Crash & Burn (19 page)

“What the hell is he so afraid of?” Wyatt thumps the steering wheel.

So I finally tell him the truth. I say: “Me.”

T
ESSA
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 pass 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 prone 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.

“Brian? Sometimes.”

“I don't remember him much.”

“He loved you.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it's true.”

“But he was sick. A gambling addict. He hurt us.”

Tessa stirred the milk carefully, then glanced up at her daughter. “Why do you ask about him, Sophie? What's keeping you awake tonight?”

“I don't know.” Sophie looked away. “I like our family,” she said abruptly. “You, me, Mrs. Ennis. It's perfect.”

“Even without a dog?”

Sophie flashed a faint smile. “But that's kinda the point, I guess.
Families change. Once we were three. Then we were two. Then we became three again. And now . . .” She glanced up at Tessa. “You like him, don't you? Wyatt's not just a stupid fling—”

“Sophie!”

“He's going to become our fourth. Do you love him?”

“Well, there's the question of the day,” Tessa murmured.

“Do you?” Sophie demanded.

She was always honest with her daughter: “Yeah. I do.”

“So that's it. He'll move in. I'll have to call him Daddy.”

“You don't have to do anything. And I don't know about this moving-in thing. One step at a time.”

Sophie's turn to look curious. “Why not? If you love him.”

Because I'm afraid, Tessa wanted to say. Because happily ever after never looks the way you think it will from the movies. Maybe it's not an ending at all, but the beginning of the next terrible misadventure. The future is unreliable, and three years later, the past can still come back to haunt you.

“Relationships take time,” Tessa said at last.

Her daughter nodded but didn't appear convinced.

“Sophie,” Tessa said at last, leaning her hip against the counter. “What are you most afraid of?” She thought given the mood of the evening, it was a good question for both of them.

“The dark,” her daughter said immediately.

“I mean with Wyatt. Do you think he'll hurt us? Do you think he's a bad man?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

“I like the cop stuff,” Sophie said at last.

“I like that he's honest,” Tessa supplied. “He says what he's going to do, and he does what he says. A man of his word—that's how people describe him. You know, he thinks we should get a puppy.”

“I think we should get a puppy!” Sophie sat up straighter.

“It's a lot of work. Especially for Mrs. Ennis. You and I aren't even home most of the day.”

“I'll help. I'll help first thing in the morning, and I'll help again at night. The puppy can sleep in my room; then I can help even more.”

“I asked Mrs. Ennis about it,” Tessa said, a dog being a potential source of comfort and security for Sophie. And, say, something that would still be there for Sophie, even if Tessa had to leave for a bit. “She wasn't dramatically opposed. Maybe it would be a nice first step. We could all pick out a puppy together.”

“Including Wyatt?” Faint scowl threatening.

“It was his idea.”

“I guess.”

“Do you plan on hating him forever?” Tessa asked curiously.

“I don't know. I guess he's nice enough. And a puppy is good. I'll have to wait and see.”

“Fair enough.”

Tessa thought that would be it. Sophie would finish her warm milk. They'd both go to bed. But instead, her daughter once more grew serious.

“What are you afraid of, Mommy?”

Tessa had to smile. Other than a recently recovered firearm and a single latent print . . .

Tessa set down her mug. She regarded her daughter as soberly as Sophie regarded her. “There's an old saying,” she began, “the only thing there is to fear, is fear itself.”

“That's stupid! There are plenty of things to fear.”

“I know, Sophie. You and I both know. And I guess that's what scares me. We spend so much time, you and I, preparing for the worst, I worry we'll miss out on the best. I'll meet a good guy like Wyatt. You'll get a perfect puppy. And yet . . . we'll still be waiting for the next bad thing to happen. That's not a great way to live, you
know. We need to not just see the good, but trust in it a little more. Learn some faith.”

Stop being a lone wolf, she supposed. Talk a little more. Let go of the boundaries. And yet some habits were hard to break.

“That's why I should get a puppy,” Sophie was saying. “A puppy will definitely help me learn trust.”

“As well as how to scoop poop.”

“Mom!”

Tessa smiled, ruffled her daughter's hair.

“Thank you for the warm milk, Mom,” Sophie said.

“Thank you for the company.”

*   *   *

T
ESSA
CL
EARED
THEIR
mugs. She walked Sophie back to her room, tucked her daughter into bed.

Then it was back to her room, where she lay in bed and once more stared at the ceiling.

For all of her wise words to Sophie, the truth was, the next bad thing did loom on the horizon. Three years ago, she'd shot a man. It was not an act she regretted. Though she was sorry the police now had that gun.

And she remained a woman who struggled with trust. Because why not simply tell Wyatt what was going on? Why not show some faith in a man who'd never been anything but honest with her?

Funny, the things that scared a woman like her. Enter a room full of hostile gunmen, check. Talk openly and honestly to the man she loved . . . maybe later.

There was one thing she knew she should do, however, first thing in the morning. She would reach out to Nicole Frank, Wyatt's
DWI suspect, and see how the woman was doing. Because Tessa knew something even if Nicole didn't remember it.

The past was never completely the past.

It had a way of catching up with you. Especially a past filled with as many sins as Tessa's.

Or with as many secrets as Nicole Frank's.

W
YAT
T
ORDERED
NICKY
to remain in the county's SUV. Did he have the authority to do that? Nope. Did he have probable cause to arrest her for anything? Not really. Couldn't nail her for the house fire, as she'd been with him and Kevin the entire time. Even an arrest for Wednesday's crash was problematic, given her blood alcohol reading didn't meet the DWI threshold of .08.

Technically speaking, Nicky Frank could walk away from him and Kevin, not to mention the burning embers of her house, and be well within her rights.

Like hell, Wyatt thought, for the third time in as many minutes. She was his only link to something larger, murkier and far more criminal than a lone car accident.

He left Kevin in charge of babysitting, while he went in search of the fire marshal.

“What can you tell me?” Wyatt asked the older man, Jerry Wright, who'd been called out from several towns over. All in all, three separate volunteer fire departments were on the property. It was that kind of blaze, deserving that kind of response.

“Started in the outbuilding,” Wright answered crisply now. They had to stand well back, not just because men were still working hoses, but because the flames were throwing off tremendous heat.
“Definitely an accelerant, and lots of it. Metal buildings don't normally like to burn. But this one. Shi-it.”

Wyatt had checked out the rear of the property, where the gray shed was now a charred, twisted shell of its former self. The shed that had once housed Thomas's tools of the trade. Interesting.

“Who called it in?” Wyatt asked.

“Neighbor, eventually. But given the distances between the properties out here, it had probably already been burning for a bit. Call came in a little after eight. Response time was solid, first unit rolling in by eight fifteen. Still, shed was a goner from the start, I'm told, house already fully engulfed. Whoever wanted this done didn't mess around.”

“Any reports of a man on the scene?”

“Negative. House is too hot to enter, so can't swear to what we'll find inside. But from the time we've been here, no signs of life.”

Wyatt nodded; he strongly doubted Thomas was anywhere on the property. The man's silver Suburban, which had been in plain sight in the driveway four hours earlier, was now conspicuously missing. Wyatt's best guess, Thomas let the police take his wife away, then torched his own place and split.

But why?

Nicky claimed he was afraid of her, and Wyatt was a smart enough man to understand she didn't mean in the literal sense. More likely, Thomas feared her fickle memories. Three concussions in a row seemed to have unlocked some doors in Nicky's mind. And not all the contents were pretty.

Meaning, what had Thomas and/or Nicky done in the past that at least Thomas was still desperate to hide? More important, how did it relate to the existing, nonexisting, probably dead, possibly still alive mystery girl, Vero?

“Fire's too hot,” the fire marshal informed Wyatt now. “You want more info, gotta wait till morning.”

“All right, keep me posted.”

Wyatt left the man, taking a few steps back to once more consider the blaze. The roof of the house was fully engulfed. It was an impressive sight, an entire home being consumed alive. Windows shattered. Metal groans. A singular type of destruction that was both awesome and terrifying.

He wondered what Nicky saw when she gazed upon it. Was she horrified by what her husband had done? Had to be photos, family mementos, favored possessions, that were even now turning to ash before her eyes.

Yet, when he returned to the car, she simply sat in the backseat, staring at the inferno, blank faced.

“We got an APB out on Thomas's vehicle,” he informed Kevin. “'Bout all we can do for now.”

Kevin nodded.

“She spoken at all?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat.

“Not a word.”

“Checked her phone?”

“She doesn't have a phone. Lost it in the car wreck, remember?”

“Meaning Thomas has no means of contacting her,” Wyatt murmured.

“Unless they have a predetermined meeting place.”

“That's it. We're taking her to the station. As long as Thomas Frank is missing, she's our bait.”

*   *   *

N
I
CKY
DIDN
'
T
PROTEST
when they pulled out of the driveway and
once more hit the road. She didn't ask where they were going or complain of hunger or thirst. She simply sat, eyes out the window, quilt on her lap.

From time to time, Wyatt would study her in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher what she was thinking. She looked exhausted, as she should be. She looked unwell, as she was. Too thin, too pale, as if a good stiff wind would knock her off her feet. But her face was shuttered, flat affect.

Hadn't someone mentioned shell shock once before? At the accident, the passing motorist who'd stopped to assist. He'd been a war vet and reported she appeared shell-shocked, as in the literal definition of the word. Watching her now, Wyatt saw the man's point. Nicky Frank had gone somewhere inside her head. Question was, when would she come back out again?

The North Country Sheriff's Department was housed in a two-story brick building not far from the county jail and even closer to the county courthouse. It offered a parking lot, fingerprinting and lots of buzzing overhead lights. But no food. For that, Wyatt and Kevin made a detour to McDonald's, one of the only joints open after midnight. Wyatt and Kevin ordered with gusto. Quarter pounders, large fries, large coffees, all the calories, salt and caffeine a good detective needed to stay up all night.

Nicky requested another bottle of water, in a voice that was perfectly monotone. Wyatt would've thought she'd been turned into a statue, if not for the way her fingers stroked the top layer of her quilt. Touching it over and over again. Like she was working the rosary, he thought. A woman lost in prayer. Or offering penance.

They took the food to the station house. This time of night, you could count on headquarters for a little action. County dispatch worked out of the building, meaning there was plenty of noise coming from down the hall, in terms of both phone calls and the
operators entertaining themselves between the calls. Of course, bookings happened at all hours, with 2
A.M.
being prime time for collared drunks.

Wyatt and Kevin carefully steered Nicky through the lobby, then down the narrow hallway, around one twitchy meth addict, around another. The station lighting always felt glaring to Wyatt, as if trying to compensate for something. It was enough to make him squint. He couldn't imagine how much Nicky was suffering with her condition.

In the end, they set her up in the conference room. Not an interrogation room, because that might have seemed aggressive, and again, technically speaking, Wyatt couldn't make the woman stay. But nor did he want her in their offices, because she needed to feel the pressure. Her life was imploding. For all their sakes, time to talk.

She didn't look at them when Kevin pulled out the chair. She took a seat, gaze forward. Quilt back on the lap. Bottled water on the table. Then she waited.

She's done this before, Wyatt thought. Police stations, interrogation; none of this was new to her. Just as he had his strategy, she had hers.

Wyatt took his time. He set down his McDonald's bag, let the room fill with the unmistakable fragrance of fries. Kevin did the same. Next, Wyatt removed the cover from his large coffee, adding yet more aroma to the mix. Unwrapping his burger, taking his first greasy bite. Yeah, he'd regret it in the morning. A man his age couldn't afford to eat like this regularly, but for the moment, it was a salt-fat-carb explosion in his mouth. Two
A.M.
eating didn't get any better than this.

Kevin made a show of squeezing out ketchup onto the burger wrapper, then dipping his fries.

Still Nicky didn't say a word, though they all sat so close, Wyatt thought they'd be able to hear her stomach growl at any moment.

“Sure you don't want anything?” he asked at last, voice conversational.

She shook her head.

“We got vending machines, you know. Maybe chips, a candy bar? More gum?”

She shook her head.

“Lights too bright?”

She finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired, he thought, but more than that they were flat pools of resignation. She didn't want. She didn't need. She was simply a woman awaiting her fate.

Wyatt felt a chill then, uncomfortable enough that he got up, wadded up his wrappers and threw away the remnants of his dinner. He kept his coffee. He paused long enough to murmur to Kevin, “Check on the APB. Any news at all, we could use that.”

Kevin nodded, disposed of his own wrappers, left the conference room. Wyatt stood alone with Nicky. Their prime suspect. Witness. Victim? Maybe that's what really bothered him. Forty-eight hours later, he still had no idea, and it pissed him off.

When he took his seat again, he deliberately placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“What happened at your house tonight?” he demanded.

Her face finally flickered to life. “How would I know? I was with you.”

“Your house is gone, you know. Total loss, according to the fire marshal. Meaning everything inside, photos, your paintings, favorite pillow . . . poof.”

She didn't say anything.

“Same with the work shed,” Wyatt continued. “Gonna be a bummer for the family business. All those tools, projects, supplies.
Gone. Orders that now won't be fulfilled. Clients that will be unhappy. Three-D printer that'll never be used again.”

She didn't flinch. The business hadn't been her bailiwick anyway, Wyatt thought. It had been Thomas's.

“First house fire?” he asked now.

She frowned, seemed to come slightly out of her fog. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, all the cities, states, houses you've lived in over the years. Come on, you and Thomas give new meaning to rolling stones.”

She frowned again, rubbed her temples. Then held out her hand as if reaching for something. Someone.

Wyatt waited. She didn't say a word. Just her hand, suspended in the air. After another moment, she seemed to realize what she was doing. She replaced her hand on her lap. A single tear rolled down her face.

“Shame it was this house,” Wyatt pressed. “You'd put some effort into this one. Repainting the door, working in the garden. Did you think that maybe this was the place you'd finally stay?”

“I missed snow,” she murmured, gaze still fixed on the table.

“Where is Thomas now?”

“I don't know.”

“You should. You're his wife, his business partner. If you don't know him, who does?”

“Ted Todd Tom Tim ta-da!” she whispered.

“What did you just say?”

“He has no family. He has no friends. He has no place to go.” She finally glanced up, met his eyes. “I have no place to go.”

“Damn selfish of him, don't you think?”

“You should take me to a hotel.”

“First I want you to tell me about New Orleans. When did you meet?”

“At work. A movie production set. I was working craft services. He was in set production. He told me he waited three weeks to get me to say hi.” She spoke the words automatically. Wyatt thought he'd heard that story before, because he had: almost word for word from Thomas that first day at the hospital.

“Is Thomas from New Orleans?” Wyatt asked.

“No.”

“What brought him there?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? Twenty-two years together, and you never asked him what he was doing in New Orleans?”

She peered at him blearily. “Why did it matter?”

“Are you from New Orleans?”

“No.”

“You two . . . just met up there.”

“Yes.”

“Helluva courtship. Four weeks, then that's it? You two hit the road, never looked back. You live together, work together, travel together, everything together.”

“There's nothing wrong with that.”

“He burned your house alone.”

“I wrecked my car alone. Drank alone. See, maybe it's best if we stay together.”

“You ever meet his family? In all your travels and wanderings, he ever take you home?”

“No.”

“Why? Ashamed of you? Scared of something? Who doesn't bring their spouse to meet the family? Mom. Dad. Sister.” Wyatt didn't actually know about the sister part. He was baiting her,
though, waiting to see if Nicky would react, ask any questions of her own.

But she merely shook her head, said nothing.

“Who are you, Nicky? What really brought you and Thomas to New Hampshire?”

“We wanted a change.”

“You're looking. You want something, are trying to find it so badly you contacted a private investigative firm even after your husband asked you not to.”

She didn't answer.

“Then you took off in a storm Wednesday night, while your husband was otherwise occupied, just so you could go looking again. You followed a woman home from a liquor store. You stood out in the rain. You spied on her house. Why? What do you need to find so badly you're willing to go behind your husband's back? And what did you do that made him so angry he torched everything you own?”

“Not everything.” She tapped her quilt, still folded neatly on her lap.

Wyatt stilled, studied her. “You're right. The blanket. You've been carrying it around all night. He gave that to you, didn't he, Nicky? He told you to take it with you.”

To his surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I didn't know what he was going to do. I didn't. But in hindsight, he must've already had the plan. That's why he told me to take the quilt with me.”