Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(65)

I stare at him. He doesn’t understand. His words mean nothing to me. They can’t mean anything to me. If not for three hits to the head, I never would have allowed these memories to return in the first place.

I sigh. I can’t help myself. I’m tired. I’m so very tired and my head hurts and all these things he is asking of me . . .

“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She’s disappeared. You can’t help her anymore.”

Wyatt studies me. “Then why are you still looking for her?”

And just for a moment, my eyes sting with tears.

They’re not going to let me go. They want what they think I know, details and memories that will bolster their investigation even if it destroys my sanity. Thirty years ago, a little girl vanished. Now a grown woman stands in her place. The cops can’t just let it be. Thomas understood this. So he lit a fire.

The problem with asking questions, he tried to tell me, is that you can’t control the answers.

The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.

My hand reaching out, still trying to find him.

“Vero is twelve years old,” Wyatt prods now. “She no longer lives in the upstairs room. Where is she?”

But I can’t play anymore. The memories are too hard, and I am too done.

“Shhh,” I tell them. “Shhh . . .”

For a moment, I don’t think they’ll listen. Or maybe they won’t care, being detectives on a case. But then Wyatt sits back. He eyes me carefully, maybe even compassionately.

“One last question?” he negotiates.

“One.”

“How did you get out of the house, away from Madame Sade?”

I stare at him. I think the answer should be obvious. But since apparently it’s not, I give him the truth.

“Vero finally learns how to fly.”





Chapter 24




WYATT AND KEVIN exited the conference room. Whatever questions they still had would have to wait. Nicky had placed her quilt on the table, then her head on top of the quilt, and that was that. The poor woman was out cold.

Now the two detectives took a moment to pull themselves together.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt said, standing just outside the door in the hallway, “we are not in Kansas anymore.”

“I need aspirin,” Kevin agreed.

“Well, start popping, because it’s gonna be a long night.”

They couldn’t very well leave Nicky unsupervised in the middle of the sheriff’s department. On the other hand, they weren’t getting any further with her until she got some rest. So being practical men, they took a seat in the hall, just outside the door, backs against the wall.

“Let’s start with what we know,” Wyatt suggested. “One, Nicole Frank is indeed Veronica Sellers, as proved by the fingerprints recovered from her crashed vehicle.”

“According to her,” Kevin picked up, “she was kidnapped by a high-end madam thirty years ago and held for at least six years until she finally got away.”

“What did you think of her story?” Wyatt asked him.

Kevin didn’t hesitate. “The flat affect? The way she refused to engage in the first-person singular, instead everything was in third-person omniscient . . . Vero did this, Vero did that. Consistent with acute trauma. Frankly, not even a serious actress could make that up.”

“She implicated herself,” Wyatt murmured. “First you are recruited; then you are a recruiter.”

“Which we know from other victims’ testimonies is exactly how these organizations work. Further proof Nicky’s probably telling the truth, because someone just trying to play victim would never think to go there.”

“So we now have a possible lead on a thirty-year-old brothel–slash–sex-trafficking organization. Very sophisticated to judge by what Nicky remembers. Very high-end.”

Kevin was more philosophical. “A lead that comes from a woman with a history of one too many blows to the head. Look, I’m not saying I’m doubting her; I’m just saying, this is hardly a slam dunk.”

“Post-concussive syndrome cuts both ways,” Wyatt said. “A good lawyer can argue the fact she’s suffered multiple TBIs proves her memories are suspect. But, on the other hand, it’s most likely because she’s suffered multiple TBIs that she’s now regaining these memories at all.”

“Lawyers hate recovered memories,” Kevin said flatly. “Judges hate them; juries hate them. Remember in the eighties, when all those kids magically ‘recovered’ memories of being victimized by satanic cults? Innocent people went to jail, good people eventually realized a bunch of pseudo experts had messed with their heads.”

“Then we’re in agreement,” Wyatt said. “Nicky’s ‘memories’ alone won’t be good enough.”

“No. We’re going to have to corroborate each and every detail, starting with the dollhouse. Thirty years later, that won’t be easy.”

Wyatt nodded. His thoughts exactly. “How old is Nicky again? Thirty-six, thirty-seven?”

“According to Veronica Sellers’s DOB, right around in there. So we’re still within the statute of limitations on sex crimes, if that’s what you mean.”