The Shadow Box(76)

“We can’t do that,” Claire said. “Not till I know whose side he’s on.”

“Whose side he’s on?” Jackie asked. “There’s only one side—yours. He’s searching for you—he’s in charge of your case!”

“That’s the point,” Spencer said. “Because cops and prosecutors work closely together. He might be feeding information to Griffin.”

“He’s my brother-in-law!” Jackie said.

“I know, Jackie,” Claire said. “But I just can’t be sure yet.”

“Then what about me?” Jackie asked. “Am I on the wrong side too? Why didn’t you call me for help?”

“I’m so sorry,” Claire said, turning around to look into Jackie’s eyes, reaching back to take her hand. “Jackie, I love you. I’m sorry it’s been this way. But we’re together now. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” Jackie said, squeezing her hand hard, not wanting to let go.

“The point is that Claire is safe, she’s here now, and we have to make a plan,” Spencer said as she drove east.

“Did Griffin do this to you?” Jackie asked, looking at the bruises on Claire’s face and neck and the cuts on her wrists and hands.

“I think so,” Claire said. “But he wore a mask. He wouldn’t let me see his face. That’s what’s making me crazy, Jackie. It’s why I’ve stayed hidden, didn’t even call you. I don’t know anything for sure.”

As Spencer drove them through seaside towns that Jackie had known her whole life, along streets that were as familiar to her as her own road, she felt she had entered a foreign landscape, unknown and unfriendly, a place she had never been before.

It took a long time, driving on back roads instead of the highway, all the way to Charlestown, Rhode Island. Spencer turned right off Route 1, heading toward the sea, past a sign that said OCEAN STATE SEASIDE HAVEN. A sandy driveway ran through a coastal forest of scrub pines, past a row of identical one-story cottages. She parked the Renault beside the last one, leaned over Claire to take a notebook from the glove compartment, then slammed it shut.

Jackie and Claire followed her to the front door, and Spencer unlocked it. Inside was a single room containing a double bed, a couch and an armchair, a coffee table, and an efficiency kitchen. Two generic seascapes and the kind of corny signs sold in summer town gift shops—THE BEACH IS THATAWAY! and THE WORST DAY OF FISHING IS BETTER THAN THE BEST DAY OF WORK!—hung on the walls.

“Have a seat,” Spencer said. “I’ll make some tea. Claire, you must be hungry.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Claire said, sitting beside Jackie on the sofa. Claire stared at Spencer, riveted. “I know who you are,” she said.

Spencer gazed at Claire with a smile, a compassionate expression. “You do? Most of my work is fairly underground.”

“I’ve read a lot about domestic violence over the years,” Claire said. “Your clients post on Reddit. On the dark web, too, I suppose. You help victims get away.”

“I never call them ‘victims,’” Spencer said. “They are so strong. They have gone through hell—a hell they entered out of pure love. Abusers are weak. They trap women who have gigantic hearts, who want to help these poor, sad wounded birds.”

“That’s what I think too,” Claire said, nodding. “I’ve always believed we have big shoulders.”

“Absolutely. The abusers know that, and they take pleasure in breaking their partners down. It’s part of their fun. Plus, they get all that love, all that attention.”

“Spencer,” Jackie said, feeling spun around by the back-and-forth. “Obviously, Claire knows what you do, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“I have a foundation,” Spencer said. “I help women escape from abusive relationships.”

“The Spencer Graham Fenwick Foundation,” Claire said.

“Yes,” Spencer said. “My name comes from the women in my family. Spencer and Graham were the surnames my mother and her mother were born with. They taught me so much—both by what they could and could not do in life. I could have named my foundation for Marnie—I thought of that—but I wanted to honor the women in my family.”

“Marnie?” Claire asked.

“Yes,” Spencer said, gazing at Claire with eyes full of sorrow. “She was my best friend.”

“I want to know about her,” Claire said. “And please tell me what you know about Griffin.”

Spencer nodded. “First, I never expected it would be you—I thought I was meeting someone named Anne. I thought ‘Anne’ and I would pool our knowledge about Claire’s case—you going missing, all that blood in your garage, Griffin’s involvement. See, I have a story about Griffin too. But it’s really a story about Marnie.” She set the notebook down on the low table in front of them. Jackie could see that it was bulging with news clippings and loose sheets of paper.

“Tell us,” Claire said.

Jackie watched Spencer sink back in the armchair, close her eyes, and take a deep breath. She seemed to be willing herself to relive the worst moment in her life. And then she began to talk.