Chapter Fifty-Six

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

I answer the phone and hear the kind of rapid, jagged breaths that signal terror.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. "Who is this?" I whisper.

No answer. Just breathing.

Logic asserts itself, taking control: Tina is dead. Her phone went missing the day she died. Someone must have it.

"Pete?" I guess. "Beth?"

More frantic breathing.

"Rose, is this you?"

The line cuts off.

"Who was it?" Charles asks. "What's happening?"

I fight to establish a clear train of thought. Right after I took Rose to Lucille's, I gave her my business card and let her know if someone called and I heard breathing, I would know it was her. I would come right away.

Whatever bomb my report set in the Barclay home must be on the verge of detonating. Is Rose calling me because she's scared of what someone might do? Or is she terrified of what she might do?

Of course, this could be a trap. And racing to the Barclays' right now, in my current state of mind, may not be the smartest move.

But there is still a chance Rose is innocent. If she's in danger, I have to save her.

You're the only one who can.

The words Charles spoke to me at the Italian restaurant when he was trying to persuade me to take this case roar back into my mind.

Charles lied to me about so many things. But that one line might be the most important truth he has ever uttered.

"Stella? Is everything okay?"

I look at Charles. His pallor is gray, and when he reaches out a hand to pick up his wineglass, it's shaking so badly the ruby-colored liquid sloshes around in the goblet.

I haven't even begun to sort out the emotions he ignited in me with his decades-long deception. But I can't bring myself to speak harshly to him.

"I think that was Rose," I say.

My phone rings again: Tina de la Cruz.

This time when I answer, instead of breathing, I hear slightly muffled voices—as if the person holding the phone is a little distance away from a conversation.

"We can say Rose is sick and can't see anyone."

It's Beth's voice. But who is she talking to?

I listen intently, my body curving around the phone.

"Stella would never believe—"

The rest of Harriet's sentence is obliterated by a clanking noise, as if someone in the Barclay home roughly placed a pan on a stove burner.

"What are we going to do, keep Rose bubble-wrapped for the rest of her life?" Ian's voice is so loud I flinch. He must be closest to the phone—plus, he's yelling. "Hidden away from the world?"

Harriet replies in a placating murmur; I can barely make out the words. "Not for the rest of her life. Just for a little while, just until she's better."

Rose could be anywhere—crouched just outside the kitchen door or even concealed in the elevator.

I miss the first bit of Harriet's next sentence, but I catch the gist of what she's saying: "… can't see Dr. Markman if Rose has a chronic illness that keeps her housebound… We'll find another therapist who comes to us, someone a bit more low-key." Harriet's voice is clear and calm; she's guiding the conversation. Steering Ian and Beth toward a conclusion. "How can Stella possibly dictate the schooling if Rose has a serious medical condition?"

"I can't believe it's come to this." Beth's voice is so raw and bitter I almost don't recognize it. "So we call off the divorce?"

"In name only," Harriet soothes. "It's the safest course for a little while."

Harriet's voice is louder now, as if the person holding the phone is creeping closer to her. "You and Ian can still live separately. We'll turn the shed into a guesthouse for him as quickly as we can. I'll continue to homeschool Rose for the time being. I'm not sure how much power Stella will have once we cancel the divorce, but it's best to have Rose being chronically ill as a backup."

The Barclays must have all read my report. Now they're forming a counteroffensive.

Are they actually planning to give Rose something to make her too ill to attend school? Or will they just find a physician who will say whatever they tell him to?

A hundred and fifty million dollars can buy just about anything—including the word of a corrupt doctor and therapist. That kind of money can entice the wrong kind of people into becoming puppets.

Rose is cunning. Sophisticated. Brilliant. She could have used Tina's cell phone to summon the police to my place in the middle of the night, and to text the disturbing photograph to Lucille.

But I can't see any way she could have set up this conversation.

Rose wanted me to hear of the adults' plans to make her even more isolated. She needed me to be prepared for Beth and Ian to cancel their divorce.

Rose must have kept Tina's phone, just like she kept her lip gloss.

Do not underestimate her, Samuel Prinze warned me as we stood in his murder room surrounded by pictures of child killers.

"I think we need to start giving Rose a little Valium," Harriet says this as if it's the most natural thing in the word to suggest drugging a little girl. "Just until all this is sorted out. It'll keep her calm and peaceful. And if the court orders any kind of evaluation, Rose won't be able to participate."

"That's crazy," Ian replies.

"She's trying to protect Rose!" Beth snaps. "That's all Harriet has been doing all along! If not for Harriet, things could be very bad for Rose!"

"A small dose," Harriet repeats. "It's perfectly harmless. I've researched it. We can start tonight so that Rose finally gets some sleep—so we can all sleep."

"This is insane." Ian's protest is weaker now. The fight is going out of him; he knows he's outnumbered. I sense he's going to capitulate soon.

The voices grow fainter and more muffled. Rose must be moving away, carrying the phone with her. Then the line cuts off.

Rose is finally trying to reach out to me. And I promised her that if she needed me, I'd be there.

The adults in her life are planning to drug her and keep her apart from the rest of the world.

I think about myself as a child, the isolation and fear that were my constant companions. How will I be able to live with myself if I consign another little girl to that?

I've leapt to my feet and am heading toward the door before my mind registers that I've made a decision.