The Silent Sister(39)

“Did you remember the suitcase?” she asked, worried. She’d totally forgotten about it herself.

“In the trunk.” He turned to look back at the entrance to the rest stop, then checked his watch again.

The suitcase held only the new documents she’d need and some clothes her father had bought for her. She couldn’t risk taking any of her own. Her mother would know they were missing. She had no idea if the police would believe the suicide story or not. They might think she ran. They’d look at airports and train stations. That’s why she was taking off from Philly instead of D.C. Even so, it was a huge risk. When the police came to the house in the morning, Daddy would point out that Violet was still in her room. “She’d never leave without her violin,” he’d say. He’d pretend to notice that the kayak was missing. He’d have to be careful not to point out too much, though. He’d raise suspicion. They’d ask if she’d been depressed lately, and he would be able to honestly answer yes. She was certifiably depressed. They’d made her see a shrink, who’d said she should be watched carefully. She felt terrible that her mother would think she hadn’t watched her closely enough and that she should never have gone to Granddad’s this close to the trial. She didn’t want her mother to blame herself.

“Now, listen to me, Lisa,” her father said. “I want you to memorize something. Do not ever, under any circumstances, write this down, okay? Just keep it in your head.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve opened a post office box,” he said. “It’s only to be used in a dire emergency. I won’t be able to check it often, at least not for a while, but you’ll have it if you need it.”

She suddenly felt as though she could breathe. She had a way to reach him!

“What’s the address?” she asked.

“Dire emergency,” he warned. “Understand?”

She nodded.

He rattled off the address: PO box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina, and she frowned.

“North Carolina? Why would you have a post office box in—”

“It doesn’t matter. And the name it’s under is Fred Marcus. Don’t ever address anything there to my real name.”

“Okay.”

“Say it back to me.”

“Post office box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina. What’s the zip code?”

“That’s too much to remember. And what’s my name?”

“Fred Marcus.”

“Good,” he said. The snow had stopped and he turned off the wipers. “Now, when you get to San Diego, I suggest you head to Ocean Beach. I was there once a long time ago, and I think you’ll blend in. Find a cheap motel room.” He glanced at her and she felt his worry. “Not so cheap that you don’t feel safe,” he added. “Get a job and look for something better as soon as you can.”

She was barely listening. “I wish you hadn’t told Mr. Kyle,” she said.

She thought he wasn’t going to answer her, but after a minute he spoke. “We needed him to get your documents,” he said. “He does them for the Witness Protection Program. I don’t handle them anymore. I’d set off alarm bells if I tried.”

“But … now he knows.”

Daddy looked at her. “Trust me, Lisa, he’s not going to breathe a word.”

Headlights suddenly swept through the inside of the car, and she turned to see a pickup pull into the parking lot.

“Here he is,” Daddy said, then added, urgency in his voice, “What’s the name and address of the PO box?”

She repeated them one more time.

“Good girl.”

The truck pulled up next to their car. She didn’t budge, suddenly paralyzed with fear, as the man opened the door of the truck and stood up, tugging a knit cap low on his forehead. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Her father got out of the car, reaching out to shake Tom Kyle’s hand, but the bigger man kept his own hands in his pockets. Daddy knocked on the window to hurry her up. She fumbled with the door handle, nerves and her still-damp gloves making her clumsy. Finally out of the car, she couldn’t look Tom Kyle in the eye. Her father opened the trunk and handed her the suitcase, which was so light she knew she’d have to be careful not to let anyone else lift it or risk raising suspicion.

None of them spoke. Mr. Kyle put the suitcase behind his seat in the pickup, and for just a moment, she wondered if her father had a different plan for her than the elaborate one they’d concocted. Could Tom Kyle be taking her someplace other than the train station in Philadelphia?

He glanced from her to her father. “I’ll wait in the truck,” he said.

When Mr. Kyle was in the truck, her father pulled her wordlessly into his arms. “Stay in the ladies’ room at the train station till there are more people around,” he said into her ear. “Mix in with crowds. Guard your purse—there’s money in it—and guard the documents in your suitcase. Keep your wits about you.” He hugged her hard. “And most important of all, never pick up a violin again, Lisa, understand? Never. You have to hide your light under a bushel from now on. Promise me.” It wasn’t the first time he’d told her she could never play again. She would attract too much attention, he’d said. People who knew music would figure out who she was.