33 Girl #3
It was her turn to teach.
She had been well trained by the woman, and now she was expected to pass her knowledge along to the next girl and the one after that.
She was shaking, to know what they had done to the one before her.
That girl was gone; her blood had flowed from where they had cut her throat, and her life had drained into the ocean.
They told her the police would tear Psyche apart, and they would search the mansion for any clues that would lead them to the woman and the men.
The girl felt a combination of panic and hope when she thought of the message the other girl had left on Psyche’s window.
The woman and men hadn’t noticed it, or she wouldn’t be here now.
She hoped the police saw it and that it would lead them to saving her.
The new location was just as opulent, filled with—as the woman said proudly—“understated luxury.” The girl knew that the “understated luxury” had nothing to do with her, it was all for the men. It was a fairy tale just for them.
When she asked about Belinda, they had at first told her only that she had died, just died. As if a woman Belinda’s age had just dropped dead from natural causes. But the girl hadn’t believed that. She had known there was more to it.
She had felt the handcuffs on her own wrists and ankles, had been dressed in a flowing white gown and taken to the parties.
Now that the last girl was dead, they gave her the diamond ring.
They warned her forgetting any of the lessons would call forth the knife.
The woman had traced the blade across her throat—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make every muscle in her body tighten in fear.
That’s when the woman told her that Belinda had been murdered. The other girl too.
“She did not work out,” the woman said. “And it’s your fault.”
“Why, what did I do?”
“You taught her to be afraid, not to please. Fear has its place, but it never left her—she couldn’t break through it. She wore it in her eyes, all the time. She would never fit in. She would never be able to fulfill our clients’ dreams, make their fantasies come true.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the ocean, darling.”
“The knife?” the girl asked, her knees turning to jelly.
“Yes,” the woman said. “She earned the blade. Just make sure you don’t.
There will be new students, and you will train them, just as I taught you.
Remember—they need to feel loved and happy.
I don’t want to see dread in their eyes every time I look at them.
That poisons them. They need to save their fear and their fight for the right moment.
When the men require it. For the handcuffs and the ring. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“They need to be Beauty when they meet the Beast. As you did, so brilliantly,” the woman said, leaning close to stroke her hair. “That’s why I’ve chosen you to follow in my footsteps. Because you’ve accepted the mission. And you’ll be rewarded as long as you remember your lessons.”
The girl nodded, keeping terror out of her eyes. In the ocean, in the ocean. They had murdered again, and she could be next. The warning was there—if she remembered her lessons.
How could she ever forget them?
Tuesday, July 6; 10:45 a.m.
Conor’s calls to Kate went unanswered. They went straight to voicemail, and he knew that her phone was turned off.
She had told him that she had gone to Fernando Harris’s studio and that it was in Mystic, but Conor didn’t have the address.
After Miranda’s call, Conor was out of his mind needing to find Kate.
Even without an exact location, Tom was already driving them toward Mystic when Conor texted Sam:
Sam—what is Fernando Harris’s address?
He stared at his phone, but she didn’t reply.
Conor and Tom didn’t talk. Conor kept checking his phone, and finally Sam called.
“Sorry,” she said. “I went to the house first, and then the post office. Guess I got sidetracked talking to Steve. I don’t have Fernando’s address. Why do you need it?”
“I’m looking for Kate. She was heading to his studio. He emailed her and mentioned Maeve. He said Maeve had just dropped off Foggy Night today, and obviously that got her attention.”
“I know how I can get it,” Sam said. “Let me text Lincoln real fast. He’s been to Fernando’s with Maeve, and he’ll have the address.”
Conor waited, and then Sam came back on the line. She gave him an address on Gravel Street in Mystic.
“Lincoln is really freaked out about Maeve, and so am I,” Sam said. “And now about Kate too. Conor, it has to do with 1740. I have an idea, and I just asked Lincoln if he wants to research it with me.”
“You’re right about the connection,” Conor said. “What are you researching?”
“Uncle Mike and the others found an ad in the Yellow Pages from twenty-five years ago,” Sam said. “It said ‘1740 Events—Fantasies our specialty,’ and it gave a phone number.”
Sam was on speaker, and both Conor and Tom could hear everything.
“Did they try the number?” Conor asked.
“Yes, and so did I,” Sam said. “No answer—I just got voicemail. It’s a florist.”
“I’m glad no one answered,” Conor said. “Don’t get too involved. Young women are the targets—you’re right in that age group.”
“I know,” Sam said, and she paused for a moment before continuing. “Conor, there’s something else. It’s about Leo Kennedy.”
“What is it?” Conor asked, bracing himself as Tom swerved to avoid some orange cones marking the spot of a recent accident. Route 1 from Westerly into southeastern Connecticut was full of typically heavy summer traffic.
“He and Miranda were walking down the beach earlier,” Sam said. “They acted as if they were separate and just ran into each other, but I had the feeling it was the opposite—they had just pulled apart when they got close to me.”
“You saw Miranda?” Conor asked, thinking of the call he had just received. “When?”
“Around eight,” Sam said.
Conor thought about what Miranda had said, how she couldn’t talk because “he” might hear her. Had she been referring to Leo?
“Do you know where she is now?” Conor asked.
“No, last I saw her was on the beach.”
“I need to talk to her,” Conor said. “She warned me that Kate will be next.”
“‘Next’?” Sam asked.
“Taken,” Conor said.
“Kate is too smart and careful to get taken.”
“You be smart and careful too, okay?” Conor asked, thinking of how many intelligent, cautious women had been tricked into letting down their guard. No one ever expects the worst to happen.
“I will,” Sam said, and hung up.
“You think Sam has a point about Leo Kennedy?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know,” Conor said. “But if she’s right about him hiding a connection with Miranda, it would at least be strange.”
“Call him,” Tom said. “See what he says.”
Conor had Leo’s number saved in his contacts.
He stared at it for a minute. He wanted any information he could get, that might help Kate.
He had tried calling Miranda back at the number on his screen, but she hadn’t answered.
Was she in danger, and did Leo have anything to do with it?
He hesitated, then rang Leo’s number on speaker.
“Detective Reid!” Leo said, answering immediately. He spoke loudly, over the sound of an engine in the background. “What’s up? Don’t tell me they have you in custody again.”
“No,” Conor said. “They don’t.”
“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
Conor hesitated. He decided to show his cards and approach Leo head on. “I want to ask you about Miranda Forrest,” he said.
A long pause. “Funny, I just saw her on the beach,” Leo said.
“Do you know where she is now?” Conor asked.
“No, why would I?” Leo asked.
Conor’s senses pricked up at the defensive response. It reminded him of interrogations, of the tone people took when protesting their innocence.
“Well, you said you saw her on the beach,” Conor said. “Do you know where she went after that? I really need to know. This has to do with Kate.”
“I have no idea where she went—it’s not like she would tell me. I just met her. What’s going on, Conor? Is Kate okay?”
Conor took a breath. He didn’t want to out Miranda, in case Leo was the person she was afraid might hear her. “She’s fine, I’m sure. I’m just being extra careful and need to speak with Miranda about something.”
“Look, Conor,” Leo said. “You’ve been through hell this weekend. If it makes you feel better, I’ve checked with Criminal Division, and they don’t have any charges brewing against you. You’re in the clear.”
“Good to know.”
“I’ve got to go now,” Leo said. “I’m on my Hatteras, about to go fishing. I’d invite you to come along, but clearly you have more important things to do. Call if I can help. I hope you find Kate.”
“Hey, Leo,” Tom said. “It’s Conor’s brother, Tom. What’s running, what are you going out after?”
Conor shot his brother a look across the front seat.
“Tuna,” Leo said. “Are you a fisherman?”
“Sure am. Tuna, nice. Are you heading out to the canyons?” Tom asked, and Conor knew he was referring to the deep water on the far side of Montauk.
“No, that’s too ambitious,” Leo said. “Just the Gully, out past Block Island. I want to come home tonight. The canyons are too far.”
“Good luck,” Conor said.
“You too,” Leo said and disconnected.
Conor looked at Tom. “Did you catch that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Tom said. “You didn’t mention anything about needing to find Kate.”
He knew he didn’t have to ask Tom why he had inquired about Leo’s fishing destination. Leo had just risen to the top of his 1740 list, and both Conor and Tom wanted to know where he could find him.
Tom dialed a member of his team, and Conor heard him instructing him to look for a Hatteras sportfishing boat, focusing the search in—but not limited to—the waters around Block Island.
He said to check registrations and identifications and stay alert for—but don’t detain—a boat owner named Leo Kennedy.
“Leo might have just told us Block Island and be going somewhere else entirely,” Conor said.
“That’s why I said don’t limit the search,” Tom said. “We don’t know if Leo has anything to do with it. But the thing is, if we are right about there being a trafficking enterprise, and he’s involved, a large Hatteras would be perfect transport. It’s spacious, fast, and long range.”
“He knew I was looking for Kate without my telling him. That’s enough for me. We should find out if his boat has been seen at either the Maynard-King or Bellevigne Island docks,” Conor said.
Traffic was moving slowly into downtown Mystic as they inched toward the big flagpole in Mystic.
The bascule bridge was closed, and cars were barely creeping across.
But then a loud alarm sounded, and Conor swore.
He knew that once the bridge swung open for boats to pass through, they’d be stuck in that line of tourist traffic for at least another twenty minutes.
“You got the Gravel Street address, right?” he asked, quickly turning to look across the front seat at Tom.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“I’m not going to wait. Meet me there,” Conor said. He jumped out of the truck and started to run.
The alarm was still going off when Conor sprinted toward the bridge.
It had not started to open yet, and he ran across it.
If he were on duty and saw someone else doing that, he would have arrested them.
He was in Connecticut now, his jurisdiction.
His badge was in his pocket, and he would have flashed it in a second if someone stopped him, but no one did. He had to get to Kate.