Part 23 (1/2)
Stay in the moment, I remind myself. No smell of smoke, no heat of fire.
No sound of her screams.
This is now. This is this moment. And tonight, I am merely the audience. The main event happened hours ago.
Thomas handing me the quilt while the officers waited for me downstairs. Telling me I had to take it.
A final gesture of love, because a boyfriend brings you flowers, but a husband of twenty-two years gives you what you need most. The depth of all of our years together. The way we have come to know each other, despite our lies.
Thomas gave me my quilt, pinned with one last item he knew I couldn't bear to lose: Vero's photo. The secret I stole from him, then stashed beneath my own mattress. I have felt its shape several times this evening, attached to one edge of the blanket.
A parting gift from a man with too many names to a woman with even more.
The smell of smoke.
Myself, still reaching for my husband's hand.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Oh, Thomas, I am so sorry.
As my house comes into full view. Already surrounded by fire trucks, flames shooting up everywhere.
”What the h.e.l.l,” Wyatt begins, jerking to a stop behind the line of emergency vehicles. He twists around from the driver's seat, eyes me angrily. ”Did you know about this?”
I shake my head, only a partial lie.
”I don't see Thomas's vehicle . . . Dammit! He did this, didn't he? Your husband torched your house to cover his tracks, before disappearing into the wind.”
I nod, only a partial lie.
The smell of smoke. The heat of the flames.
The sound of her screams.
I close my eyes. And I think, while I'm still in this moment, that my husband was right. I should've let it go. I should've tried harder to be happy.
I should've told Vero once and for all to please, just leave me alone.
But of course, I did none of those things. Have been capable of none of those things. Now . . .
”What the h.e.l.l is he so afraid of?” Wyatt thumps the steering wheel.
So I finally tell him the truth. I say: ”Me.”
Chapter 21.
TESSA COULDN'T SLEEP. Her phone call with Wyatt had left her unsettled, let alone D.D.'s disturbing revelation yesterday at lunch. Now, instead of tucking in for some desperately needed rest, she was mostly lying in bed, feeling the weight of her own silence.
Tessa was highly compartmentalized by nature. She'd never told anyone, not even Wyatt, everything that had happened three years ago. At the time, she'd committed herself to doing whatever it would take to get her daughter back. One thousand ninety-five days later, she didn't regret those choices.
The discovery of Purcell's gun, on the other hand. A possible incriminating fingerprint . . . She should do something, most likely. Say something? But all these years later, what? She'd done what she'd done. If three years later some tech in the state police lab managed to prove it, well, not even Wyatt could help her undo those consequences. She would simply have to face the music. While counting on Mrs. Ennis to take care of Sophie.
As for Wyatt . . . They'd been together only six months. And maybe she did love him, and maybe he did love her. But he didn't need to be connected to a felon. Not good for his professional future, not good for his personal reputation.
Compartmentalization: She couldn't undo what she'd done, but she could at least limit the collateral damage.
The skill had certainly helped her stand out as a top security specialist. Clients paid dearly for discretion. A good investigator such as Tessa got in, got out, and didn't ask a lot of questions along the way. Or volunteer information to the local police. Even if she was sleeping with the investigating officer.
Wyatt should've known better than to even ask if she had knowledge of Nicky Frank. That wasn't how her job worked, and he knew it. A Hail Mary pa.s.s on his part, plain and simple.
Then again, Nicole Frank had suffered three concussions. As Wyatt had pointed out, she might not even remember she was a Northledge client. In fact, she might not remember what Tessa had called that night to tell her.
Boundaries, she thought again. Their jobs required boundaries.
She required boundaries.
Because D. D. Warren had been right yesterday: Tessa still was a lone wolf. Even after getting her daughter back. Even after falling in love.
Tessa gave up, got out of bed. She padded through the darkened house into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door, not because she was hungry, but because it was something to do. She pulled out a bottle of orange juice.
When she turned around, Sophie was standing there.
Tessa gasped. Dropped the container. Splattered OJ all over the floor.
”Dammit!”
”Darn it,” Sophie corrected automatically.
”Oh, don't just stand there. Help me clean it up.”
Sophie yawned, reached for the paper towels. Tessa did the honors of flipping on the overhead lights. It was one thing for her to be alone in the dark, but all these years later Sophie still required light.
”What brings you to the kitchen in the middle of the night?” Tessa asked finally. According to the digital display on the stove, it was 1:22 A.M.
”I heard you.”
”Problems sleeping?”
Sophie shrugged. In other words, no more than usual. She worked at the spill with the sponge. Tessa followed up with damp paper towels.
”Warm milk?” Tessa suggested shortly. ”At least I didn't spill that.”
Sophie smiled; Tessa pulled out the milk.
She warmed it on the stove top, low heat, adding vanilla to taste, an old ritual from the first few months after the incident, when neither she nor Sophie had slept. They'd been a ragged pair of survivors then, barely functioning, each nursing her own scars. They were a curious little family now. Both more comfortable with firing ranges than polite conversation, both still p.r.o.ne to roaming the house at night.
”Do you still miss him?” Sophie asked. She'd taken a seat at the kitchen island, where she could watch Tessa work. Tessa didn't need an explanation to know who Sophie was asking about. It had been months since they'd last talked about him. But from time to time, Sophie had questions about her stepfather, which Tessa did her best to answer.