Chapter 47 Ingrid
Ingrid
In DC on a chilly January afternoon, snow might be falling. In California, the sun burns bright as Ingrid pulls aside her
hotel curtains at the Biltmore. She and Lars have come for Gordon’s party to celebrate Ada’s homecoming. Despite the occasion,
unease has consumed Ingrid these last months like a distant storm looming ever closer, leaving her unable to concentrate on
anything else.
While Lars sits in bed with the morning paper, Ingrid calls the California Institution for Women, as she’s done every day
since Ada was incarcerated. “Good morning, I’d like to speak with Ada Worthington-Fox regarding an urgent matter.”
The other woman lets out an aggravated huff. “No calls or visits are permitted; no, do not come to California to ask in person
because you will be turned away; no, you may not speak to anyone else because you won’t get a different answer; no, the restrictions
will not be changing. And as I’m sure you know, Miss Worthington-Fox is being released today, so for the last time, goodbye, Mrs. Van Essen.”
The line clicks. After all these calls, Ingrid never did learn that irritable old crone’s name.
Sighing, she returns to the window and observes the bustling street traffic below, battling the apprehension in her chest. Her efforts to contact Ada over these last months have been met with silence.
Whether Ada truly isn’t permitted to communicate or simply doesn’t want to speak with her, Ingrid has never been told.
The uncertainty has left Ingrid tossing and turning nightly. Although they made peace before the trial, the sentencing shocked
everyone and perhaps fueled Ada’s resentment toward Ingrid for her role in the events leading to it. Perhaps Ingrid was not
as forgiven as she thought.
Despite her sister’s silence, they will see one another this evening, so Ingrid takes solace in that. She even bought a new
dress for tonight—navy, long sleeves, buttoned bodice, soft pleated skirt, and a high neck cinched with a ribbon. Not as extravagant
as one Ada would have chosen, but it’ll do.
As the time for the party nears, Ingrid is tying the bow at the base of her throat when a knock against the door reveals Archie—expressionless,
professional, giving Ingrid no indication of why he’s come.
“Mrs. Van Essen, due to your personal and familial ties to Ada Worthington-Fox, concerns have been raised about the effects
of her subversive influence; therefore you and Mr. Van Essen are required to answer a few questions prior to engaging with
her this evening.”
Lars scoffs, muttering that this is ridiculous while he dons his suit jacket. Agitation creeps across the back of Ingrid’s
neck. This feels wrong. Quite wrong. As for who issued such nonsensical orders, she’s certain she knows. Neither Dietrich
nor Crenshaw will keep her away, so they will answer Archie’s questions quickly and go to her sister.
Except, once they reach the lobby, Ingrid glimpses a parked car through the glass door. Leaning against it is a man dressed
in trousers, a jacket, and a button-down shirt with an open collar. The exposed scar stretches across his neck.
Just as she thought: Something is quite wrong. Archie is not conducting this inquiry.
She comes to an abrupt halt, desperately pushing the nerves from her voice. “Lars was never involved. You don’t need to question him.”
Archie nods to the door. “Please join Agent Stieber. Mr. Van Essen and I will talk separately.”
A small mercy; Dietrich has no interest in Lars, who is already frowning at the mention of their separation. And if Dietrich
intends to keep her from her sister, Ada will need someone else’s help.
“Listen,” she says to Lars in Dutch. “At Gordon’s house—” She stops when Archie grabs her arm.
“English. Don’t make this difficult.”
Lars breaks Archie’s hold. “Do not touch my wife.”
Ingrid regards Archie with a silent entreaty—everything she can’t say, not without endangering her husband. The look in Archie’s
eyes indicates he hasn’t forgotten the warning she issued about Stieber. Then he gestures to the door.
The sinking sensation in her stomach almost roots her in place. Nothing she does will ever encourage Archie to trust her.
Lars has never let her down, though; today is not the day to start.
She places a hand on his arm. “I need you to listen,” she urges, this time in English. Surely he will understand what she’s trying to tell him, will find a way to help no matter
how Archie interferes. Then she draws a breath and proceeds.
Even if Ada hasn’t forgiven her, they have a war crimes case to complete. To do so, Ingrid needs those negatives.
Ingrid could run, scream, flee back into the hotel.
There’s no shortage of people to assist her if she causes a fuss.
Yet the gun against Dietrich’s hip is clearly visible when he straightens and opens his palm.
She surrenders her handbag, which he searches—presumably for weapons—before tossing it into the back seat, then he pushes her forward until she braces herself against the shiny black automobile.
Her stomach tightens, and she almost drives her elbow into his ribs while his hands travel down her arms, along her legs,
under and over her breasts, across the stomach he bruised. Seeking the weapon she certainly would have brought if Ada didn’t
have her gun.
Once satisfied, he nods for her to sit, then he follows.
The chauffeur takes them to their destination for this interrogation that will be nothing like Archie has apparently been
led to believe. As for what Dietrich intends to do with her, she will soon find out. Her heart keeps time with the trees,
mountains, and roadside racing past in blurs of color. A route she soon recognizes. They are on their way to Gordon’s mansion—precisely
where Ingrid needs to go, although it makes Dietrich’s purpose no clearer.
When they arrive, she steps onto the motor court. Judging by the vehicles parked along the street and faint voices and music
as they approach the front door, the party has already started.
Hope and fear wrestle for control as Ingrid walks. Surely Ada is here. Or perhaps that would be worse. If she’s absent, she
might be somewhere safe. Or Dietrich might have already gotten her out of his way, if he’s already obtained the evidence from
her.
Inside, the house is quiet compared to the noise from the open back door. Gordon is nowhere in sight. Neither is her sister.
Ingrid silences all the possibilities swirling in her mind, refrains from springing at Dietrich to demand to know what he
wants, why she’s here, where Ada is. She must not panic. Her sister must be here, must be safe.
Dietrich nods down the hall toward the library, so she continues.
There, amid the darkened bookshelves, Mother sits in an armchair.
Beside her, thinner than Ingrid recalls yet no less poised and elegant, is Ada.
Unharmed. Ingrid could nearly collapse from relief, and this room sparks a tiny flame of hope in her chest. The library.
The listening device. Ada must know about it, must want them in this room for the same reasons Ingrid does—except the stiff, reserved frown Ada gives her sends a chill across Ingrid’s skin.
Her sister has never looked at her like this.
“Well, if it isn’t the witch hunter herself.”
Ada’s statement is so cutting it makes Ingrid flinch. This can’t be, not after they made peace. Her sister can’t have turned
against her, even though they haven’t spoken in months. And as Ingrid casts an uncertain glance from Ada to Mother, she sees
no tension in Ada’s posture, nothing that indicates she is here under duress or wishing to be anywhere except at Mother’s
side. She can’t be cooperating with the two who made her life hell all those years ago. The seed of uncertainty is planted
deep in Ingrid’s core, choking everything else, except she can’t let it. Not after everything they endured together.
As Dietrich directs Ingrid farther into the room and closes the door, Ada regards her with a cold stare. So much like Mother.
Then Ada looks her up and down, lips pursed, chin lifted. So much like Mother.
So much like when they were girls, when Ada imitated Mother to make Ingrid laugh.
The thought sends a sudden spark of energy through Ingrid’s veins. Her imitations, her mannerisms, all to amuse Ingrid. Her
stories she developed to fool Mother when Ingrid slipped away to be with Lars, preventing Ingrid from getting caught.
Keeping her safe.
Perhaps Ada is intentionally hoping to provoke such memories; perhaps this, too, is all an act. She can’t tell. There’s a
reason her sister belongs on the stage and screen.
As Ingrid’s heart thuds and she looks from Dietrich to Mother to Ada, it’s Ada she knows. Ada she trusts. Such trust has never
been misplaced before; surely it won’t be now.