Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(62)

“I wrecked my car alone. Drank alone. See, maybe it’s best if we stay together.”

“You ever meet his family? In all your travels and wanderings, he ever take you home?”

“No.”

“Why? Ashamed of you? Scared of something? Who doesn’t bring their spouse to meet the family? Mom. Dad. Sister.” Wyatt didn’t actually know about the sister part. He was baiting her, though, waiting to see if Nicky would react, ask any questions of her own.

But she merely shook her head, said nothing.

“Who are you, Nicky? What really brought you and Thomas to New Hampshire?”

“We wanted a change.”

“You’re looking. You want something, are trying to find it so badly you contacted a private investigative firm even after your husband asked you not to.”

She didn’t answer.

“Then you took off in a storm Wednesday night, while your husband was otherwise occupied, just so you could go looking again. You followed a woman home from a liquor store. You stood out in the rain. You spied on her house. Why? What do you need to find so badly you’re willing to go behind your husband’s back? And what did you do that made him so angry he torched everything you own?”

“Not everything.” She tapped her quilt, still folded neatly on her lap.

Wyatt stilled, studied her. “You’re right. The blanket. You’ve been carrying it around all night. He gave that to you, didn’t he, Nicky? He told you to take it with you.”

To his surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know what he was going to do. I didn’t. But in hindsight, he must’ve already had the plan. That’s why he told me to take the quilt with me.”

“Why? What’s so special about the quilt?”

She shrugged. “I need it. On the sad days. I can smell her. I hold this close, and I can smell her and it comforts me.”

“Smell who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Vero?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who, then? Dammit, Nicky!” Wyatt pounded the table. “Enough with the half answers. Who are you looking for? And what the hell did you finally find that scared your husband enough to do this? It’s time for answers. Start talking.”

“But I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do! Somewhere in that mixed-up head of yours, you know everything. Think. Remember. Your husband’s gone, your house is ashes. It’s just you, Nicky. All alone. No place to go. You wanna keep being the victim here? Then stop stalling and think!”

The conference room door opened. Nicky jumped at the sound. Wyatt turned, annoyed by the interruption. Then he caught the intent look on Kevin’s face. Wyatt rose immediately, as his detective walked over, handed him a stapled sheaf of paper.

“Came in earlier today,” Kevin said softly. “But we were already out, so Gina left it on my desk.”

Wyatt glanced down at a report run by the state on the bloody prints recovered from Nicole Frank’s car. The top sheet didn’t even make sense at first blush. It wasn’t until he digested the second piece of paper, then the third, the fourth . . .

He looked up at Kevin, as if waiting for the obvious denial.

Instead, his detective was nodding slowly. “Yeah. My first reaction, too. But it’s all in there. The pieces fit.”

Together, they turned, studying Nicky, who was staring at them expectantly.

“It’s true,” Kevin whispered. “By God, it’s true.”

Wyatt didn’t speak. He returned to the conference table. He pulled out his chair. He took a seat. Then he placed the report before him and slid it across the table toward her.

“Nicole Frank,” he said steadily. “Meet Vero.”





Chapter 23




DID YOU KNOW?” Vero asks me. We are back in her tower bedroom, drinking scotch out of teacups.

“I think some part of me must have,” I tell her.

“Will you stop visiting me now? Finally let me go?”

“I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”

“True. Not to mention, you’ve left out a lot of details.”

On cue, more skeletons begin to appear in the room. Pop, pop, pop. One, two, five, more than I can count. They jam into all available spaces, huddling on the gauze-draped bed, pressing against the walls, climbing up the rosebush. All of them wear flowery dresses draped over their gleaming white bones. One of them grins toothlessly at me. She waves a hand in my direction, like a long-lost friend, like a promise from the dead.

“I can’t do it,” I whisper frantically. The teacup in my hand begins to tremble. “I can’t. It’s too much. I don’t want to remember! I just want it all to go away.”

Vero adds more scotch to my china cup.

She says, “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”


* * *



“DID YOU KNOW?” Wyatt asks me.

I am staring at a flyer for a missing child. VERONICA SELLERS. AGE 6. LONG BROWN HAIR. LIGHT BLUE EYES. LAST SEEN IN A PARK IN BOSTON.

Hey, you like to play with dolls? I have a couple in my car . . .

The poster includes a blown-up photo of a smiling little girl. I touch her hair—I can’t help myself. I peer deep into her gray eyes.