―Because Kathy called and wanted to meet. She came down from Minneapolis and I came up.‖
―Were you ever in Madison?‖
Silence.
―Mitch?‖
―Jenna.‖ Frustration. ―Honey, you don‘t understand. I can explain.‖
―I‘m listening.‖
―No. In person. I need to see you.‖
―Why?‖ I said. ―So you can kill me the way you did Danielle?‖
c
A long, long silence.
Then: ―What?‖ His shock seemed genuine. ― What? What are you talking about?
Jenna, what are you saying?‖
―You were angry enough to kill her. That‘s what you said.‖
―That was a figure of spee—‖
―She was in your house! She answered the phone! She was at our cabin!‖ I shouted.
―I saw her! But she won‘t be there now, will she? She‘ll be gone because she was waiting for you; she knew where it was, and the only way she could know that is if you‘d taken her there!‖
―Oh my God. You think that—‖ He sucked in a breath. ―Jenna, honey, Jenna, no, it‘s not like that. You don‘t understand.‖
―Stop saying that! I understand fine and when I find the proof, when I find it . . . !‖ I think I heard him shout my name, but I thumbed . My cell immediately started up again, but I ignored it.
By the time I pulled into Mitch‘s driveway, my cell hadn‘t rung for ten minutes. I was certain he was already in his car, heading home, but I had a head start. The last thing I did was punch up another cell, reading the numbers from a business card. The other line rang once, twice, and then: ―Detective Pendleton.‖
―This is Jenna Lord.‖ I gave the address and then said, ―Come quick.‖
Then I tossed the live cell onto the front seat. I heard you squawking, Bobby-o, but I had no more time to give you. But I‘d seen enough CSI and NCIS to know: you‘d find me soon enough.
50: a
The snow was packed solid. There‘d been plenty of traffic to and from the cabin since I‘d last been there what seemed a century ago, but was only two days. A good thing, too, because I didn‘t have my snowshoes.
The first thing I noticed when I rounded the bend and saw the cabin: no smoke. The windows were dark, and the cabin felt as still and deserted as Mitch‘s house. What did that mean? Had Danielle and maybe David stayed there on Wednesday then left Thursday or Friday? Or had Danielle come to see Mitch and then Mitch had . . . Or maybe it had been a homeless person.... No, no, that I knew wasn‘t true because Mitch hadn‘t denied that Danielle had been at the cabin. Had he?
Had I given him time?
The key was in the jug. I fished it out, fitted it to the lock, and turned. The cabin smelled like tomato soup and peaches. There were dry dishes on the drain board: two bowls, two spoons, two mugs, a saucepan. Danielle and David? Danielle and Mitch? Mitch and . . . ?
The bed was made, but sloppily—not the way Mitch and I always left it. In the upstairs bathroom, two bath towels were draped over the shower stall and there was a discarded travel bottle of Herbal Essences Peach Shampoo and a wad of blonde hair in the trash, probably teased from a brush. Danielle was a blonde. I used toilet paper to pluck the hair out of the trash and then thought I should put it into something where the hair wouldn‘t be damaged. Envelope, I thought, and headed back downstairs.
I paused at the fireplace. Whoever had made the last fire had used newspaper. There was still a section next to the hearth and I bent down to check the date: Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.
The day Danielle and David disappeared, and the day before I‘d seen the face in the window.
b
The desk drawer was locked. I debated a half second, then slid the kissing knife out of my jeans pocket where I‘d put it right before I left the car. I wedged the tip into the lock and jiggled it around, not really expecting much, and nothing much happened. Maybe I could pry the desk open. The blade was very thin and slid easily into the narrow crack between the drawer and the desk. I remembered something from a book, about how burglars used credit cards to depress the tongue of a lock. Maybe that would work and—
Snick.
The drawer popped open. The desk did this little jump and Mitch‘s computer monitor winked to life. I hadn‘t noticed that the computer was on. Mitch‘s wallpaper was a seascape: bulbous corals and a rainbow of fish. One program was running: Firefox. I maximized it. The window exploded across the screen and—
―Oh my God,‖ I whispered.
You’re old enough to get an abortion in Illinois. That was what Mitch had said. But not in Wisconsin or Minnesota or Michigan.
And Mitch should know.
The list of the Illinois clinics was right in front of me.
c
Abortion clinics.
Oh my God.
He‘d gotten Danielle pregnant and then . . . what? Had she threatened him? The way Mr. Connolly got in Mitch‘s face . . . God, her dad knew? No, no, wait, that couldn‘t be right. Mr. Connolly was a lawyer. Wouldn‘t he have gone to the police? But why else would Mitch—or Danielle, because I now knew she‘d been here—be looking up abortion clinics?
He told me to mind my own business, Mitch had said. She’s not old enough to know what she wants.
That didn‘t sound like Mitch was the father . . . but, God, I didn‘t know what to believe anymore.
I scanned the other folders on Mitch‘s desktop. There were lecture notes and labs for chemistry, biology. A folder labeled Cross-Country Training Programs; another for track; a third filled with tips on how to prepare for the Ironman.
Then I saw a folder tucked in the lower left-hand corner, labeled only with an initial: J.
No. I stared at that folder a long, long time. No, don’t do it, don’t do it, walk away just walk—
I double-clicked on the icon and the folder opened.
d
They were Word documents, mostly, but also several jpegs and one PDF. I remembered the digital camera in Mitch‘s desk at school, but I opened the PDF first because of the date.
Discharge Summary: Jenna Meredith Lord.
Rebecca kept it factual and extremely dry. There was my diagnosis— Major Depression, severe, with psychotic features, in remission; PTSD— and a bunch of other diagnoses, none of them flattering, I‘m sure. She detailed my history leading up to my admission, then my course of treatment and my discharge recommendations.
I saw, immediately, what was missing.
Of course, I knew about Matt, Mitch had said. It was in your discharge summary.
No, Mitch.
It wasn‘t.
51: a
Well, Bob, that‘s not quite fair. Rebecca did say unresolved grief over her brother’s death, but that was all. She hadn‘t said anything about Iraq, or Matt‘s being killed in action.