Authors: Alison Gaylin
“You’re going to tell the detective everything you remember.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Mom’s hands grip the steering wheel. Her fingers remind Brenna of white ropes. “I’m
not mad at you anymore. I know you were lying to protect your sister, and you thought
that was the right thing. But you lied to me for two weeks. Two weeks when we could
have found her. I don’t want you to lie ever again, Brenna. About anything.”
“Yes, Mom.” The vent breathes hot on Brenna’s face and neck. Outside, the sky is dead
white, like an unfinished painting, like Mom’s knuckles on the wheel.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mom.” Brenna bit her lip and looked at Trent’s hands, gripping the wheel. She
saw her mother’s hands and bit her lip harder.
Trent said, “Did you just call me Mom?”
“What? No. Of course not.” Brenna shut her eyes for a few seconds. Recited the Pledge
in her head and then, at last, she was back.
“So,” Brenna said, “what you told me about going to that club Bacon . . .”
“And getting my pole waxed?”
“That wasn’t true, huh? You were really at Annette’s.”
“Oh no, that was true. I went to Bacon later.” Trent stared out the window. “But you
know what? When Diandra and I were shaboinkin’, I kept seeing Persephone.” He sighed
heavily. “Seriously, I mean, thanks to Mrs. Shelby, I can’t even shoot my load without
seeing the face of that damn dead cat.” Trent pulled over to the right, got off the
FDR at Fourteenth Street.
Brenna looked at him. “Diandra?”
“Yeah, sexy name, right?”
September 30. Brenna’s left hand clutches the steering wheel, the cell phone pressed
to the side of her head, Trent’s voice in her ear, competing with club noise. “What’s
your name, gorgeous?” Trent is saying now. “Diandra. That is a name that’s made to
be moaned in ecstasy.”
Brenna said, “You knew her before last night.”
“Uh, yeah. I met her a couple of days ago, but we didn’t hook up until she texted
me and told me to meet her at Bacon.”
“You didn’t meet her a couple of days ago.”
“Yes I did.”
“You met her at Bedd,” Brenna said.
Trent frowned. “I met her in bed?”
“No. Bedd. With two Ds. That was the club’s name.”
“In Brooklyn? No way. That place is jank. I haven’t been there in—”
“Two and a half months. You met her on September 30 at 10:25
P.M.
I mean . . . if it’s the same Diandra. It’s a pretty unusual name.”
“What the hell . . .”
“You were on the phone with me, Trent. I was driving to Tarry Ridge and I was having
you describe everything you were seeing so I wouldn’t slip into . . .” Brenna bit
back the memory. “It’s no big deal.”
“It
is
a big deal, though. You remember stuff about my life that I don’t. And you’re my
boss. You know how freakin’ scary that is?” He swerved back into the right lane, knocking
Brenna into the door. “Man, I hate tailgaters.”
“Why is it scary?”
“Seriously, this black station wagon wants to mount me or something.”
“Trent. Why is my memory scary to you?”
He sighed. “If I screw something up, you’ll never forget,” he said. “I have to be
my best with you, always.”
Brenna looked at Trent, recalling April 14, 2006, the one time she had met his mother
. . .
“He was little Mr. New Jersey Spirit and King of the Saratoga Glitz Pageant, three
years in a row. Of course, he was sometimes the only boy in the competition, but that
didn’t matter to Trenton. He tried so hard. You should have seen his little face light
up when he’d hear them clapping for him, it was just adorable. Did you know that he
choreographed all his own dance routines? You should have seen the cowboy one!”
Brenna had never told Trent she knew about his past as a child beauty pageant king—he’d
have been mortified, and rightly so. But looking at him now, in his too-tight Western
shirt, she saw that little cowboy, so eager to please.
I guess I don’t like being lied to.
“Trent.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to tell you something, but I need you to keep quiet about it, okay?”
He looked at her. “Okay.”
Trent swerved around a slow car—a 2004 Subaru Forester with Michigan plates. “Learn
to drive, suckwad!” he yelled. Then, “What do you need me to keep quiet about?”
“We’re not working for Errol Ludlow anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Ludlow got fired from the case yesterday. We’re working directly for Lula Belle’s
manager.”
“Wait. This is weird. Did Errol tell you that?”
Brenna shook her head. “The manager did.” She looked at Trent. “I can’t tell you his
name or his number, and you can’t ever talk to him. This case is . . . emotional to
him, I guess. Actually, he’s incredibly paranoid. It’s annoying.” She glanced into
the rearview, at the car that had been tailgating them. Her gaze stuck. It was the
same black Magnum she’d noticed near the start of the ride. She could make out the
first two numbers on the license plate:
61.
Same numbers.
Maybe he’s just going the same way. Maybe it’s a coincidence. . .
“Does Errol know?”
“Know what? Don’t drive so fast please, Trent.”
“Does he know he was fired?”
“Of course he knows he was fired.”
He sped up more, swerved into the left lane.
“Would you
slow down
?”
“Tell me again how I met Diandra.”
“I mean it, Trent.”
“How did I meet her?”
Brenna sighed heavily. “You met her on September 30 at Bedd. You said she was wearing
a pink tube top and that she looked like Jessica Alba from the neck down. She was
giving you her digits, but then she got mad because she heard you talking on the phone
with me. You tried to explain I was your boss but she walked away and then you told
me I was carpet-bombing your game. Now would you please
slow down the freakin’ car?
” The crosshatched grille was gone from her rearview. She swung around in her seat.
The Magnum was nowhere to be seen. “Damn it.”
“What?”
“You lost the Magnum.”
“The who?”
“The car behind us,” she sighed. “The one trying to mount you.”
“He was tailgating us.”
“He was
following
us. Since Forest Hills. I wanted to see his plates.”
“Crap. I totally suck. I suck so bad. I suck geriatric donkey.”
Brenna sighed. “It’s best you lost him anyway.”
“No. Listen, Brenna. You’re probably right about Bedd. You’re always right. And she
does look like Alba from the neck down. But what I gotta tell you is, as far as I
personally remember, I met Diandra a couple of days ago.”
“So? She probably doesn’t remember Bedd, either.”
“I met her two days ago.” His jaw tightened. “At Errol Ludlow’s.”
“
What?
”
“I was leaving Ludlow’s office after he pitched the Lula Belle case to me. She was
going into the building. Gave me the smush-eye. Know what I’m talking about?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“The do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-two-hundred-dollars-until-you-rip-my-pants-off-and-take-me-right-here-on-the-concrete
kinda look.”
“You’re still being too subtle.”
“Yeah, yeah . . . Anyway, she said she knew who I was because of the Neff thing. Seemed
to me like she was a groupie. Said she followed me on Twitter and made it sound . . .
you know . . . dirty.”
“You have a Twitter account?
Why?
”
“That isn’t the point.”
“I know, but come on. What kind of a person is a groupie for a private investigator?”
“Another private investigator.”
“What?
”
Trent turned to Brenna. “Diandra works for Ludlow.”
Her eyes widened. “She’s one of Errol’s Angels?”
He nodded. “At Bacon, she asked me all about the Lula Belle case, what kinda progress
we were making. Said she was a fan of hers. I just thought she was freaky. Into the
silhouette, like me. I should have known. A chick that hot always has an ulterior
motive.”
“Why did you talk to her about the case?”
“Because I thought we were working for Errol, too!”
Brenna cringed. “Oh. Right.”
“I even told her not to say anything to Errol about us. I didn’t want him to think
I’m unprofessional.”
“I’m sorry, Trent.”
“Whatevs.” He got off the FDR at Fourteenth Street, headed west toward Brenna’s place.
“Mrs. Shelby lied to me because she wanted to hook up. Diandra hooked up with me because
she was lying . . . After I drop you off, I think I’m just going to go home with this
computer and not hook up with anyone for the rest of my . . . Wait. Did I just seriously
just say that?”
Brenna felt Trent turning to her, but she couldn’t speak. She’d slipped the picture
of her and Clea out of the envelope and was staring at it, her eyes starting to blur.
Trent pulled to a stop in front of her building, watched her till she spoke.
“That program you used on Lula Belle,” Brenna said, her gaze still glued to the photo.
“The one that told you her probable height, weight, and measurements . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Did it give you a probable age, too?”
Trent shook his head. “She’s a shadow. I can’t even tell you for sure whether the
tatas are real.”
“Could she be . . .” Brenna cleared her throat. “Do you think it’s possible Lula Belle
could be in her mid-forties?”
“Well, sure, but . . . Wait.” Trent put a hand on Brenna’s shoulder. He spoke very
quietly. “You think Lula Belle is your sister, Clea?”
She tore herself away from the photo. “Don’t you think she is? You said possible family
issues.”
“I meant your dad.”
“Huh?”
“Your dad took the picture. I was thinking maybe she’s someone who might know him.
You know, today.”
Brenna looked at him. “You think my dad kept that picture all these years?”
“He hasn’t spoken to you in that long. Never tried to contact you guys . . . Seems
like he must have wanted something to remember you by, you know?”
Lula Belle could have gotten
the picture from my father
. Brenna hadn’t even considered that possibility. Instead she had conjured an image
of Clea shoving a picture into a book—the same picture she’d seen on Robin Tannenbaum’s
computer screen.
But even if it had been a real memory, even if Brenna really had walked into her sister’s
room at that early age and caught a glimpse of Clea hiding a picture, how could she
have been able to see it so clearly from that distance?
“I made it up,” she whispered.
“What?” said Trent.
For the first time in so long, Brenna was grateful for her disorder, because she saw
what she’d be without it: Someone who tried to make facts out of wishes. Someone whose
past wasn’t the past at all, but a fiction, a propaganda movie she created herself,
all in the name of preserving false hope.
How can that be considered “normal”?
“You’re probably right,” Brenna started to say, but she wasn’t able to complete the
thought before she saw the crosshatch in the rearview again and 61 on the license
plate and then Trent’s back doors flew open, two men sliding into the seat behind
them.
“Goddamn it, Trent, why did you leave the doors unlocked?” Brenna blurted.
But then a thick arm roped around her neck. Just beneath her chin, she felt the sharp
tip of a blade and thought it best, for now, not to say anything more.
“W
hat’s wrong Daddy?”
Where do I start
, thought Gary, who was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, unable to
start anywhere—especially not with Hannah, his youngest, who had come in to ask him
why the Tooth Fairy had given her only ten dollars last night instead of her usual
twenty.
Gary sat up. “Nothing’s wrong, honey.”
“Is the Tooth Fairy mad at me?”
He looked at Hannah’s face and found himself remembering how it felt to hold her when
she was born—three weeks early and so much smaller than her two older sisters, an
emergency C-section with the most perfect, round little head.
I’ll keep you safe
, he had whispered to baby Hannah in a voice only she could hear. Hannah, little fingers
plucking at the air, newly opened blue eyes, so big with wonder.
I’ll protect you always. . .
Or had he said that to Tessa?
God, Gary hated it when good memories slipped through his fingers. It was happening
more and more lately—the things he wanted to remember moving beyond his grasp while
the things he didn’t stuck around, screaming in his ears until he beat them into silence.
“It was probably an oversight. The Tooth Fairy loves you, Hannah.”
She frowned at him. “You look sad.”
“I’m just tired, honey.” He was trying to “be here now,” as they said in Jill’s breathing
class, but it was so hard to be here with Hannah, to hear her voice rather than that
voice in his head—Errol Ludlow’s smug, hyper-enunciating voice, spooling through Gary’s
brain just as clear as it had been over the disposable phone two hours ago—a bad memory,
in need of a beating.
I know you asked me not to call. But I have just had the most fas-cin-a-ting con-ver-sa-tion
with your wife. . .
How had Jill found the phone? Why had she called Errol Ludlow instead of talking to
Gary about it? Why did Gary’s life keep going from bad to worse to worse again still?
Jill thought you were having an affair, but I was able to put her mind at ease. If
you would like me to con-tin-ue to do so, however, my silence will cost you.
And what had Gary said? Not
How dare you?
or
I’m calling the police
, or even
Go fuck yourself
. No. What Gary had said was,
How much?
We can start at $20K a month.
Can I get back to you later?
I’ll give you until 5 P.M. EST.
“Hannah, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How would you feel if . . . if we had to cut back a little? On our expenses?”
Hannah’s brow wrinkled up. “What does that mean?”
“Well . . . Ballet class, for instance. Would you mind taking a break from it for
a while?”
Her lip trembled. “I love ballet class,” she said, and he was reminded again at how
small she was.
Her troubles should be smaller still. They should be invisible
.
“Don’t be upset, pickle. I’m glad you love ballet. You don’t have to take a break.”
“Then how come you asked?”
“No reason.” He snapped on a smile. “Daddy likes saying things that make no sense
sometimes.”
Hannah giggled. “That’s silly.”
“I know. I’m a silly old guy.”
She giggled some more.
“Listen, pickle, can you go play in the other room? Daddy’s got some work he has to
do.”
“Why are you working in the kitchen?”
He sighed. “You can take my phone with you. Play that Fruit Toss game.”
“Yay!”
Thank God for the attention spans of children
.
“Phone, please.” Hannah held out her hand, and without thinking, Gary went for his
shirt pocket—for the disposable phone, the secret phone. His fingertips touched the
plastic and his breath caught. He thought of worlds colliding, exploding—which made
him remember The Shadow. And for a moment, his dread faded into longing. He missed
her backlit body, missed her voice, saying those words that tore him apart. He shouldn’t
be thinking this way. He shouldn’t ever be thinking this way, especially not in the
presence of family, but now it was her voice in his head, her words. He couldn’t keep
her away.
“We could drive away together, my love.” That’s what he told me, that special boy,
the boy on the road.
Gary grabbed his smart phone out of his pants pocket and gave it to Hannah. His hands
were shaking. “I . . . I don’t know why you girls love this game so much.”
“Fruit Toss is awesome! It makes squishy sounds!”
“We could drive all night,” the boy said, just him and me. “We could beat the murder
mile and watch the sunrise in the rearview and love each other. Forever.”
Tears sprang into Gary’s eyes.
“Daddy?”
He took Hannah in his arms and hugged her, very tightly, as though he were trying
to stop her from floating away. When he let go, his vision was still blurred.
“Now you look sad again,” Hannah said.
“I’m not sad,” he heard himself say. “I’m angry.”
“At who?”
Gary took a breath, like he’d learned in Jill’s class.
Deep, cleansing breath
. “The Tooth Fairy.”
Hannah nodded, solemn. “I’m sure it was just a oversight.”
After Hannah left the room, Gary closed his eyes for a few moments.
I can fix this. I know how to fix this . . .
Before long, it felt like a prayer.
Please, I can fix this, please, please, I know how, just let me figure it out . . .
He pulled the disposable phone out of his shirt pocket and looked at the outgoing
calls—the three of them. Jill had called Ludlow. She’d probably stopped there—or at
least at Brenna Spector. Otherwise she’d have phoned Gary by now, asking for a divorce.
I was able to put her mind at ease
, Ludlow had said.
Gary hoped he was right—for now, at least. Gary couldn’t afford to send him $20K a
month, even for one month. Ballet class or not, that was a simple fact.
From the other room, he could hear Hannah and Lucy fighting—something about Hannah
hogging Dad’s phone. Again, Gary thought about worlds colliding. He didn’t want to
hurt his girls. God, he didn’t want them sad. He didn’t want to lose them, he couldn’t
lose them. He wouldn’t be able to live.
How did I get to this awful place?
Gary thought. But of course he knew the answer. He’d driven here, all by himself.
We could stay on that road, him and me. That special boy. We could love each other. . .
“Shut up,” Gary whispered. “Shut up, shut up . . .” He tapped the third number into
his phone.
“Hello?” The voice was barely more mature than Hannah’s, so breathy and small, but
Gary wouldn’t think about that. He couldn’t.
“DeeDee.”
“Mr. Freeman?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s me.”
“I couldn’t tell from caller ID. You’re on that private number again. Don’t you have
our phone anymore? Did you lose it?”
What the hell does it matter what phone I call you from?
“Hello?”
“I still have our phone,” he said, as softly as he could. “It’s in a safe place.”
“Oh good.” She sighed. “I know it sounds silly, but it means so much to me. That phone.
Our phone. It’s something we share. I see the number on my screen and my heart, my
whole heart just . . .”
Gary winced. “DeeDee.”
“Yes?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“Oh no.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be calling you now. Not after all you’ve done for me already.
I shouldn’t be burdening you with this stuff.” He closed his eyes, a hot weight behind
them. DeeDee, his confessor. Baby-voiced DeeDee. “My life is falling apart and I can’t
stop it.”
“Anything,” she said.
“You’re so young. You’ve got your whole life to live and I—”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“Stop.”
“You know I will.”
Gary took a breath, absorbed the word:
Anything . . .
“I do know that,” Gary said, feeling all the worse for knowing and not stopping her,
poor kid. Poor deluded DeeDee, needy DeeDee, pinning so much hope on a man like him.
All she’s done for me already . . .
Gary kept trying to forget what she’d done. He kept slamming that door in his mind
and turning away, but still it was there, solid and real and shouting at him . . .
He should have cut her loose long ago. He should have hurt her feelings, broken her
heart. A better man would have done that.
“How can I help you?” DeeDee said. “Tell me.”
Gary breathed deep. He closed his eyes. And with his eyes still closed, he told her.
Of course he told her, for there was something new now, something big and broken that
needed to be fixed. And being a better man was a luxury neither he nor his family
could afford. In a kind, soft voice, he told her about his troubles with Errol Ludlow
while hearing Hannah in the other room—Hannah, his baby who should know no pain. Hannah,
shouting at her sister, “It isn’t fair!”
“P
hones please!” said the guy who was holding the gun to Trent’s head.
Trent unplugged his phone from the charger and handed it to him, his eyes never leaving
the street.
Brenna’s phone was in the front pocket of her jeans. She started to go for it when
it vibrated. So instead, she opened the envelope in her lap, slipped out Robin Tannenbaum’s
phone, and passed it over her shoulder.
“Thanks, pretty lady,” said the gunman, who called himself Bo. Brenna knew this because
he’d already introduced himself. “My name’s Bo,” he had said, once Trent had gotten
to the West Side Highway and headed north, as he’d been told. “And this here’s my
friend Diddley.”
“Bo and Diddley,” Brenna had said.
“We can make you sing the blues.”
“Good one.”
“You think so? Ha! I do, too!” Bo laughed a lot when he talked—like the car he’d just
jacked was a cocktail party and he was the life of it, the .38 Smith and Wesson he
was pressing against Trent’s medulla oblongota no more dangerous than a virgin peach
daiquiri. Brenna assumed he was supposed to be the friendly, avuncular one, while
Diddley was the quiet one—the one you had to be careful of, crazy beneath the skin.
She wondered how long it had taken these two to come up with this act. It was irritating,
as all “acts” were—an insult to the intelligence. But really, she only wondered about
it because it was easier than wondering about anything else.
Bo said, “And what do you two kids call yourselves?”
You two kids?
Brenna thought.
Really?
The phone vibrated again. She cleared her throat to drown it out. “My name’s Betty,”
she told Bo. “And this here’s my friend Veronica.”
Trent whispered, “Thanks a lot.” But Bo laughed, very loudly—which was what Brenna
had been counting on. Much as Trent kept begging her to buy a smart phone (why should
she when she had more memory than ten of them?), Brenna was glad she hadn’t listened.
The average smart phone was husky and very loud. Even on vibrate. Her flip phone,
on the other hand, was tiny, and far more discreet—easily drowned out by your average
gun-wielding human laugh track.
Bo’s laughter, by now, had officially crossed the line between wacky and psychotic.
Brenna worried he might burst a blood vessel.
Diddley moved a bit, probably to stare at his partner in disbelief, and the knife
budged from Brenna’s throat. She slid her hand into her pants pocket and flicked open
the phone, tapping the talk button as she shoved it behind her back. All this took
about five seconds, but it felt like so much longer, each step hanging in her mind,
begging to be noticed . . .
Finally, she wedged the phone between the seat cushions behind her.
Done
. Of course, she had no idea who was on the other end of the line, but beggars couldn’t
be choosers, could they?
“Where are you taking us?” Brenna said, as Bo’s laughter finally died down. She ventured
a quick glance at him in the rearview. He had the look of an aging football player—fat
on top of muscle on top of more fat, while Diddley—what she’d seen of Diddley anyway—was
younger, more wiry. Both had stern faces and military-style crew cuts—Bo’s graying,
Diddley’s bleached blond. And both wore very dark sunglasses, which, intimidating
though it was, gave Brenna hope. They cared whether Brenna and Trent saw their faces.
They might let them live.
Or maybe they just didn’t like the sun in their eyes.
“I said, where are you taking us?”
Diddley leaned forward, put his lips to Brenna’s ear. “We’re taking you to the bottom
of the river,” he said quietly, “if you don’t tell us where RJ is.”
“Who the hell is RJ?” Trent blurted.
“Aw, Veronica. You really don’t want to mess with us, trust me.” Still the smile in
Bo’s voice, but he was breathing harder. Brenna heard a click—the safety on the Smith
and Wesson.
“Please . . .” Trent whispered. “Please. I’m . . . I’m driving the car.”
Brenna took a breath.
Stay calm
. “He isn’t messing with you,” she said. “We honestly don’t know who RJ is.”
Diddley’s grip tightened around her neck. “Bullshit, Betty.”
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
Bo said, “RJ’s mommy wouldn’t give his ’puter to a couple strangers.”
Brenna swallowed hard.
Best, RJT
. “RJ is Robin Tannenbaum.”
“Bravo, Betty,” Bo said. “I’d clap for ya, but as you see my hands are full.”
“Please put the safety back on,” Trent said.
“Say pretty please.”
Trent drew a breath, deep and shaky. “Pretty please.”
Bo clicked it back into place, and Brenna allowed herself to exhale.
“So you’re gonna stop lying now.”
“Listen. We have never met RJ Tannenbaum, and only met Hildy for the first time today.”
“Then why did she tell our boss you were RJ’s friends?”
“Your boss?”
“Hildy wouldn’t lie to him. She knows better than that.”