Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(70)

I can’t look at her anymore. “No.”

She nods. “The police are going to look for the dollhouse. This kind of sex-trafficking operation, the resources it would take, the players involved. I bet they already have a few ideas of where to start. Given your situation, however, I have a different idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nicky, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re not the first girl to have gotten away?”

I can’t help myself. I stare at her blankly. No, I’ve never thought such a thing.

“Maybe,” Tessa continues now, “there are more of you out there. And that would be a good thing, Nicky. There’s strength in numbers. It bolsters your story. It takes some of the pressure off you. It would mean, by definition, you’re not alone.”

I can’t speak; I can’t breathe. Another girl. Would that be a good thing? Sisters in arms? Or . . . I can’t sit anymore. I get up and pace.

“Thirty years ago,” Tessa is saying, “the investigative landscape was very different. ViCAP, a database for linking criminal cases from around the country, was just getting started. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children had barely been founded. All in all, it was very difficult for law enforcement agencies from different jurisdictions to compare notes. Meaning a six-year-old girl could be kidnapped from a park here, while a twelve-year-old runaway disappeared from a shelter there, and an eight-year-old delinquent never came home from the mall, and no one would necessarily connect the dots. We know better now, and I’d like to use that to our advantage.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a friend. A Boston detective who currently has some time on her hands. I’m going to ask her to go back through thirty years of missing-kid cases, from all over New England, to see if she can connect some dots. If we can establish just how many girls they were taking, and how, and from where, that would enable us to corroborate your story. It might also help identify the players involved.”

I walk away from her. Check out the flat-screen TV. I’m rubbing my arms, though I’m not sure why. I’m not cold but I’m covered in goose bumps.

I miss Thomas. I wonder where he is right now. Where is he going and what is he doing? Right or wrong, I wish he was here.

“Why are you hiring someone else?” I mumble. “Can’t you just ask around yourself?”

Tessa doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her question takes me off guard.

“Do you know what a Chinese wall is?”

I shake my head, already confused. I need more sleep. My head hurts.

“A Chinese wall is an informational barrier constructed within a firm for the sake of ethical integrity. For example, in a law firm, if investigating one client’s case might result in identifying information that was detrimental to another client, the firm could construct a Chinese wall. Essentially, the company would establish two separate investigative efforts, operating independently and not sharing information, thus enabling itself to serve both clients without compromising ethics.”

I frown, still confused. “But I’m your only client. How is hiring someone not to tell you what they learn helpful?”

“She would tell it to you, just maybe not to me.” Tessa hesitates. When she speaks again, her tone is careful. “Northledge is a top-notch investigative firm. With an impressive list of wealthy and respectable clients. Now, according to you, the customers at the dollhouse . . .”

“Wealthy and respectable clients.” I spit out the words.

“Exactly. I could do the research. But what I might find and have to present to my own bosses . . . It’s cleaner this way, for both of us. And trust me, this detective I’d like to hire, D. D. Warren. If she identified the governor himself exploiting young girls, she’d slap him in handcuffs. If there’s something to find, any kind of trail to be picked up from thirty years ago, she can do it.”

I nod, but I don’t feel reassured. This Chinese wall protects Tessa and her firm’s roster of wealth and privilege. What I need is a Chinese wall for me. Some kind of defense to protect who I am now from what I once did. Except maybe there is no protection for that. Which is why I spend most of my days both forgetting who I am and yet still searching for Vero.

“One last thing,” Tessa says quietly.

“What?”

“Your mom. Nicky, Thomas may be gone, but you still have a family. Don’t you think it’s time to finally call them?”

“You don’t understand,” I whisper. “Vero is six years old. She is gone. She disappears.”

But then I remember something else. A view from outside a house on a rainy night. A young girl sitting on a sofa.

I open my mouth. No words come out.

Tessa is waiting for me to speak. She is patient. Wyatt is patient. The whole world is waiting for me.

I want to lie down in the dark, ice pack on my head. I want to cover myself in the quilt. I want to close my eyes and be alone with Vero.

We will sip scotch out of teacups. I will watch the maggots crawl around her shiny white skull.

I will apologize once more for everything I’ve done.

Maybe this time, she will forgive me. Because no one ever got out of the dollhouse alive.

“Nicole?” Tessa asks quietly.

The memories are shifting again. Cold, dark shadows that heave and menace. Nothing comforting, nothing enlightening.