Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(68)

Now she turns to Wyatt, and there is something in his gaze . . .

He would stare at her forever if he could. The way Thomas once looked at me.

“Are you filing charges against my client?” she asks him.

“We have some questions—”

“Which I’m sure can wait until she’s had a chance to clean up, eat a meal.”

“We did offer her bread and water,” Wyatt deadpans.

“Please, I’ve seen your vending machine.”

They have a history. I want to tell them to stand closer. I want to tell them to talk less, listen more. Hold this moment. I think I’m going to cry. It’s the mood swings, I tell myself, just another side effect of multiple head traumas.

It’s not that I’ve woken up for the first time in twenty-two years in a world without Thomas.

Both of them are looking at me. The woman doesn’t ask questions; she tells me what we’re doing next.

“You’re coming with me. I’m going to get you situated in a hotel, order you some food, find you some clothes. You’re my client, so please know anything you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. This guy, however, can’t say the same, so I’d advise waiting on the rest of this conversation until we’re alone.”

She turns to Wyatt. “How watertight is your department these days?”

“Now, now, don’t piss me off.”

“We need time.” Tessa’s voice softens. “She needs time.” She jerks her head toward me. “Twenty-four hours?”

“Can’t make any guarantees. Missing kids belong to the feds. And kids who magically reappear after being gone thirty years . . .”

“There are cable news execs getting fluttering feelings in their heartless chests as we speak,” she fills in.

“Exactly.”

Tessa doesn’t talk again until we’ve left the building. She leads me straight to a dark Lexus SUV with a beautiful tan leather interior. I think of my Audi, and it already seems so long ago, a vehicle for a different woman in a different life that never could’ve been me.

When we get in the car, she locks the doors.

“How are you?” she asks without preamble. “I understand you’ve suffered from multiple concussions. Do you require medical attention? Do we need to pick up any ibuprofen, painkillers, Band-Aids, chocolate doughnuts, whatever, to help you?”

“I like ice packs.”

“I can make that happen. When did you last sleep?”

“What time is it?”

“Nine A.M.”

“Then I slept the past few hours at the station.”

Tessa nods, pulls out of the parking lot. “Do you remember me?” she asks as she pulls onto the main road.

“We talked on the phone Wednesday. But you weren’t the investigator who first took my case . . .”

“No. Originally you met with Diane Fieldcrest. But she got hung up on another assignment. I just happened to be having a slow week, so I offered to help her out. To be honest, I don’t normally handle such routine assignments. But once I realized who you were looking for . . .”

I don’t say anything.

Tessa glances at me. Her hands are sure on the wheel. “You don’t owe me anything,” she continues matter-of-factly. “You hired Northledge to locate a woman. I ran the background, discovered the requested information and reported back to you. After that, what happens is your business, not ours.”

I don’t say anything.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she repeats. “You do, however, need to understand exactly what you’re about to be up against.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fact one, you’re a missing person who is essentially, thirty years later, returning from the dead.”

I wince.

“The media loves this stuff. As in, if we can keep reporters at bay until after lunch, I’ll be shocked.”

I stare at her. I haven’t considered any of this.

“They’re going to ask questions,” Tessa continues. “Starting with, why didn’t you come forward before now? If you were abducted at six, but somehow got away . . . Why have you waited this long to find your family? What have you been doing all these years?”

I can’t speak. My heart is pounding too hard. I can feel a tremendous sense of pressure building in my chest. Like a grave, I think wildly. They have no idea.

“Nicky, you’re in trouble.”

I open my mouth. I close my mouth. Finally, I nod.

“I know it, you know it, Wyatt knows it. Frankly, that’s why he called me. Now, I’m going to start with the obvious. I’m going to check you into a hotel under an assumed name. I’m going to find you clothes, including the proverbial oversize sunglasses and bulky hats. Also, we’re going to find you a lawyer, and I mean ASAP. But even then, Nicky, you’re in trouble.

“You have thirty years to account for. You have a husband who might be an arsonist. You have a motor vehicle accident that may be the result of a felony DWI.”

She turns to me. “You have a family, Nicky. You have a mom, who’s lived forty miles from you for the past six months, and you never even let her know you were alive.

“Nicky, on behalf of all the reporters and really bored community members who are about to zero in on your life: What the hell do you have to say for yourself?”