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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I don’t say a word to Tad Grayson. I just hustle out of there and catch the ferry back to Manhattan. The New York Harbor air feels good—I suck it in through the twenty-five-minute ferry ride. When we get off at South Street in Lower Manhattan, I walk north along the East River. I don’t know how long. Hours for certain. I am in no rush. I have nowhere to be. Molly took Henry to some sort of Mommy and Me hour in the park. They won’t be home yet. So I try to walk and shake off the feel and stench of the Graysons’ house.

I replay what Tad Grayson’s mom said to me. All of it. Repeatedly. She was lying to save her son, just as she had on the stand. I know that.

But there are parts of what she said that I must admit have the ring of truth.

For example, I know Nicole liked Patricia Grayson. Tad’s mom had been kind to Nicole during her parents’ contentious divorce. Nicole had spoken fondly of her on more than one occasion. She’d had it rough, Nicole had told me. The woman’s crooked nose, the sunken cheeks—they had broken under an onslaught of fists from her husband, Tad Grayson’s father. So I’m not surprised Nicole might have visited Patricia Grayson. I know Nicole took her to lunch sometimes. I know Nicole invited Patricia Grayson to our NYPD academy graduation.

Nicole never told me about the most threatening texts from Tad. I get why, of course. She feared I would do something. She could handle it herself.

So how would Nicole have handled it?

She might very well have tried to reach Tad through his mother. She might have gone to Patricia so they could figure a way to get Tad help before he went too far.

If she had, they had both obviously failed.

I don’t know what to do with all this. Tad Grayson killed Nicole. The evidence proves it. But am I being stubborn? There was a serial killer caught recently who would set up innocents to take the fall, many serving life sentences when the real killer was caught. So is what Patricia Grayson proposing that far-fetched? If I’m being objective—if I step back and try to look at the facts from a distance and coldly…

No, sorry, it doesn’t change my mind.

“How will you live with yourself, if it ends up Tad didn’t do it?”

Just fine, thank you. I followed the evidence. A jilted man sends the woman I love horrible, violent texts. He threatens to shoot her in the head. He buys a gun. That gun is used in the murder. Those are facts even Tad doesn’t dispute. So even if he didn’t pull the trigger…

Hold up. Am I actually entertaining this insane idea?

I am not. Patricia Grayson is lying to protect her son. But maybe I can use that. Maybe if I can prove that she is lying, maybe if I can get close to her and listen to her and see when she stumbles in her defense of her son and reveals a deeper truth…

Did I rush out too soon? Should I go back?

I am wondering this as I use my key to open the door of my (thankfully) rent-controlled apartment. I am surprised when I hear voices coming from my kitchen. One, of course, belongs to Molly. The other, I see as I come closer, is Victoria Belmond’s. Victoria sits across the table from my wife. They are having tea. Molly takes tea seriously. She makes it fresh, buying the ingredients from a local farmer’s market or growing specific herbs on our windowsill. She takes her time. She knows how to perfectly bruise the mint by rolling it between her fingers. She uses wooden spoons, not metal ones. She times how long she steeps, usually twelve minutes. She has a muddler to crush the leaves. We have infusers, strainers, airtight canisters, a variety of kettles.

Both women turn to me at the same time. I don’t like myself for what I think first. You will judge me for it, but hey, warts and all, right? My first thought—and I’ll defend myself by saying the thought was fleeting and instinctive and not considered—is that these two women are beautiful and that I’ve made love to both. There you go. Sorry not sorry.

Under any other circumstances, I would probably preen.

Molly speaks first, stating the obvious. “We have a visitor.”

“I’m sorry,” Victoria says. “I should have called, but if I did, I worry I’d lose my nerve.”

“It’s okay.”

Molly says that, not me. She reaches a comforting hand across the table and puts it on Victoria’s forearm. Victoria’s hands are wrapped around the teacup as though she needs warmth. She looks up and gives my wife a grateful smile. Molly keeps her hand there another second or two, then rises.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Molly says.

“No, don’t go,” Victoria replies. “In fact, it may help if you stay.”

Molly isn’t sure how to respond to that. She looks at me. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I nod that it’s okay. She slowly sits back down.

We fall into silence. There is a chair in the corner of the room. I’m tempted to pull it up and sit with them, but right now I feel better standing. I don’t know whether I should start or give Victoria space. A few seconds pass. Victoria uses both hands to bring the tea to her lips. We give her time and space. When she puts the cup back down, she turns to me.

“I don’t know you,” she says.

I say nothing. She didn’t come all this way to tell me only that. So I wait.

“Or at least, I don’t remember you. But there is something… I’m not sure of the term. It’s not déjà vu. But there’s something… familiar. There is something drawing me to you.” She smiles awkwardly and shakes her head. “I’m not saying this right.”

Molly puts her hand back on Victoria’s forearm. “You’re doing fine.”

“I don’t mean drawn to you in that way. I mean, and this will sound weird, like the opposite. Like I could offer you some kind of comfort. Does that make any sense to you?”

They both look at me and wait. I swallow, not sure what to say to that. I try to take it step by step. “You came to my class the other night.”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell me why?”

Victoria Belmond stares down at the teacup. “I saw your photo in the news. It was a story on how you’d been fired and how a killer was going to be freed because of your misconduct.”

Molly leans back in her chair as something clicks for both of us. We’d tried to find the connection between Tad Grayson being released and “Anna” showing up in my life again. Now we had it.

“Anyway, once I saw your photo, I kept coming back to it. Like it was calling out somehow. I also kept thinking—and again, don’t take it the wrong way—but I liked your face.” She sees my expression. “What?”

“That’s what you said back then,” I tell her. “The first time we met.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You said we met in a nightclub in Spain.”

“In Fuengirola,” I say. “A place called Discoteca Palmeras.”

“And when we met, I said that I liked your face?”

“Yes. You said it had character.”

Molly smiles. “I totally get that. It does, doesn’t it?”

“There’s a kindness, right?”

“Yes,” Molly says. “Something you can trust.”

Don’t preen , I remind myself.

“Then I googled you,” Victoria continues. “I read everything I could find. I saw you taught a night class. So I thought, I don’t know, I would just come to the class and see you in person and maybe something would connect. I remember so little about…” She stops, closes her eyes, opens them, starts up again. “I wondered whether seeing you in person would shake something loose.”

“And did it?” I ask.

“No. When you spotted me, I don’t know, I just freaked out. I ran. I have a driver. My family doesn’t like me going out alone. I ran to the car and told him to take me home. I can’t imagine how you followed me.”

I don’t really see much reason to get into the GPS tracker right now.

“So,” Molly says, “how can we help you?”

Victoria turns toward me. “Can you tell me everything you remember?”

“About Fuengirola?”

“Yes.”

When I hesitate and glance toward Molly, my wife laughs and says, “It’s okay, Sami. I know I wasn’t your first.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’d want to listen to you talk about an ex.”

“That’s because I’m more mature than you,” Molly says. Then: “Do you plan on going into sexual details?”

“No.”

Molly gestures with a sweeping hand for me to go ahead.

So as best I can, I recount the story about my trip with the Lax Bros, about meeting her at the Discoteca Palmeras, about her apartment in Fuengirola, about the lazy days on the beach, about the partying, about the only person who seemed involved in her life, Buzz the Dutch drug dealer. I watch her eyes for signs of recognition, but I don’t see that. I see a woman engaged and a great listener. That takes me back. Anna had been a great listener. We had stayed up to all hours as she coaxed stories from me and admissions of flaws or inadequacies (no, not like that) and I had never been that vulnerable with a girl before. In my experience, women liked to hear their men admit to their flaws and vulnerability, but they never want you to appear weak. I don’t know if that’s a contradiction, but it is what it is.

“Tell me more about Buzz,” she says.

I try to, but I don’t really know much. I describe his looks and say that he spoke with a heavy Dutch accent.

“How old would you say he was?”

“Older than us. Thirty-five, forty maybe. Which felt old at the time.”

I stop. I wait. We are getting to it now, and I’m still wondering how to handle it.

As though reading my mind, Victoria says, “So how did we end it?”

I’m still a cop. You don’t give without getting. When you interrogate a suspect, you don’t want to show your entire case. Of course. You want to hold something back—to entice the suspect to speak or perhaps to trap them in a lie. I think Victoria Belmond is on the up-and-up, but I don’t know for sure yet.

I want her more relaxed for this part, and my still standing is starting to feel like a move that might make her defensive. I grab the chair in the corner and pull it up to the table, making sure it’s closer to Molly than Victoria. I want to give Victoria space.

I try very hard not to sound like a cop. I smile as disarmingly as I can and try to show her the face that she’d said she likes. “Can I ask you a couple of questions first?”

She blinks, but says, “Of course.”

“You are Victoria Belmond, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember?”

“About you?”

“For starters.”

“Nothing. Like I said. I’m sorry. I don’t remember you or Spain or this Buzz or any of it. I don’t want to sound deflated, but nothing you’ve said has stirred any memories for me.”

“Which is what you came here for?”

“Yes.”

“You hoped that maybe I could fill in some of the blanks about the time you went… missing.”

“Yes. But there was something else. There still is.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s what I said before. When I first saw your picture—and when I saw you teaching that class—I wanted you to know it was all okay.”

I feel again the past pushing into my eyes, making me well up. Molly says, “Sami?” but I shake it off. I am moved and feel connected, and the truth is, seeing her, knowing she’s alive and okay, has lifted a tremendous weight off me.

Victoria tilts her head. “Why do I feel that way?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but now both women look at me as though they can read the lie. I try to get back on track, try to channel my inner cop. “Could you tell me what you do remember? Not just about me.”

Victoria lifts the cup back to her lips, though this time her hands quake. Molly notices that the cup is close to empty now. She stands and moves toward her kettle and starts preparing more.

“Do you know how they found me?” Victoria asks.

“In a diner in Maine,” I say.

“I was in a fugue state, I guess. It’s like I was living behind a shower stall or something. Like I could hear people talk to me, but the words were barely audible. I couldn’t understand. And I felt like I was talking back, screaming even, but nobody could hear me. I didn’t know anybody. I didn’t know who I was. I couldn’t really see their faces. I didn’t even know my name at first. Nothing. When I saw my parents and my brother, that’s when something started to crack through. But it was like everything I thought or felt was fragmented, like I was a shattered glass that couldn’t be put back together, but there were shards that made me know I’d been a glass. I’m not doing a good job of explaining.”

“You’re doing fine,” Molly says.

“You want to know what I remember about those eleven years,” Victoria says, “so I’ll tell you.” She looks at me straight in the eye. “Nothing. No, worse than nothing. That’s how I describe it. Nothing would be okay. I’d just be a blank. Like I went to bed when I was eighteen and going to a New Year’s Eve party and woke up when I was nearly thirty. That would be nothing. But I do have flashes to memories. The dark. Blindfolded. I remember someone punching me repeatedly. When I got back, the doctors said at some point I’d suffered a broken nose and shattered cheekbone. I remember fear. Being scared all the time. I don’t remember Spain, but I sometimes have visions of blinding sun. I worked with psychiatrists, of course. They were patient with me. We tried to put together what happened. But something in my brain wouldn’t let me go there.”

Molly again reaches her hand toward her. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay now.” Victoria forces up a smile. “This was all a long time ago.”

Molly stands and pours her more tea. She glances at me to see whether I’d like one. I give a small headshake. “Is there anything else?” I ask.

“Like?”

“Did the police ever find out who abducted you?”

“No.”

“Did they get any serious leads?”

“No,” she says.

“So whoever did this—”

“—is still out there? I don’t know. They could be dead. That was one theory that was bounced around.”

“What, that the kidnapper died?”

She meets my eye again. “That I killed him. That I killed him and escaped.”

Molly sits back down. We sit in silence.

“Time passed,” Victoria continues, her tone now pensive. “After a while, the police moved on. Everyone did.”

“And you?”

“I’ve tried. But the accusations never stopped.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asks. “What accusations?”

“There are other theories,” Victoria says now, almost casually.

Molly takes that one. “About your kidnapping?”

“Yes. Many.”

“Like what?”

“Like that I was never kidnapped,” she answers, the small smile still toying with her lips. “That I was never in danger. That I made the whole thing up. That I ran away with a guy. Or that I ran away with a guy and then he turned on me. Or—for those who want to be kinder—that I had some sort of psychotic break and had amnesia the whole time. Why would someone kidnap a girl from a wealthy family and never ask for ransom? Or maybe they did. Maybe a kidnapper did ask my parents for money. Maybe they even gave it to them and never told the FBI. Or me.”

“Do you believe any of that?” I ask.

She shrugs, but says, “No. My point is, the FBI doesn’t know what to believe. One moment I was leaving a party. The next moment, poof, it’s eleven years later and I’m in a diner.”

We all take that in. We hear a small cooing noise coming from the other room. Henry is awake. Molly smiles and rises to get him.

When we are alone, Victoria/Anna puts her hand on mine. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I say nothing.

“When I saw your photo, something told me to find you and let you know it’s okay. There’s something to that, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“And are you? Okay, I mean. Or at least, better. Did seeing me help?”

I manage a nod. “Yes,” I say. “It helped.”

“I did something to you. In Spain.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say.

She smiles at me, and it’s the most genuine smile I’ve seen from her. “Then maybe that’s enough,” she says.

“Did it help you too?” I ask. “Seeing me again?”

She thinks about it a moment. “It did,” she concludes. “I don’t know how or why. But I feel more at peace.” She lifts her phone, checks the time, swipes to a ride-share app. “I should go.”

She stands up. I follow her to the door. Molly and Henry join us. Victoria spends a few moments cooing with Henry and hugging Molly goodbye. The Uber arrives.

“No one knows I came,” Victoria says.

“What do you mean?” Molly asks. “Do they watch you?”

“They worry about me,” she corrects. Then she turns to me. “I don’t think we should see each other again, Sami.”

She slips into the waiting car and waves to me. I wave back—and as I do, I realize something.

She’s lying to me.