why—?” Henry began.
“Did I change my name?” Tessa interrupted. “Because I was leaving a bad relationship. I didn’t want him to find me. I was afraid, and I panicked, and I did what I thought I had to.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked gently, and she could feel tears burning behind her eyes. Her fingers tingled as blood flowed back into them, and she wanted to lean her head against his chest, close her eyes and pretend she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life when she’d withheld the truth when they’d met.
“I was afraid. I’m always afraid.”
“Not anymore,” Wren insisted. “Now, it’s out in the open. The only person who should be afraid is whoever has been coming after you. Who was it you were running from?”
“Patrick Dwight Hamilton. He owns several upscale antiques stores in Napa Valley and two in Los Angeles.”
“He was your boyfriend,” Henry said, because she had mentioned Patrick before. She just hadn’t mentioned everything else.
“Right.”
“For how long?”
“Nine years. I should have walked away after the first one, but I was young when we met, and I didn’t know how.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Henry said. “Do you think he might have come after you? Is it possible that everything we’ve attributed to the kidnapper, could be something to do with him?”
“I...don’t know. He started dating right after I left. He’s married. He’s financially well-off, and he has no reason to come after me.”
“Except?” Henry prodded, obviously sensing that there was more.
“He hates to lose at anything. He hates to be humiliated, and when his young, stupid girlfriend walked out, that had to have bothered him. Also, I took some things from his wall safe.”
“What things?” Wren asked.
“He’d given me a lot of expensive jewelry, but he kept it in a safe in his closet. One day, I watched him open it and memorized the combination. Before I left, I took everything I found there. Some of it wasn’t mine.”
“What are we talking about here?” Henry asked. “A few hundred dollars’ worth of stuff?”
“Tens of thousands worth. Maybe a quarter of that had been gifted to me. The rest were pieces he’d bought from estate sales and was waiting to get authenticated. He liked to take things home and admire them for a while before he displayed them in one of his stores. I knew that, and I knew that I was taking items that weren’t mine. I did it anyway,” she admitted, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She was a thief, a common criminal.
Just like her mother.
“Did you sell the jewelry to fund your escape?” Wren asked. “New identities aren’t cheap. Neither are trips across the country.”
“Only the things that Patrick had given me. I contacted a guy I’d gone to school with, and he was able to help me get what I needed.”
“What about the other things?” Henry asked.
She’d been avoiding his eyes, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “They’re in a safe-deposit box in Provincetown Savings and Loan. The key is here.” She walked to one of the built-in hutches and kneeled on the floor. There was a small ledge that created a decorative feature. The key was taped behind it. She pulled it off and stood. “I haven’t actually opened the box since I put the jewelry inside it. It’s been there since I got the job at Ernie’s. I wanted to send everything back, but...”
“You were afraid he’d find you,” Henry said.
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded.
“Right. I’ve been terrified of that since I left. The night Everly was kidnapped, I almost didn’t intervene, because I didn’t want any police attention. I built this life on a lie, but I loved it enough to want to keep it. I wish I could change the past and unmake a million mistakes, but I can’t.” The words poured out, and she wasn’t sorry for telling him the truth.
All she felt was tired.
“You did what you thought you had to,” Henry said, pity in his voice and in his eyes.
Somehow that was worse than his coldness had been.
“I need to check my room,” she muttered, brushing past him and walking down the hall.
* * *
Henry followed Tessa to her room.
He would have followed her into it, but Wren grabbed his arm and pulled him up short.
“I got a text from Jessica while I was outside.”
“About?”
“She has a name.”
It
took a minute for the words to register. When they did, he wanted to shout a million praises. “Who?”
“Guy named William Stevenson. Zebedee Cantor’s cousin. Thirty years old. Degree in business. He has partial ownership in an event company that plans fund-raisers and parties.”
“He’s local to New England?”
“Lives in Saugus. I’m sending Anderson Jeffries out with a warrant to search his house and obtain a DNA sample. He’ll be transported to the field office for questioning.”
“He’s our guy,” Henry said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Being sure isn’t proof. We’ll gather what we need, and then we’ll make the arrest. What we won’t be doing is letting him wander around free while we’re getting what we need. I’m going outside to make a few phone calls. Maybe you should check on Tessa now.”
She walked away, and he glanced in the room.
Tessa was standing next to the bed, sheets and blanket on the floor near her feet, a pillow torn apart and lying in the middle of the shredded mattress. Books and clothes were strewn across the room, and a bookshelf had been knocked over.
He should have been collecting the details, filing them away in his mind to dissect later. Instead, he was noticing that Tessa had shoved her hands into his coat pockets, and that she was nearly dwarfed by the down parka, the hem hitting her just below the knees.
She must have sensed his gaze. She met his eyes, tried to smile. “It’s a mess.”
“Messes are easy to clean.”
“Not the one I’ve made of my life.”
“You haven’t made a mess of it.”
“I have. Or, I had. I’m trying to make things right. That’s what I’ve spent the last few years doing. Making amends to myself for all the stuff I did wrong,” Tessa explained. Her teeth had stopped chattering, and she wasn’t trembling. Her core body temperature was obviously going up, but she was pale as paper, her lips colorless. “This was Patrick’s doing, Henry. Wren said I should always listen to my gut, and if I do that, I know the truth.”
“It took him a long time to find you.”
“I don’t know that he cared to, but my photo was in a couple of news reports. I saw it, and if I did, Patrick might have. He watched the news every morning before he left for work.”
Lone Witness Page 12
