Chapter 64
The highway signs flashed by, names of places she didn’t recognize, arrows in directions this car would not go.
No one would be expecting her, or waiting for her, or concerned about her.
Built into book tour were times her colleagues and family expected her to be unavailable—in the air, with scattershot flight delays and schedule changes, capricious ground transportation, spotty internet. No one would worry about her for hours.
She was on her own. Now she had to find the truth. Wherever it led. She prayed that would not be behind bars.
She was a main character who did not even know her own true backstory. Now, as in any good novel, the author had to discover her protagonist’s past.
Harper had stayed in the middle lane, steady as if she were on cruise control. She was the only one in the car who knew where they were going.
“Listen, Harper,” Tessa began. “Emily’s father was the sheriff. He came. He looked. He yelled at us. He said it was a deer. He called my mother, and he told her. He was the sheriff . Do not try to extort me all these years later by—”
“Honey. Fast forward to the final chapter. Bottom effing line? You killed a person, and you ran. You and your mommy dearest got the hell out of town—while your victim was lying on a backcountry road, dead.”
“Who?” Tessa asked, before she could stop herself or decide if she really wanted to know. “Who? Tell me.”
Tessa watched the woman shake her head, her face in the rearview with an expression of pure venom.
“Fiction has served you well, hasn’t it?
Your mother left enough money after she died to keep things, shall we say, in balance.
For a while. Did you wonder why you got nothing in her will?
She left you a life-changing gift, Tessa.
She bequeathed you the powerful safety of silence.
And even arranged to have the money continue after she died.
To cover up for you. But, alas, that money has now run out.
And that is why you and I are here today, circling beautiful Des Moines.
Your life of fiction is about to become a true-crime story. A story about your crime.”
“But my mother never—” She was having difficulty making the words. “I didn’t—we didn’t—do anything wrong. And I wasn’t driving.”
“Fiction, fiction, fiction,” Harper said. “And we are at six o’clock, I might point out, so better make your decision. We can solve this now or we can… keep driving. Perhaps it was a good thing that your event tonight was canceled. No one will miss you. Until it’s too late.”
“You’re asking me for money. Why do you care, anyway?
Who are you?” Tessa’s fear mixed with her emerging anger, a noxious toxic concoction of uncertainty and rage.
Her poor mother—she’d believed this was true.
She’d thought—known?—Tessa was a killer.
And must have remembered it every time she saw her.
But she’d protected her, too, in stoic and tragic and ruinous silence.
In fiction, sometimes darkness had a happy ending. In real life, it often did not.
If this woman was telling the truth, she did live in fiction. “Are you behind this? Or are you simply a messenger? For who? At least I should know.”
Tessa fingered the phone in her hand, grateful for the lifeline, relieved she had not allowed this woman to stash her tote bag in the trunk.
“ I’m not asking for anything , Tessa, and certainly not demanding. I’m simply wondering.” The woman paused, cleared her throat, checked the rearview. “What do you think would be the best way to keep your long-lost best friend quiet?”
“It is Emily? I can’t believe it.”
The woman burst out laughing, a disquieting incongruous sound. “Oh, that’s perfect, Tessa. Now there’s something you can’t believe. Imagine that.”
“How much?” I’m so sorry, Henry , the thought came to her again. Always always. Linny and Zack. Sadie Bailey. DJ. Olivette. All who had trusted her. All she had failed. “How much do you want?”
“About time you asked. But right now, we simply want your acceptance. Your understanding of our mutually assured destruction. You tell anyone what happened in this car? We’ll hear about it.
And then, we’ll tell what happened. So for now, you go sell books.
Lots and lots of books. Besides, you’ve got your family to support. And that hefty mortgage to pay.”
“Mortgage? How do you know about—”
“Tessa. You’re an author. You do research.
I’ve been researching every move you make.
For years. Even have a Google Alert for you.
And public records—including publishing announcements about ‘significant deals’—are wonderful things.
The moment you and that husband got that outrageous mortgage on that bougie house in Rockport, it went right into the Registry of Deeds, and we were back in business.
Your success means our success. Isn’t that a perfect bargain? ”
Tessa was tired of bargains, weary of everything good depending on her agreeing to something horrific. Even her signature on that life-changing mortgage contract had engendered devastating complications. Talk about life-changing.
You’re gonna give up? Annabelle asked. Make a deal of your own.
“How will I contact you?” She’d never learn anything if she didn’t at least pretend to acquiesce. She had no facts, none, except that she was not a fictional character. And the story of her life was her own decision.
“ I’m tempted to say ‘we’ll find you ,’ but that sounds like one of your made-up villains. Let’s make it easy. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Take you to the airport. I saw from your helpful website that you’re actually headed for Philadelphia. Then we can talk further.”
“Not a chance.”
“Your call.” The woman’s face turned viperous. “And that means I do have to say my line. We’ll find you . And that may not be fun for you. For your family, either.”
“My family? Unless you leave them alone, I’ll let the chips fall where they may. And if you think I’m getting into this car again—”
“It’ll be a different car, just saying, in case you’re deciding to get the plate number.
But you’ll recognize me. And I hope you’ve realized, Tessa, for now at least, we benefit when you sell as many books as possible.
So. Agreed. We’ll make sure your family is safe and sound. As long as you make sure we are.”
Tessa could not come up with an accurately repulsive adjective for this person. “As long as you answer one more question. Emily. The real Emily. Where is she?”
Good one, Annabelle said.
“Huh. Where is Emily? Interesting question. Oh look, there’s our exit. Shall we take it? Are you in agreement? Do we have a deal?”
“Yes. Agreed,” Tessa lied. “Where. Is. Emily?”
The woman turned on her blinker, its ticking like a time bomb. “You know, now that I think of it, I’m not the best person to ask.” The car eased toward the exit marked Downtown Des Moines. “Perhaps you should… ask your husband. He seems to be making a lot of new friends.”