Unspoken (24 page)

Charlotte nodded and picked up another cookie. “What do you want from me?”

“For you and I to reach an understanding.”

Gage broke a second cookie and dunked it. “The book will stay with the name Ruth Bazoni. I will say you’ve changed your name and that you now live in Europe—or wherever you want it to say. There will be a disclaimer in the front of the book saying names and locations have been changed where necessary, so technically I won’t be lying.

“I’m going to offer what I never offer, Charlotte. Read what I write as I develop the manuscript. Comment on anything you would like, or not, as you choose. You’re welcome to review the materials gathered, go through the transcripts of interviews I do, treat this”—he gestured to the tables of materials—“as your own resource as well as mine. You lived through what happened, but I don’t think you know many of the details of what was going on within the task force or with your family. If you want to go back and understand some of your own past, I’m offering you an open door to do so.”

“I appreciate that,” she finally replied.

Gage smiled. “I want your comments, Charlotte. I want whatever you decide to share with me. It’s the only way it becomes an extraordinary story. As you see what’s developing I think you’re going to decide it’s in your own interests to be part of
this book, to offer your perspective.” He dug in his pocket and came up with a key. “For you.”

She didn’t take it, too surprised by the offer.

“Take it,” he encouraged. “A key to the front door. The alarm code has been set to also accept your birthday. I generate a printout of the current manuscript each Friday. The pages are marked by the date on the box and stacked on that far bookshelf. If you want to stop by at two a.m. and read, you’ll probably find me at the desk. It’s an open invitation. Come and go as you wish. I trust you. I trust you not to take something from this room or damage what is here. This is your story, Tabitha’s. You should be involved.”

“I don’t talk about it, Gage. I never have.”

“That’s your choice. Read what I write. Then decide what you want to do with it. Give me that. You won’t be blindsided by what’s coming in the book, you’ll know what I’m going to publish.”

Charlotte accepted the key. “This isn’t the conversation I was expecting to have with you today.”

“I asked what I would want if our places were reversed. I can’t give you control over what is going to be published, but I assure you I will listen carefully to your perspective on anything you see on paper. I can put you in the place to know what and why something is being written. If you disagree with what I’ve written and I’m not willing to change my words, I will promise to footnote it and give you space to reply as you like.”

She nodded. “Thanks for that.” She tightened her hand around the key. “I need John’s name kept out of the book.”

“I can give you that. John’s the real difficulty for you, Charlotte, not Tabitha, a fact you both know. Reporters want to find you, they simply find John, and watch. It might not be common knowledge you’ve stayed friends, that he’s in your
life again, but a good reporter is going to find out rather than assume he’s not. And while you may not look anything like your twin sister, you do look a lot like your mother. She was a beautiful woman.”

“One statement we can agree on. How much time do I have?”

“I’m looking at a first draft to be finished in nine months. But I’ll start having pages for you to read within a month.”

Ann paused from wiping off the kitchen counter as the security panel lit. She saw with surprise it was Charlotte Graham in the lobby. “Please, come up, Charlotte,” she said into the intercom. “Floor four.” She keyed the elevator to release security.

Ann pushed bare feet into shoes, ran a hand through her hair, and went to meet her guest, somewhat nervous about the unexpected visit, and the reason for it. So few people knew this address that she guessed Bryce had to have been the one who passed it on. She met Charlotte at the elevator with a smile. “Welcome, Charlotte.”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d chance you were home.”

“I’m pleased you stopped by.” Ann picked up the rag she had dropped, gave a laugh, and grabbed the bottle of polish sitting on the floor next to the sculpture in the entryway. “You caught me on a cleaning day. I hide away for a week every month or so if I can—a much-needed chance to recharge. I try to leave Paul a clean house before I disappear. I’m inevitably disorganized about it. Would you join me for something to drink? Tea or soda?”

“Some tea would be nice.”

Ann led the way to the kitchen, turned on the burner under the teapot.

“You turned down writing the book. I’d like to know why.”

Ann pulled a soda from the door of the refrigerator, got out a cup and tea bag for Charlotte, and tried to get a read on her guest before she answered the question. Charlotte obviously knew about the book, so the bad news had already hit her. There were numerous ways to truthfully answer that question. Ann chose to take a very big risk.

“I was snatched too, Charlotte. Call it an odd form of kinship. I thought you deserved your privacy.”

Charlotte visibly jolted. “You’re the diary writer.”

“Yes.”

Charlotte could have said nearly anything given the shared terrain the news conveyed. She absorbed it, slowly nodded, then visibly relaxed. “And I thought I’d had it tough ducking the media.”

Ann smiled, turned to pour hot water into the cup. “The form letter says, ‘Thank you for the question, please see the press release and book for what I would like to say.’ The firm handling my mail still sends out a few hundred of them a month.”

“I can imagine.”

Ann handed Charlotte her tea and gestured to the living room. “I gather you’ve had a conversation with Gage.”

“He’ll do an excellent job with the book, I’m sorry to say. It would be easier on me if it was going to be a sloppily written piece of fabricated true crime. I wouldn’t wish a man to be hit by a bus, but I wouldn’t mind Gage getting a job offer he couldn’t refuse from some remote town in Alaska.”

Ann laughed. “I understand the sentiment perfectly.”

“He’ll have to do the book without my help. I don’t talk about it.”

“I know.”

Charlotte turned from looking at the artwork to look at her.

Ann simply nodded, indicating that she knew the reason. A cop had some of the ransom money. The cop was dead, but
it was still going to be news to the public. “Gage will find the money trail because he’s good at what he does.”

“Figured that. Tabitha doesn’t know,” Charlotte said.

Ann understood a great deal more with that simple statement. “For what it’s worth, it was a good decision to leave it unsaid, Charlotte. It’s what you do for family. You protect them.”

“You at least try.” Charlotte looked back at the painting. “You have a fabulous collection of art.”

“Paul enjoys collecting. Please, feel free to look around. Some are in here, some are in the office and den.”

Charlotte accepted the offer and walked around the room. She paused at the painting titled simply
Quarter Horse at Work
. It was a vivid close-up portrait done in oil of a horse and rider chasing down a straying cow, behind them the vast wide-open land of Wyoming. The power and muscle, the determination and intensity of the task, were all captured in the movement of the scene. “You have one of Marie’s works.”

“You know the artist?”

Charlotte glanced back. “Yes.”

“She’s gifted with a paintbrush, just as you’re gifted with pen and pencil sketches.”

Charlotte smiled. “We live on different planets for talent, but thanks for the compliment.” She looked back at Ann. “You’re pretty decent with words. How long has the VP’s biography been on the bestseller list now? More than two years?”

“I wrote a chapter in it.”

“Rather fascinating chapter. Your O’Malley books were good. I’m partial to Lisa’s story, if I have to choose a favorite.”

“One of mine too. She’s in town occasionally. We catch a ball game together, have a girls’ day out. Maybe you’d like to join us sometime.”

“I might take you up on that.” Charlotte stopped in front of another painting, narrowed her eyes, stepped closer, then
back, took in the full scope and smiled. “You’ve got a Sunfrey too. It’s spectacular.”

“It’s not signed,” Ann pointed out.

“Maybe not in the corner, but this is a Sunfrey. Not one from her published catalog either, or the coffee-table book of later works.”

“You know her works well.”

“Artists appreciate other artists’ works with an intensity that borders on envy. I’ve been trying to capture her shift in greens from sunlight to shadows for years and still can’t do it. She’s making the brushstrokes flow in a curve when the light hits the shadow, rippling the effect of the falling light. No one had done it before her, and now everyone tries to employ the technique.” Charlotte glanced over. “I get the feeling you know the artist.”

“I do. I happen to know she’s got a couple of your sketches above her desk. I’d say the admiration flows both ways.”

“That I did not expect to hear.” Charlotte chose to continue to wander the room rather than sit, paused to glance briefly at the papers Ann had gathered together on the table but not yet moved back to the office, walked over to the windows to see the limited city view from the fourth floor. “I need a favor.”

Ann set aside her drink. “Ask.”

“Whatever the FBI has that they aren’t giving Gage, I’d like you to help arrange for him to see it. If the book is going to be written, I’d like it to be complete.”

Ann slowly nodded. “I can talk with Paul. Something else back there, Charlotte?”

Her guest turned, held her gaze, shifted the question. “Whatever the FBI has. And if your friends at Chicago PD are willing, whatever they have in their files as well.”

“I’ll make some calls.”

Charlotte nodded her thanks.

Ann wondered if the case was over or if it had just turned the page to a new chapter. The woman was a survivor. Ann had just glimpsed why. Charlotte was still holding the story, the real one, of what had happened.

Ann changed the subject rather than press the question. “Come over to the coin room some morning and I’ll give you a tour of what’s being done. You’d enjoy it, Charlotte, now that the coins are someone else’s problem to deal with.”

Charlotte smiled. “One of the more helpful things to have off my plate. I’m heading back to Graham Enterprises this afternoon. I’ve got a storage vault of old kitchenware to sort out, and we found crates of tools belonging in a blacksmith’s shop, even a broken wagon wheel needing repair.”

“The estate has been giving you a great deal of variety and history.”

“It has. It’s helped that I’ve been able to pass on to Bryce some of the major weight of the estate, selling the coins, and to have his help giving away the money.”

“He’s a man able to carry it.”

“Is he running out of places to give?”

Ann smiled. “He’ll find more. He’s a good man, Charlotte. You chose well whom to trust.”

“More Ellie and John’s doing, I think, than mine.”

“Maybe in the beginning.” Ann picked up her soda, turned it in her hands. “If you ever want to talk, Charlotte—you’ll find I’m a good listener. Bryce isn’t bad either.”

“I appreciate that.” She glanced at the time. “I’m afraid I need to go. Thanks for letting me interrupt your day.”

Ann wasn’t surprised Charlotte didn’t take up the opening to talk the first time it was offered. “Anytime.” She rose to see her guest out.

“He’s back this way. Let me show you.”

Bryce heard Sharon speaking to someone out front, looked up at the tap on his office door and saw Charlotte. The relief he felt was intense. “Thanks, Sharon.”

She disappeared with a smile.

“Have time for a walk?” Charlotte asked.

He picked up his keys and phone, reached for his coat. “Let’s go down to the coffee shop.”

She nodded and followed him out the back door of Bishop Chicago. He took her gloved hand as they joined the flow of traffic on the sidewalk heading north.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

He shook his head. “It was an offer, not a demand. There wouldn’t have been much I could do to help.”