Page 74

Jessica

I haven’t been home yet, but they keep promising that they’ll let me go soon. I don’t seem to be a suspect in my mom’s death, which is good, I guess. I’m still crying at random moments, and I keep expecting to run out of tears, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen.

I asked the officer if he knew where my phone was, and he gave me a blank look, then said that I’ll probably need to get a new one. I don’t want to nag him about it, but I still have like twenty-one payments left on it, and I didn’t get insurance.

Now I’m in a holding room. A cute officer brought me some food. He was really tall, like a basketball player. I asked if he wanted some of my fries, and he turned me down, but he smiled when he said it. He sat down at the table and talked to me while I ate. Even brought me a cup of ice.

Mom would have liked him. She always had a weakness for tall guys. Give me a loser , she once said, as long as he’s tall.

He left after a few minutes, and I’ve been alone since, just sitting in this room like I’m in time-out. You’d think they’d have some magazines or something in here. It’s just a table and two chairs. Not even a wastebasket for my trash.

The door to the room opens, and I put down the fry I am about to eat. A woman in a suit walks in, all business and a big smile, and maybe she’s the detective.

“Hi, Jessica.” Her bright-red lipstick is a little too orange, and her mascara is caked on, but her eyes seem nice.

Mom always said you could tell a lot about a person through their eyes, which seemed valid except that Dr. Joe had eyes a cat would curl up in and was likely a killer psychopath.

“My name is Natalie Force. I’m the chief of police for the LAPD. ”

I stand up and shake the hand she offers. I’d never met a chief of police before, but she doesn’t look like what I imagined. “Hi.”

“I know you’ve already given a statement, but I had a few questions for you, if you don’t mind repeating some of it again.”

“I’m not crazy.” I sit back down and pull my fries closer to me. “I know my story sounds like it, but—”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think your statement is accurate.” She takes the other seat and links her fingers together on top of the table.

“You do?”

“I just came from the clinic where you were kept. We were able to get inside, and there were four other women being kept there. They all have stories very similar to yours, at least in terms of the operation of the ... ah, facility.” She pauses and stares into my eyes.

“Jessica, some of these women—we’ve been looking for them for years. ”

Four other women. Years. I was in knots after just a week; how did they make it that long? I eat another fry, then start to gather my trash and return it to the bag.

Four women. Were they all here, each in little private rooms, waiting to share their story while they wolf down their own double cheeseburgers and fries?

“There are some interesting parallels between the detective working your mother’s case and the woman you described as the nurse.” She withdraws a phone and taps the screen, then holds it up, showing me an image. “Is this the woman who was your nurse?”

It’s her in a police uniform, cap under one arm. She’s smiling, and I flinch because her smile looks just like mine. Kinda slanted on the side, like our heart isn’t in it. Another thing Mom used to say. Did she realize the similarities in our smile?

“Yeah.” The word croaks out and I swallow, then try again. “That’s her.”

“This is Dinah Marino. She’s not a nurse, but she is married to a clinical psychologist, Dr. Joe Marino. I’ve been trying to track down Dinah ever since yesterday, when she missed an important appointment.”

So they are married. And she’s a police officer. I stare at the photo. “What’s the connection between her and the detective assigned to my mom’s case?”

“She is the detective assigned to your mother’s case. We’re trying to understand the history now. Can you tell me when and how you were taken?”

She’s the detective assigned to your mother’s case.

The thought makes my head spin. I think of the file Dr. Joe showed me, one he must have gotten from her.

To think that she was investigating my mom’s murder while her husband was telling me that I did it .

.. I frown. “I don’t know how I was taken. I woke up in the hospital room.”

“The room at the clinic?”

“Yes.”

“Was this the day your mother passed?”

“I don’t know. The last memory I have is going to bed Monday night. I watched some TV in bed and went to sleep. What ... when was she found?”

“Thursday afternoon. The mail carrier saw her through the window.”

Poor Henry. He fed Bunny when we went to Washington for the week. When Bunny died, he dug a hole in the side yard for us to put her body in.

I push back the memory and make a note to both thank and apologize to the mailman the next time I see him.

Mom used to make him her chocolate chip cookies.

Tears spring at the thought that she would never again make them.

That had been on my list of things to learn from her before she was gone.

Chocolate chip cookies. Her veal parmigiana.

The breakfast-burrito tacos. Maybe there were some recipe cards in the kitchen somewhere.

“Do you have any questions for me, Jessica?” the woman asks.

“Did you arrest them?”

She immediately shakes her head. “No. We’re looking for both of them now. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you’re safe. As soon as you’re done here, I’ll have an officer escort you home, and we’ll keep a car at your house until they are in custody.”

“You think they’ll come to get me?”

She smiles again, and I think she means it to be reassuring but it’s not.

“No. It looks like they’re on the run. Likely to Mexico.

We found a vehicle they had registered under a shell corporation and are looking for it now.

We’ve got a flag on their IDs and all of their credit cards and accounts, so we’ll find them in the next few hours.

They will have to stop for gas or will go to an airport, or will get on a bus or cross at the border—and we’ll get them.

It’s not a question of if , just when . But the last thing they’re thinking about right now is you. They’re looking to escape.”

“I didn’t kill my mom.” It seems strange that no one has asked me that question yet, when it seemed to be all Dr. Joe cared about.

“We don’t think you killed your mom.” She smiles at me again, and even though I like everything this woman is saying, I don’t like her.