Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(79)

“As Nicky Frank?”

“Yes.”

“You never told her who you were? Never gave out one shred of personal info?”

Nicky shook her head. “I never even spoke to her. It was an online transaction. I used PayPal. We never spoke at all.”

“But you’ve been tracking her.”

“The website only had a PO box. No street address was listed. Not under her name. Not under his. I think her husband . . . he’s a cop, right? A retired officer. He must monitor their personal information online.”

“So you hired Northledge. With Thomas’s blessing?”

Nicky shook her head wildly. “No, no. Absolutely not. I did it on my own. Used a cashier’s check and everything. I didn’t want him to know. Not after . . .”

“After what, Nicky?”

She looked away, head down. “I think he figured out about the quilt. I never told him, but the first time I held it, I cried and cried and cried. I couldn’t help myself. I think he guessed where it came from. He grew shorter with me, less patient. ‘Aren’t we happy?’ he’d say, over and over again. ‘We have each other; isn’t that enough?’ I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I didn’t want to upset him after everything he’s done for me . . . But no”—she looked up slowly—“it’s not enough. I’m still sad even when I know I shouldn’t be.”

“Wednesday night, you went in search of Marlene Bilek,” Wyatt stated firmly.

“Yes.”

“You drove to the liquor store.” He tapped it on the map. “You went inside, hoping to see her.”

“I recognized her. Even from the back. Then I panicked. I saw her, but I wasn’t ready for her to see me. What if she didn’t remember me? Worse, what if she didn’t want me? Thirty years later, what kind of daughter simply reappears from the dead?”

“You bought a bottle of Glenlivet.”

Nicky didn’t look away. She held his gaze while she nodded miserably.

“And then you followed her.” Wyatt returned to the map. “I spoke with Marlene Bilek this afternoon—”

“You told her about me?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Bilek this afternoon,” he continued brusquely, “determining her usual route home. It’s a forty-mile drive, mostly back roads, passing through here, here and here.” He traced the red line with his finger. “Leading at long last to her house.”

He tapped the blown-up picture of the Bilek’s front porch. Taken during daylight, not at night, when Nicky would’ve viewed it, but close enough.

Her gaze remained locked on the tiny yellow house. As if she could drink it up.

“Did you tell her about me?” Nicky whispered. “That I’m Vero. What . . . what did she say?”

“Don’t think that’s my story to tell.” Wyatt gazed at her hard. She couldn’t return his look.

“According to Mrs. Bilek,” Wyatt continued, “her daughter was also home that night. Sixteen-year-old Hannah Veigh. Look like anyone you remember?”

“Vero,” she whispered.

“What did you do, Nicky?”

The sternness of his question seemed to catch her off guard. “What?”

“What did you do? You’ve been up half the night. You’ve been drinking; you’ve been driving. Now you’re at a cute little house, peering in the window, and there she is: your long-lost self. Vero. What did you do?”

Nicky sat back, pushing against the table with her hands. “Do? I didn’t. I don’t think. How could I?”

He crossed swiftly to the table. “Tell me about the collapsible shovel, Nicky. Tell me about the gloves. Covered in blood. Human blood. We know; we already tested it. You’re drunk, you’re alone, and you’ve just discovered your long-lost mom hasn’t been pining for you after all. In fact, she’s remarried, has a new kid, Vero 2.0. Your mother has gotten on with her life. She doesn’t miss you at all.”

“You don’t know that. How can you know that?”

“You’re stalking her.”

“I just wanted to see her. To find out how she was doing—”

“You couldn’t call? You couldn’t write? Hey, Mom, I finally got away from an evil madam. That was twenty-two years ago, but, hey, better late than never to finally reach out. Wanna do lunch?”

“It’s not like that,” Nicky protested weakly.

“Like what? Like you’re a mixed-up, f*cked-up woman, driving drunk and stalking your own mom? Tell me about the shovel. If you were just going to find out how she was doing, why’d you need a shovel? Tell me about the gloves. If you were just following along, why are they covered in blood? What did you do Wednesday night? Come on, Nicky. I’m tired of your lies and your stories. What did you do Wednesday night?!”

“I called Thomas.” The words blurted out. Nicky blinked her eyes, as if even she was surprised to hear them.

“You called your husband?”

“From a pay phone. I was crying and I was hysterical. I’d just seen Vero. She was dead except now she was alive. I didn’t know what to do anymore. And my head hurt so much. I know I shouldn’t have been drinking. I know I shouldn’t have been driving. And Thomas was going to be mad at me, because he’d asked me, begged me, to please let it go. ‘We can be happy,’ he would say. ‘Once we were happy; I know we can be happy again.’