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“One story isn’t conditional on the other.”
Her movements were wooden and stiff, like a marionette whose metal joints had not been oiled in years. “Let me think about it.”
Rick shook his head, clearly not happy. But he kept his opinion silent.
Martinez smiled and softened her voice as if they were old friends. “I want to tell your story.”
“I’ll let you know soon.” She’d driven to Nashville searching for something and now was her chance to pry open the past and shine a light on it. If this is what she wanted, then why hesitate?
The lines bracketing Rick’s mouth deepened. He pulled off his mic pack and carefully wound the cord around the receiver before handing it to the cameraman. “If you’ve got what you need, it might be best if you leave, Ms. Martinez.”
Jenna glanced at Rick, annoyed that he would try to defend her. “I can handle this.”
He worked his jaw as if chewing up and swallowing an oath. “Sure.”
“Talk to you soon, Jenna.” Martinez nodded as if understanding now was the time to retreat so that she could return to fight another day. She and her cameraman left with Rick following behind. She heard him close the front door and she wished keeping the past contained was as easy as closing a door.
Rick watched the van drive off and then faced her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Defenses slammed tighter in place. “Not something I advertise, Detective.”
A brow arched. “Martinez isn’t your friend. She’s in this for the story. She couldn’t care less about you.”
“Sounds like experience talking.”
“It is.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I can handle her.”
His jaw tightened, as if swallowing words too angry to speak. “If I’d known, I’d have never agreed to the interview.”
Anger denied just moments ago now bubbled. “You asked and I said yes. I’m a big girl and can handle a couple of softball questions from a reporter.”
“You consider that softball?”
The question had tipped her off balance, but she’d not admit that to him or Martinez. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Then why did you look like you’d been punched in the gut? Every ounce of color drained from your face.”
She battled the urge to touch her fingers to her cheeks. “Shocked by her question, yes. Very few people know about what happened to me in Nashville, so it never comes up. But, I’m fine. Now, if you’ll also leave I have lots of work to do.”
His jaw tensed and his lips flattened.
“You don’t need to take care of me.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Won’t be my first.”
“Jenna.”
“Please. I’m fine. Just go.”
With the shake of his head he left, Tracker on his heels, each moving down the front steps with more stiffness in their gait. Rick didn’t look back but when he opened the door for the dog, Tracker glanced in Jenna’s direction before getting into the car.
She quietly closed the door. No door-slamming dramatics for her. But as soon as the door clicked closed, she turned and slid to the floor. Tears streamed down her face. She should not be this upset about the past. Days, even weeks, went by without her thinking of it and she wasn’t sure if the images she had of her family were real memories. Everything she had of her family was secondhand or from a few yellowed photos.
Grabbing her phone, she dialed Mike’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Jenna.”
“A Nashville reporter called Baltimore and asked questions about me.”
A pause and then a door closing. “It wasn’t me.”
She ran fingers through her hair. “I know. I know.”
“What happened?”
A sigh shuddered through her. Even seven hundred miles wasn’t barrier enough for her to open up with Mike. “She put two and two together about my family’s past pretty fast.”
“I’m your friend.” His voice dropped a notch. “Your lover.”
The intimacy coating the word had her chest tightening, making it impossible for her to speak. Why had she called him? Why hadn’t she just talked to Rick?
“You don’t belong in Nashville, Jenna. You belong here. Come home and let me take care of you.”
In all honesty, she didn’t know where she belonged. Baltimore had been her home for as long as she remembered but the night she’d found that girl in the closet, the ties to Baltimore had begun to fray. “No. I can’t. Not now. I’ll call later.” She hung up the phone.
Immediately, it rang again and Mike’s number popped up on the display. She turned from the phone, folding her arms over her chest. “Damn it.”
As the phone buzzed, she pressed her fingertips into her eyes and allowed the tears to flow. A shrink would have had a field day with the motivations driving so many of her decisions lately.
She wanted to prove once and for all that Shadow Eyes wasn’t real. She glanced at the display on her phone, now silent. Mike didn’t like to lose. Didn’t like to hear no. She’d not heard the last from him.
She found the number for Susan Martinez, dialed, and heard it go to voice mail. “It’s Jenna Thompson. Let’s set up a meeting at my old home.”
Rick returned to the station, angry and frustrated. Bishop glanced up from a file on his desk. “I heard it didn’t go well.”
“How?”
“Martinez called me for a quote. I had no comment.”
Rick loosened his tie. “I don’t know how I could have missed it.”
Bishop closed the old file in front of him and handed it to Rick. “You didn’t. I did.”
He glanced at the tab on the file. It read: THOMPSON, J. E. He opened the file and saw the picture of a smiling little five-year-old girl. The dark hair, the eyes, no missing now that she was Jenna.
“It was in the stack your brother sent over. And in the pile I reviewed. I saw recovered on the front and didn’t read any further.”
Rick flipped a page that showed a mug shot of Ronnie Dupree along with pictures of her family’s murder. “I wouldn’t have read further either.”
“I remember seeing recovered and thinking happy ending. Fuck.”
“I’d have done the same. She wasn’t the girl in the pink blanket.”
“No.” He read notes detailing the murder and recognized his father’s dark, bold block lettering. Jenna’s entire past had been laid out right in front of them. And no one had connected the dots.
The evening news hummed quietly in the background as Reason stared at the chessboard. Reason liked chess. The rules, the strategy, and a definitive winner and loser at the end all fed into the world order.
Knight had just taken another pawn, an index finger on the piece allowed a change of mind. Finally, satisfied and the finger removed, it was a matter of typing the play into a computer and hitting send.
The chess opponent lived in California and would take time before the next move. The evening news droned and, reaching for the remote, Reason turned to see the face of a woman. Dark hair framed a too-familiar expression. Gray eyes, far more direct than before, stared back at the camera. She didn’t demure but seemed to challenge.
The PAUSE button froze the frame as she spoke, allowing Reason time to move toward the screen and trace the outline of her jaw.
Madness awoke from its slumber and looked at the woman’s face. “It’s Sara!”
“No. Not Sara. It’s her sister, Jenna.”
Madness howled, clawed toward the edge of the shadows. “Jenna? You mean Jennifer? The little girl?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We knew she lived. And now she’s back in town.”
Madness shook off the grogginess. “You shouldn’t have drugged me.”
“I told you, it’s the only way we can survive.”
Madness screeched, panicked. “She knows who we are.”
“I don’t think so
. She’s searching. Wants to find out what happened.”
“Ronnie killed her family. Not us.”
“But we manipulated Ronnie. He was our puppet.”
“No, no, no! It’s Sara!”
Mind buzzing and heart rate kicking faster and faster, Reason felt Madness’s pull. She did look so much like Sara. God. Sara. Sweet Sara. “She’s not Sara. She’s Jennifer . . . Jenna Thompson.”
“Her name isn’t Jenna. It’s Sara. Sara Thompson!” Madness screamed.
