Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(28)
“How is Vero?” Wyatt tried out. “She feeling better, too?”
Across from him, Nicky stilled, regarded him frankly. “Do you think I’m crazy, Sergeant?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“And yet yesterday—”
“I’d just been in a major accident, whacked my head. Yet again. Clearly I was dazed and confused.”
“Have you ever had a child?”
“No. I’m infertile. Children have never been an option for us.” She smiled thinly. “Funny, I can barely remember my husband’s name. But my own barrenness—that’s a memory I can’t escape.”
Wyatt paused, not sure what to make of this confession. She couldn’t have children, but maybe secretly still wanted one, so under duress, her subconscious made one up? Possible, he supposed. But getting well beyond the bounds of policing.
“Why the name Vero?” Kevin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Family name? Your mom, sister, great-aunt, somebody’s?”
“I don’t have a family.”
“No one at all?” Wyatt interjected.
She gazed at him clear-eyed. “No. No one at all. It’s just Thomas and me. Trust me, it’s enough.”
Okay. Wyatt made another note. Tessa’s concerns from yesterday were making more and more sense to him. Because clearly, Nicky Frank lived a very isolated life. Just her and her husband. Except her husband wasn’t the one who kept having “accidents.”
“What do you remember from Wednesday night?” Wyatt asked.
“The night of the wreck.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t. Nothing at all. I try to picture it . . . My mind is blank.”
Wyatt glanced at Kevin, who responded with a nod.
“Mrs. Frank,” Kevin spoke up. “Mind trying something with me? It’s a guided memory exercise. Might help jog something for you.”
“What does it involve?”
“Just relax and sit there. I’m going to try to walk you through the evening in more detail, focusing on your senses. You know, what you smelled, heard, that sort of thing. It’s like coming at the memory sideways versus head-on. Sometimes, that makes a difference.”
“It’s not hypnosis, is it?”
“Not at all.”
“Because I have enough issues with my brain. I don’t need anyone tampering with it.”
“No tampering, no suggestions. I’m just going to ask you a series of questions, and you answer with what first comes to mind.”
Nicky pursed her lips, continued to regard them uncertainly. But then, a short, faint nod. She was going for it.
“All right. Just close your eyes. Breathe deep. It’s Wednesday night. Five o’clock. Where are you?”
“I’m at home.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Jeans. Black turtleneck. Gray fleece.”
“How do the clothes feel?”
“Soft. Comfortable. It’s one of my favorite outfits.”
“What are you doing in the house?”
“I’m . . . starting dinner. Chicken breasts. I marinated them this morning in Italian dressing. Now I need to cook them. I think I will sear the outside, then finish them in the oven. I should make rice, too. Maybe steam some broccoli.” She pauses. “I have a headache.”
“Do you take something for it?”
“I already did. Four Advil. But it’s not enough. The smell of the chicken . . . it’s making me nauseous.”
“What do you do?”
“I need to lie down. Sometimes, I wrap a towel around an ice pack and place it over my eyes. It helps.”
“Now?”
“I get the chicken in the oven. I set a timer so it doesn’t burn. I give up on the broccoli, but the rice is safe in the cooker. I don’t need to worry about that. I get my ice pack, head for the sofa.”
“Where is your husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe in the work shed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. You lie down with your ice pack.”
“I think I fall asleep. It’s dark and cold and comforting. I close my eyes. I like to sleep. When I sleep, Vero comes to me. She’s happy, wearing her favorite flowered dress. She wants to dance, so I take her arms and we swing round and round. Except we are in the small room now, with the ratty blue rug and the tightly shuttered windows and the twin beds pressed so close together they might as well be one. The end is coming. This is our good-bye room. I know every time I look at the carpet. I should stop. It’s so hard to keep seeing her like this. But I love her. I’ve always loved her. And I’m sorry. I never knew just how sorry a person could be, until it’s like a weight and it’s sinking you, and oh my God, the footsteps again. Down the hall. We both need to escape. Except only one of us ever makes it. Always me, never Vero.”
“Nicky . . .” Wyatt studied the woman intently. Her eyes were still closed. She wasn’t looking at them, but lost in her memory of a memory. And she was crying. Whether she was aware of it or not, tears were streaming down her face.