The Girls I've Been(27)

She’s not laughing anymore. She’s suddenly quiet. Have I done something wrong? I’d hoped she’d be proud.

“You thought of all that?”

“I thought about what you’d do.”

“Oh, baby,” she says. “You’re so sweet.”

It made me smile, that conversation.

It makes me smile, thinking about it now. But for very different reasons.





— 27 —


    Phone Transcript, Lee Ann O’Malley Engages Hostage Taker #1 (HT1)


August 8, 11:03 a.m.




O’Malley: Thanks for picking up. You still haven’t told me your name.

HT1: You can call me Sir.

[Five-second silence]

HT1: [laughter] I didn’t think you’d like that.

O’Malley: You sound like you’re in a good mood. That’s encouraging. Can you tell me if the hostages inside are okay?

HT1: They’re fine. For now.

O’Malley: What can we do to bring this to a safe end for everyone?

HT1: I want to talk to Frayn.

O’Malley: Mr. Frayn is still in surgery, so I’m afraid that’s not possible.

HT1: You’re really keeping on this he was in a car accident stalling tactic?

O’Malley: It’s not a stall. His car was T-boned by an F-150 that blew through a red light. If you take a beat here, you’re going to realize that me keeping you from the only thing that you’ve expressed a want for is not to anyone’s benefit. If I could get the manager here to talk to you, I would. But he’s a little busy getting asphalt picked out of his crushed pelvis, so you’re going to need to start thinking about what else you want besides a chat with Mr. Frayn.

HT1: You really aren’t a cop, are you?

O’Malley: I’m just here to help out. What can I do?

HT1: You can tell the sheriff to back up about thirty feet. And then you can bring me a welding kit.

O’Malley: I can do that. But to get the sheriff to agree, I’m going to need to bring him some good news. If you let the hostages go . . .

HT1: You can have one.

O’Malley: Okay. I can do that. It’ll take a while to find a kit. Can you stay on the line?

HT1: Get the kit. Move the sheriff. Then you get the girl.

[End of call]





— 28 —


11:04 a.m. (112 minutes captive)

1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys

Plan #1: Scrapped

Plan #2: In progress



“Casey,” I say. “Can you come over here?”

She gets up and walks over, looking uncertain.

“What?” she asks.

“In a few minutes, they’ll come in here. They’ll probably tie your hands up. Let them. They’re going to trade you.”

“Trade me?” Her voice shakes.

“You’re getting out of here,” I tell her. “They need a welding kit to get through the bars downstairs. They’ll trade you for it. They’ll take you through the basement exit, not the front. It’ll be scary, and they’ll put you in front of them, like a shield. Let them. Focus on your feet, on your steps. No sudden movements. Do not run away from them or toward the deputies when you see them. Just keep walking slow and steady until a deputy grabs you.”

“Why aren’t they letting us all go?” she asks.

I don’t have time to explain the fine art of con artistry or the power of suggestion, but luckily, Wes is there with a better answer:

“You’re the youngest, so you go first,” he says firmly.

“Wes is right,” Iris says, but she’s staring hard at me. I can practically see the wheels turning in that brilliant brain of hers. Iris likes puzzles, and I’ve just presented her with the one that is me. I can’t even imagine how many directions she’s going off in right now, with the bits I’ve told her and what Wes has said. Plus whatever I’ve let slip in the last year, little things that didn’t seem like anything when I was just Nora but now have got to be spinning in her head as she tries to get the clear picture.

“What about Hank?”

We all look at Casey, puzzled.

“The security guard? Shouldn’t he go first?”

None of us say anything. Because we’re all wondering the same thing: Is he even still alive? Gray Cap had had blood on his hands. Had he . . .

“Kids first,” I say, not answering her question. It makes her go white, and I grit my teeth.

“I don’t want to be alone with them. What if they . . .” She doesn’t finish. It’s like she can’t. Her lips tremble.

Iris makes a noise in the back of her throat, pained and strangled.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” I say firmly. “They need equipment to get into the safe-deposit vault. The sheriff won’t give them the equipment unless they give you to the sheriff.”

“How do you know?”

Because I made it happen. But that’ll just confuse her. “Because that’s what the one in the gray cap told me he was going to do. But we need to be fast. I need paper. A pen.”

Wes and Iris spring into action, and in a few seconds, I’ve got a sticky note and a pen. I draw a crude map on one side, detailing the hall and where they’re keeping us. And on the other, I write a message.