Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(16)

“What do you think your wife was doing from eight P.M. to five A.M.?” Wyatt asked.

“I don’t know. Driving,” Thomas stuttered, “drinking” being the other obvious answer.

“Any person she might have met? Friend, confidante?” Lover?

“We’re new to the area. Had barely unpacked when Nicky suffered her first fall. We’ve only met medical personnel since then. Not . . . friends.”

Wyatt thought Mr. Frank sounded a tad resentful.

“Any reason she’d be on that stretch of road? Restaurant, shop, favorite haunt around there?”

“We haven’t gotten out much.”

“Your wife partial to a particular brand of scotch?”

Thomas thinned his lips, refused to answer. Wyatt wasn’t surprised. In all the DWI interviews he’d done of family members, they were the last to volunteer information. There was a reason they were called enablers, after all.

Wyatt changed tack. “And Vero? Any reason to get the police involved on a wild-goose chase to find an imaginary child?”

“She doesn’t mean it like that. You and I know Vero doesn’t exist. But for Nicky . . . Vero, something about her, is very real.”

“So what set her off before?” Wyatt asked. “When we first arrived.”

“I have no idea. I often don’t. Routine and redundancy; that’s my wife’s life for the next year.”

“In between bottles of scotch?”

“Look.” Thomas Frank leaned forward, rested his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what happened last night, but you can check my wife’s record. This is her first offense. Can’t you just issue a ticket or something?”

“Issue a ticket? Mr. Frank, your wife is facing at least one count of aggravated DWI. It’s a felony offense.”

“But she didn’t hurt anyone!”

“She hurt herself. According to the statutes, that’s good enough.”

Mr. Frank sat back. He honestly appeared appalled.

“But . . . but . . .”

“Not to mention,” Wyatt continued, “she’s tied up hours of county and state resources looking for a child who doesn’t exist.”

“It’s not her fault!”

“And yet—”

“Please, you have to understand . . .” Thomas Frank appeared wild-eyed, nearly panicked. “My wife is not a bad person. She’s just sick. I’ll take care of her. Watch her more closely. It won’t happen again.”

“I thought you had to work. Behind on the bills and all that.”

“I’ll take a leave of absence. Or hire a companion or something. Please, Detectives. There’s no need to pursue any charges. My wife is going to be all right. I promise you, I’ll take care of everything.”

Wyatt eyed the man carefully. Thomas Frank, he decided, was not lying. He honestly believed he could take care of anything and everything. And yet . . . there was something here that just didn’t feel right to Wyatt. Detective’s intuition, twenty years of experience that suggested when a wife was in the hospital, the husband was the most likely suspect. Wyatt didn’t know anything about this post-concussive syndrome. He just knew families, all families, inevitably had something to hide. He took one last shot over the bow:

“What about Vero?” Wyatt asked. “Gonna take care of her, too?”

And had the satisfaction of finally seeing the man flinch.





Chapter 7




VERO AND I are having a tea party. We are sitting at a kid-size maple-wood table, Fat Bear sitting across from her, Priscilla the Princess sitting across from me. The room is bright and sunny. Light-green walls covered on one side in a mural of climbing roses, set off by fresh white trim. Vero’s twin-size bed is pushed against the far wall, hidden behind yards of pink gauze. It’s a beautiful room, perfect for a little girl, and I feel a pang because I know already that neither of us likes it here.

Vero passes the porcelain teapot. I delicately pour a stream of apple juice in my dainty china cup. I repeat the process for Fat Bear, with his overstuffed brown limbs and happily rounded belly, who sits to my left. I notice for the first time, Vero has taped Xs over both of his glass eyes. Same for Priscilla the Princess.

I glance at Vero, a vision in pink chiffon and yards of pearls.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “They’re not afraid of the dark.”

I nod, as if this makes perfect sense, and set the teapot in the middle of the table. The hand-painted rosebush is moving on the wall. It appears as if some of the pink petals are falling from the flowers onto the ground. As well as something darker, more ominous. Blood dripping from the thorns.

“Have some tea,” Vero says.

We sip in companionable silence, each munching a vanilla wafer. Between the apple juice and the sugary cookie, the meal is too sweet; I feel vaguely nauseous. But I don’t stop. I need this moment, any moment, not nearly enough moments, with Vero.

“He’s going to leave you,” she says now. I understand she’s referring to Thomas. “He thinks you’re crazy.”

I don’t say anything, simply set down my thimble of tea. I wish I could reach across the table and take her into my arms. I want to comfort her, tell her everything will be all right. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t know any better. These things happen.