Chapter Three SCARLETT

Chapter Three

S CARLETT

Thursday, July 11, 2024

5:30 a.m.

Standing in the center of my warehouse studio, I stared at the portrait of the young girl. The painting portrayed her wide brown eyes rippling with worry. Coffee-colored hair framed a round face, and full lips were slightly parted, as if she’d been caught midsentence. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and her cheeks.

I set my brush down and wiped my hands on a rag already smeared with a mosaic of blacks, reds, whites, and greens. Stepping back, I locked gazes with those painted eyes, wondering what it was I’d missed. Della.

Why didn’t Della’s gaze align with my memories of her? I’d painted fifty-five versions of Della, but I never quite got the eyes right.

“Della,” I whispered, “what am I missing?”

When I looked at her face, I saw kindness and sadness intertwined with a feral need to survive. I also saw my shame, terror, anger, friendship, and sometimes love. So many emotions tangled into one face that had clung to me for a decade.

Della had lured me toward Tanner Reed’s van a decade ago. Her smile had drawn me close enough so he could grab me. After he’d clamped his hand over my mouth and dragged me into the van, she’d closed the sliding door and held me down while he jabbed a needle in my arm. Immediately, my vision blurred. I’d focused only on her face as panic scraped under my skin.

Over the years the details of Tanner had faded. His expectant look when he entered my cell, the sound of his whispered words as he pushed inside me, the smell of his stale skin, and the sting of a calloused palm slapping my face. All those horrors should’ve been permanently welded to him alone, but I could barely remember him now. All my memories had shifted to Della, his helper and my sometime cellmate, sometime friend. For a decade, she’d stalked my nightmares and lurked in my memories. She was the face of old traumas.

“Fuck you, Della.”

The alarm on my phone rang. I drew in a breath, pushing through a wave of grief, and slowly turned from the painting. I cleaned my brushes, washed my hands, and changed into a clean black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. I grabbed my bag of paints and brushes and opened the back door to the alley where my truck was parked. After loading my supplies in the back, I climbed behind the wheel. Minutes later, I was on the road.

This early in the morning, the drive to the youth-recreation shelter took less than ten minutes. The facility didn’t open until nine, but the security guard was expecting me, and he would let me in the side door.

I parked in the lot near the entrance, rose out of the truck, and shouldered my art bag. I never parked too close to other cars or any collection of trees. I liked a wide field of vision when I exited my vehicle. The other cars were empty.

Drawing in a breath, I locked my truck and walked toward the recreation center’s metal doors. The morning air was already warm, and the humidity added weight that would grow oppressive when the day heated. Weather reports said low nineties today. I wasn’t in love with the warm weather. My warehouse had fans and wasn’t air-conditioned, but no matter what, I never opened a window. Give me snow, ice, and closed windows.

I crossed the lot to the side door and rang the bell, and seconds later it opened. The security guard, Simon, a midsize man with a round belly, salt-and-pepper hair, and a thick mustache, smiled. He’d worked police dispatch for most of his career but last year took early retirement. This part-time security job at the community center wouldn’t make him rich, but as he said, it got him out of the house and gave him a place to be. 24-7 with the wife was too much for them both, he often joked.

The heat appeared to be getting to his knee, which had been scoped last winter. He wasn’t ready to go under the knife, he’d said at least a dozen times.

“Scarlett. You’re early today,” he said.

I grinned, scooting past him into the air-conditioned building. “I need to finish the mural. Reception is tonight, and I want to make sure the paint is at least almost dry.”

“Been climbing lately?” The familiarity in his tone was amusing and annoying. He thought we knew each other because I listened as he talked about his life. Though he’d shared most of his personal details, I’d revealed scant few. I had a collection of five I distributed. Born and raised in Norfolk. Artist. Rock climber. Astrology sign Aries. Played guitar badly.

Rotating between the five facts satisfied most people. Enough to create the illusion of a bond but not enough to invite more conversation. “Every chance I get. Are the rec room doors unlocked?”

“They are. And the first class isn’t until nine a.m. Summer school reading. You’ve about three hours.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Simon.” I set my bag on the table to be searched and walked through the metal detector.

He pushed my bag along, not bothering to look inside. “I peeked at the mural. It looks pretty good.”

“A few more hours today and I can declare my masterpiece done.”

“That Virginian-Pilot reporter who was here last week released her story,” he said. “The piece ran yesterday.”

The Judge, a.k.a. Judge Marcia Thompson, had volunteered me six weeks ago to paint a mural in the cold, sterile cinder block room that did nothing to comfort children who found themselves here for tutoring, classes, or seeking a haven after school. The Judge had requested a mural of a dozen laughing cartoon children. I’d said yes because I’d never been able to say no to her.

I’d been avoiding that reporter until she’d shown up with the Judge as I was packing up my paints last Friday morning. I tossed out my standard fun facts about me and tried not to sound too rude. With each pop of the reporter’s iPhone flash, I’d tensed. I’d have refused the interview, but the Judge had insisted. Thankfully, the Judge had done most of the talking.

“I didn’t see the article,” I said.

“I saved a couple of copies. I’ll bring you one.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mind at all.”

“Okay, thanks.” I shouldered my bag, smiling. “Better get going. The Judge likes me wrapped up and out of the center before the kids arrive.”

“Right.”

“See you at the reception tonight?”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “I’ll bring that article.”

“Great.”

I walked down the silent hallway, past the photographs of kids playing sports, creating art, reading, and playing board games.

In the recreation room, I found the lights on and the mural I’d been working on for the last month and a half illuminated. Painted bright sunshine dripped from the ceiling, and muddy, black earth rose from the floor.

The mural was a parade of cartoon characters all wearing brightly colored clothes covered in daisies, polka dots, or stars. Each wore sneakers, but many of the laces were untied, several shirts had ripped sleeves, others had scuffed knees, and two had clenched fists. Of the ten characters, eight kept their gazes forward. Only two—the one with curly brown hair and the one with straight blond hair—looked back. All were smiling, and most would label the characters as happy. But they each had challenges. I’d created backstories for them and knew all the kids were damaged and broken in some way.

I’d painted each of the characters as independent creatures. None were holding hands; even the two in the back kept their hands at their sides. Two lessons here: You only have yourself. And under the light, there’s always darkness.

Far too much symbolism for ten cartoon characters, but the Judge knew I could get intense, and she was fine with it as long as I didn’t put it on full display. The Judge had always been a guardrail for me. She kept me on course but accepted that from time to time, I bounced off a fence. And when I did, she helped mitigate the damage.

I was willing to bet some of the kids who played here would see some of the nuances. Their lives weren’t easy or perfect, so it stood to reason their cartoon characters would mirror that. I wanted them, or at least some of them, to see that someone else recognized the imperfections behind the smiles.

When my life had been destroyed, the last thing I’d wanted was to see grins and laughing faces. But the Judge reminded me that smiles sent good and positive messages, and the kids needed that hope.

I spread my drop cloth under the last quarter of the mural and prepared my paints and brushes. Setup took a good twenty minutes. Today, I was putting finishing touches on the last kid, the one with curly brown hair and bright eyes. Technically, she was done, but like the portrait at my warehouse, I felt like I hadn’t nailed her. She was a secret-keeper, and she hoarded bits of information from everyone, especially the girl in front of her.

Unlike the portrait, I would have to stop fiddling with this painting. With the opening reception scheduled in twelve hours, I needed to put the brushes down. Time to move on.

As my brush curved along the edge of the little girl’s foot, darkening shadows for dimension, the door to the recreation room opened. I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Simon telling me to wrap it up early.

The man standing at the door was about six feet tall and had a tapered waist and broad shoulders. He had an unusual look. A brawler’s crooked nose, a square jaw, short black hair, and thick brows. He wore an expensive dark suit, a blue tie, a gold watch, and polished shoes; however, the man didn’t quite jibe with the clothes. He was curating an image that wasn’t really him.

I’d seen my share of people come through here in the last month, and I was good at guessing their professions. His suit was too nice to peg him as a victims’ rights advocate, a state-appointed attorney, or a cop. Silk tie screamed defense lawyer, or maybe a corporate donor.

The guy’s gaze searched the room, and it was clear he was in the wrong place. “Do you know where I can find Judge Thompson?”

“She keeps an office on the second floor.” If he’d asked me about the restrooms, cafeteria, or basketball court, I could’ve directed him there, too.

A slight nod suggested he’d acknowledged my information and would leave. Instead, he moved toward me. “What’re you doing?”

“Mural for the kids. A favor for the Judge.”

“She’s hard to ignore.” He walked up to the painting. “Nice.”

“I wouldn’t touch anything. Paint’s still tacky.”

“Right.” He leaned closer and studied the child with long blond hair. “She looks like you.”

“Does she?”

“She looks sad.”

“She’s smiling,” I corrected.

“If you say so.” He nodded and shifted his gaze to the little boy with the torn pockets. “They’re all smiling. But they don’t look happy.”

His observation surprised me. “It’s meant to be fun. Bright and joyful.”

“But there are nuances.” He regarded me closely. “Risking the obvious, are you a professional artist?”

“I am. Primarily printmaking.”

“I’m Luke Kane.” He extended his hand. “Judge wants me to join the board of the center.”

I held up paint-stained fingers. “Scarlett Crosby.”

He lowered his hand as his gaze scanned me. I sensed he’d taken a mental picture of me and filed it away with my name, so that the next time we met, he’d connect the image and name. But we weren’t meeting again. “How long have you been working on this?”

“About four weeks.”

“I haven’t seen you.”

“I’m gone before the center opens.”

“Looks like you’re about finished.”

“Ready for the opening reception tonight.”

He shifted his gaze from me to the mural. “Lots of undercurrents, Scarlett Crosby.”

Frowning, I stared at the smiling cartoon faces. “I thought I was being subtle.”

He leaned forward a fraction, as if sharing a secret. “I’m paid to pick up on hidden messages.”

“What do you see here?” I challenged.

He slowly pulled his gaze from mine. “The kids are trying to be happy. They’re trying to feel normal, but it’s hard.”

“Wow.”

“The work is great, and I don’t think the average person will look past the bright colors. Your secret messages are safe.”

Secret messages. I was sending out a warning that the world wasn’t what we wanted it to be.

“Will you be at the opening?” he asked.

My focus shifted from bright-pink polka dots back to him. “The Judge has requested it.”

Even white teeth flashed. “Command performance?”

“Yes.”

“Looking forward to seeing you tonight, then.”

Desire sparked in his gaze. To his credit, it was subtle. A classy kind of horny. I knew I was attractive. I’m tall, have blond hair and full breasts, and I realized men had noticed me since I was twelve.

Whereas some women understood this power and wielded it to promote or entertain themselves, I’d learned ten years ago that playing with fire risked third-degree burns.

“See you tonight.” I knelt to my supplies and began to close paints and wipe off brushes. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to get cleaned up and out of here before the center fully wakes.”

“Sure. I don’t want to get in your way.” He took a step back.

I reached for the cloth hooked to my belt and wrapped up my brushes, which I would clean thoroughly back at my studio.

“How many hours does something like this take?” Luke asked.

“Ninety to one hundred, give or take.”

“All in the early-morning hours?”

“Basically.”

“My hat’s off to you, Scarlett. Great work.”

“Secret messages aside.”

He laughed. “They make it interesting.”

Having him close and watching me so intently was disconcerting. It was normal for a man and woman in our age range to flirt, but nothing about my interactions with men had been normal. I’d gone from the occasional middle school sloppy kiss to nonstop violence. With no frame of reference or jumping-off point, I couldn’t read the signals most women could.

I rolled up my drop cloth, not as neatly as I’d have liked, but I was working quickly because suddenly, I wanted to be out of here. If I’d been more cautious a decade ago, if I’d made one decision that was slightly different, my life wouldn’t have been shattered. Just a moment’s hesitation might have allowed me to escape Tanner’s grip. A slight pause could have been enough for someone to see him shoving me into the van, and that person might have called the cops. Another squandered moment and I might have missed the bus altogether that night and not been anywhere near Tanner’s van parked by the Naro theater.

I’d put the pieces of my life back together, but healed fractures were never as strong as the original. I couldn’t risk another hit—this time there might be no fixing me.

“Have a good one, Mr. Kane.”

“Luke.”

My pursed lips curled into what I hoped was a not-too-friendly but not rude (which could piss him off) smile. I didn’t want to suggest any interest on my part.

When I moved toward the recreation room doors, Luke beat me to the handle and opened it. “Good to meet you, Scarlett.”

He’d moved too quickly and quietly. It was jarring. “Yes. Right.”

I walked past the security checkpoint, waved to the new morning guard on duty, and hurried out the front door to my truck. I slung my items into the back seat and then slid behind the front wheel. My mouth was dry, and my palms were sweating slightly only because I’d been alone with a man in a public space. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Flushed cheeks brightened my green eyes.

I started the truck and shifted it into gear. The drive back took longer in morning traffic, but eventually I parked in the alley behind the warehouse where I lived and worked.

Gray with large windows, it was three thousand square feet. Back in the day, it had been constructed to house goods shipped into the Port of Norfolk.

Located in the center of Norfolk, it was blocks from the NEON art district, a mile from the railyards and ports, and another mile from the tony Waterside District. The Judge had helped me find the space six years ago with the monies she’d raised for me on a GoFundMe page. The property had been in foreclosure, so it had been a steal. I’d had generous offers to sell the building last year, but I liked this once-forgotten and neglected space.

I held my breath as I unloaded my paints and hurried toward the back door. I punched a code into the digital panel and slipped inside. After flipping another half dozen locks, I allowed my gaze to wander to the print blocks, machine presses, paints, and canvases. I let out the breath I’d been holding since I’d left that morning.

As my supplies slipped from my fingers to the concrete floor, I glanced at the Della portrait. I walked up to the three-by-five-foot canvas, reached for a brush, and pressed the bristled edges to barely tacky paint. I was tempted to scrub around Della’s eyes, dig into damp layers I’d piled on over the last few days, and rework both. Maybe I could add depth.

Or better, find a way to decouple our molecules that seemed forever cleaved together.

A fist pounded against my front door. Irritated by the distraction, I carefully covered Della’s face and moved to the front window. I paused, looked out, and saw a stocky man on my stoop. He was wearing a dark suit that was a bit worn but clean, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. His hair was cut short, and the edges of his sideburns were sharp. At nine in the morning, he was clean shaven, but I bet he’d be sporting a slight five-o’clock shadow by noon. Good, practical dusty black shoes rounded out the look. Behind him, parked by the curb, was a nondescript dark-blue four-door.

I’d crossed paths with enough cops to recognize one. They had a way. Even the kind ones projected an arrogance when they told jokes or tried to be my friend.

After my rescue, I’d been treated as a victim initially. Most cops were nice or pretended to be. Some couldn’t sustain eye contact with me because I embodied their worst nightmare. I’d slipped into the victimized versions of their daughters, sisters, or wives.

After I’d been released from the hospital to my mother’s care, I’d not thrived. I’d been broken, battered, and very angry. I’d acted out. I drank too much. Did drugs. Got arrested. After my third arrest, alternative theories about Tanner and me arose like thorny weeds in a garden, and as often happened with each new telling, assumptions about me grew darker. By the end, the rumors had repainted me as Tanner’s willing accomplice. We were both satanists, we imprisoned girls to breed an army of Tanner’s children, or we were wannabe serial killers.

The rumors spread like a blight, tainting all my interactions with the cops over the next year. Each time a cold case grew hot, I received a visit asking me if I knew where to find a missing person. I didn’t have any answers, which was always met with stony expressions or threats to lock me up. If not for the Judge, I don’t know what would have happened.

The skin on the back of my neck tingled. Who had gone missing or died this time?

The cop’s gaze flickered to the window, and for an instant our stares locked. Even as I considered leaving him to stew on his side of the closed door, avoiding him would snowball into more trouble. I was low-hanging fruit on the food chain and too easy to pluck.

I flipped the three locks and unfastened two security chains. Drawing in a breath, I opened the main door but left the mesh metal security door locked. “Can I help you?”

“Scarlett Crosby.”

Not a question but a statement. “Who are you?”

He reached in his breast pocket, removed a badge, and held it up to the steel netting, giving me ample time to review his credentials. “Detective Kevin Dawson. We met years ago.”

I wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “Did you arrest me?”

He replaced his identification back in his pocket. “The first time our paths crossed, I was pulling you from Tanner Reed’s van.”

All I remembered about that day was heart-stopping panic, a bone-crushing crash, pain, and shots fired. My world had been spiraling. “I don’t remember you.”

“Not surprising. It was chaotic.”

“Yes.”

I suppose he needed to hear me say thank you, but I wasn’t feeling grateful. “What do you want, Detective Dawson?”

“Wondering if you have a few minutes. I have several questions.”

A dull headache formed behind my eyes. “About?”

His expression didn’t give any hint to his thoughts. “Better if we don’t have this conversation on the street.”

“I don’t know you, Detective Dawson. I’m going to need more.”

His hand slid into his pocket. Change rattled. “Do you remember the second time we met?”

“No.”

“It was about two months after you were released from the hospital.”

I’d been so high in those days because all I’d craved was nothingness. “No.”

“I asked you about a missing girl on that second visit.”

“I’ve vague memories of a younger, thinner man talking to me, but I barely registered a word.”

My brutal honesty prompted a half smile. “I was definitely in better shape a decade ago.” When I didn’t react, he cleared his throat. “A body was found. We believe she’s a young girl reported missing in the spring of 2014. She went out with Tanner Reed once.”

I stood still, barely breathing. Each time cops brought a query like this to me, I imagined a girl in a dark room screaming, begging for her mother or anyone to please find her. I’d lived as Tanner Reed’s captive/whore for eighty-eight days, and I’d been the last to see him alive. The parade of detectives, uniforms, and forensic psychologists had always assumed my insight into Tanner’s mind could be the key to all their unsolved cases.

“Was her name Della?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly. “No. Not Della.”

The cops never really believed me about Della. They considered her a product of my imagination because I’d been so traumatized. “If it’s not Della, I can’t help you.” A bus rumbled behind him, and a horn honked.

“I’ve read your file. I understand your hesitancy.” He attempted to soften his tone, as if compassion were a rusty implement in his toolbox.

I didn’t open the door.

“It’s important we talk. Now.” Impatience bucked under his words, but he kept it reined in as if it had hurled him into too many disasters before. However, his rigid legs and braced back told me he would stand here and wait until I spoke to him.

I opened the lock. Hinges groaned as I pressed the door toward him. He grabbed the door’s edge and pried it open until there was nothing separating us.

My heartbeat quickened. Blood rushing, my head pounded against my temples—both sensations harbingers of a panic attack. It had been a year since I’d had a bad one. That episode had been triggered by an envelope filled with newspaper clippings about Tanner and me. I never figured out who had sent it or why anyone would bother to taunt me after all these years. For the weeks after the envelope had arrived, I’d had trouble sleeping.

Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped back, giving him a wide berth. I closed the security door behind him but didn’t lock it.

Dawson’s gaze scanned the interior of my warehouse space. Old brick walls stretched toward a twenty-foot metal ceiling supported by steel rafters. Five large skylights allowed in bright sunshine that mingled with the light from ten round industrial pendant lights.

Some of my prints hung framed on the brick walls, but most had been sold either via commission or at local shows in the art community’s NEON district.

He looked toward a portrait of a blond woman, her face turned away from the artist. “May I get a closer look?”

Impatience elbowed through rising panic. “Of course.”

He walked up to within inches of the print and leaned toward it. “Detail’s amazing.”

“Thank you.”

His attention remained on the painting another beat before he turned. “That one hasn’t sold?”

“Some don’t. I’ll try again at the fall art festival. You interested?”

He smiled. “More of a framed poster kind of guy.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Folding my arms, I waited for him to get to the point.

Some of the ease faded from his features. “Do you remember Sandra Taylor?”

“She’s the girl you’re looking for?”

“Yes. She’d be about your age. She’s the one who vanished a few months before you.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Did Tanner ever mention her?”

“No. He rarely spoke to me. He was never interested in conversation.”

Dawson’s jaw pulsed. “She looked like you. Did a little part-time waitress work. She went to East Norfolk High School like you.”

“You keep referencing her in the past tense.”

He drew in a breath. “We believe we’ve found her body.”

The Other Girl. “Della mentioned the Other Girl when she was warning me about being defiant. But I never met or saw her. It was just me and Della.”

He reached for his phone, pressed a couple of buttons, and then turned the screen toward me. “This is Della, correct?”

I’d drawn Della’s face for the detectives who’d been interviewing me. No traces of the girl had been found in the incinerated remains of Tanner’s house, and she hadn’t matched up with any missing person cases. After a time, detectives stopped believing in Tanner’s mystery girl.

Looking at the old cartoonish image with its immature pencil strokes, reminded me of how young I’d been when I drew the picture. I was amazed how crude my work had been a decade ago. Della sketch #1.

Re-creations of Della’s face had been literal at first, but after years and multiple drafts, Della’s face took on different incarnations. Queens. Fairies. Aliens. Sirens. No matter the form, the face and especially the eyes were the same.

“That’s her,” I said.

“Della never mentioned Sandra by name?”

“No. But she spoke about another girl.”

“What did Della tell you about the other girl?”

He didn’t believe in Della and must have thought my poor mind had broken and my personality split. “Della told me there’d been another girl in the house. Della said she vanished suddenly.”

“Did Della tell you anything else about this other girl?”

The air palpitated with a dizzying energy. “We talked about a lot of things. We didn’t talk about the Other Girl much. We both feared we’d end up like her.”

“Why do you think Della was never found?”

“I don’t know. Tanner’s house burned to the ground after my rescue. Maybe she set off all the bombs he’d planted before she ran.” I stood silent, staring at him, hoping to peel back a layer or two so I could discern what he was after. People rarely meant what they said. There was always a hidden agenda.

His brown eyes watched me closely. “Sandra Taylor’s phone was found with her body. It’s old and the techs are hoping to breathe life into it. Will I find any call exchanges between you two on it?”

I couldn’t determine whether he was sincere. Cops weren’t bound by truth when conducting an interview. All’s fair in love and war, in a manner of speaking. “I never talked to Sandra Taylor. Ever.”

“The house where we found her body is around the corner from your mother’s, which I believe you now own.”

“Tanner did several renovation projects in our neighborhood. He was working a job across the street from our house when I first saw him.” On a bad day, bitterness would have dripped from those words. Today, my anger was in check.

“Did Tanner approach you, or you him?” Dawson asked.

I almost appreciated the brisk, efficient question. He wasn’t dancing around my past. “I was sitting on the front porch of my mother’s house and sketching. He asked to see the drawing. He said it was nice.”

“Did he ask you out on a date?”

“No.” But he’d been so charming, and for the first time in a long time, I’d felt seen. I’d have said yes to a date.

“How soon after that conversation did he take you?”

“Three days. It was a hot Friday. June 6. I was outside the Naro theater on Colley Avenue.”

“You were selling your art.”

“Trying to. I’d had no takers. And then Della walked up to me. That was the first time I ever saw her.”

“She lured you to Tanner’s van?”

“Yes.”

“You got in willingly?”

The noose of his suspicions tightened around my neck. “I approached it willingly.”

“After your run-in with Tanner, you were arrested multiple times.”

Run-in. Eighty-eight days of torture and sexual abuse. Detective Dawson made it sound so simple. No mention of chains, isolation, or starvation. “You don’t strike me as the clueless type, Detective.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“Then why are you trying to get under my skin?”

“I’m not.”

“Run-in?” I said, more to myself.

“Maybe I understated it a bit.”

His quiet judgment made me angry. I smoothed my hands over my hips. “I can’t help you, Detective Dawson. I’m sorry about Sandra Taylor. I hope you find her killer. She deserves justice.”

He reached in his side pocket, pulled out a worn leather case, and removed a card. He extended his hand, the card dangling from the tips of his fingers.

I hesitated and then took the card, careful not to touch him. Detective Kevin Dawson. City of Norfolk Police. Criminal Investigations. “I’ll call if I have information.”

Nodding, he moved toward the door. The mesh security door squeaked, but he paused. “There were four missing persons reports filed the spring you vanished. You were one of them and Sandra was the second. The other two girls were never found. But no Della.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Tanner never asked you to help him lure another girl, other than Tiffany Patterson, correct?”

Tanner had targeted Tiffany, a young waitress with red hair who worked at his favorite diner. Ten years ago, Tiffany had been a thin, nervous girl with a strip of freckles splayed over the bridge of her nose. She was older, wearier these days, but basically the same. “Correct.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to Tiffany Patterson?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“You’re in contact with her?” No missing his surprise.

“She has a drug problem. She came to me about six months ago asking for money. I don’t give her money, but I feed her every time I see her.”

He surveilled me with a hawkish glare. “Why would she come to you for help?”

“She feels like I owe her.”

“What did you say to her ten years ago to coax her outside?”

I suspected he knew the answer, but for the sake of this performance: “I recited the story Tanner gave me. I told her there were puppies in the back parking lot behind the dumpster. She got excited and followed me.” Tiffany’s upbeat chatter still could rattle in my head. Such optimism that I’d helped crush. “I don’t remember what she said to me.”

“Tanner was there waiting by his van.”

“Yes.”

“You coaxed Tiffany to within five feet of his vehicle, according to the surveillance footage.”

“Yes.” I pictured Tiffany moving toward me, a curious smile tweaking the edges of her lips. As when Della had beckoned me, there’d been no worry or concern. Tiffany’s future, like mine, had boiled down to seconds. A delay of one or two determined whether her life would stay the same or descend into hell.

One moment.

“You saved her life,” Detective Dawson said.

I remembered Tanner smiling. And the next word I’d said to her was Run! “Yes.”

I’d saved the young girl with trusting eyes and a bright smile, but I’d also been seconds away from betraying her on Tanner’s promise that Della and I would be freed. I’d been prepared to send a young girl, body and soul, into hell. And then at the very last second, for reasons I still didn’t understand, I’d changed my mind. “She also saved mine.”

The security door squeaked closed as he moved toward me, stopping a few feet short. Far enough away so I didn’t panic but close enough to make it impossible for me to ignore him. He removed a notebook from his breast pocket. “And now you take care of her?”

“When I can. Yes.”

“Tiffany communicated with you after your rescue, correct?”

“She wrote me a note expressing her gratitude.” I’d torn up the note and thrown it into the trash, knowing whatever hero Tiffany saw didn’t exist. I’d been a coward who’d had a lapse of decency. I’d also been furious and resentful of the girl who’d been gifted with that precious moment of hesitation denied to me. I might still be. “I didn’t respond to any of her notes.”

“How many did she write?”

“Three.”

“No contact with her until last year?”

“Are you looking for a specific answer?”

A frown furrowed his brow. He was fishing, but not getting any bites. “Just the truth. You said Della was often locked up with you.”

“Yes, but Tanner had a different relationship with her. She wasn’t always confined in the room with me. Many times, he let her sleep upstairs with him. She had more freedom, if you could call it that.”

Pages in his notebook flipped. “You said he treated her like a wife.”

“Yes.”

More pages turned over. “And Della never told you why he beat her up that last day.”

“No.”

“Had he beaten her that badly before?”

“Not that I’d seen.”

“Tanner trusted you enough to lure Tiffany to the van?”

“Yes.”

“Why was he so sure about you?”

Another mystery I’d not been able to solve. “Della said I could be trusted because I’d stopped fighting. I’d accepted my new life.”

“Why did you stop resisting?”

“The less I fought, the less it hurt.”

When I didn’t elaborate, he said, “Why did you target Tiffany?”

“I didn’t. Tanner did.”

“He’d seen Tiffany before?”

“Della told me she and Tanner had been to the diner a few times that spring.”

“Tiffany didn’t remember them when asked by the detectives.”

“They’d picked busy times. Easier to blend in, Della said.”

“Why did you agree to do it?”

How many ways could I explain myself? My head spun, sucking in the circling shadows. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

“We always have choices.” He drew in a breath.

“Live in Tanner’s basement for eighty-eight days and then we’ll talk about choices.”

Suspicion tinted his gaze. “What did Tanner promise you if you got Tiffany to the van?”

“A hamburger. And he said he might let me go.”

“And you went along.”

“I didn’t go through with it.”

“You took it right up to the edge.”

“I was desperate. And if you really were at the crash that day, you know I was in bad shape.”

“I’m not denying you didn’t suffer.” His discomfort gave me some pleasure.

“But desperation doesn’t warrant what I almost did, right?”

He was silent for a moment. “And Della, the woman who lured you into Tanner’s trap, vanished just like that. And the house where he’d kept you both burned to the ground.”

“Yes.”

“Ever wonder what happened to Della after your rescue and the fire?”

When I’d heard about the fire, I thought she’d died in it. I’d no doubt the house and anyone in it had been obliterated, given how many gasoline bombs had been planted. I’d wept bitterly. Only later, when the arson investigators had sifted through the rubble, did I learn the police had found no bodies in the ruins. “I have.”

How many times had I had Della sightings? How many times had I run after or screamed at women who’d borne a vague resemblance to Della?

“You filed six police reports over the last ten years, swearing you saw this Della.”

The initial two reports were met with keen interest. After that, the officers took me less seriously. “The cops proved I was wrong every time.”

“Would you say you were fixated on Della?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I swelled with a sudden hollowness. One psychologist suggested I was shifting blame to the fictitious Della to help me deal with the guilt.

“Do you dream about Tanner?”

“No, not really.”

“Why not? He’s the stuff of nightmares.”

Get off me! Get off me! I still woke up screaming those words. “Easier for me to put him out of my mind.”

“But not Della.”

Before Della, I’d been a moody teenager who worried about homework and parties. After Della lured me into the van, I was distant and distrustful. I might have physically survived, but the girl I’d been had died.

A tension crept up my back and coiled around my neck. “I’m not sure what you’re fishing for, but I can’t help you.” My head spun. “I’ve got an appointment in a half hour. I need to leave.”

He hesitated. “I’ll be back if I find out more about Sandra Taylor. And I’m sure there’ll be more questions.”

“And I still won’t be able to help you.”

He left, and as soon as the security door closed, I locked it and slammed the security door behind it. All locks were secure in under ten seconds, a drill I practiced often.

Detective Dawson walked to the curb to his unmarked dark-blue car and got behind the wheel. He sat staring at my building for a long moment before he started his car and drove off.

Della was real. I knew it. She wasn’t a figment of a traumatized mind.

But the cops had never found her, and the more I’d told Della’s story, the more they questioned my mental stability. So I stopped talking about Della after the last failed sighting three years ago.

After ten years, there was still no sign of Della.

But the cops were circling again.