When she had collected herself again, Maggie studied Eva. The woman still stood there on the porch. She’d been patient while Maggie blubbered, and now she wordlessly passed her a tissue from her oversized purse. Maggie took it gratefully and rubbed it over her face. It wasn’t enough, but it took care of the worst of the snot. Maggie sniffed and used her sleeves to swipe at her eyes.
“Would you like to come in?”
Later, she’d think that was the moment that sealed it. The moment that had given way to everything that came after. But then again, maybe it was the moment Eva had turned into her driveway. Or even earlier, the moment Eva Kurtz had tracked down the old police report. The moment Maggie Shiner had changed her name and tried to start over. The moment Rosalie Decatur had decided to run.
“Yes, thank you.” Eva stepped inside. She blinked a few times, and Maggie didn’t know if she was trying to adjust to the dimness of the space or if she was surprised by the state of her home. Maggie tried to see the farmhouse from the perspective of a stranger. It was clean, save for a bit of dust, but it was shabby too. It had been old when Aunt Liddy had lived there, and Maggie had no intention of doing anything to modernize it. All she did was maintain the place. That described her whole life, really. Maintaining, keeping things from crumbling completely, but with no idea what to do in the long term.
Now that Eva was inside, Fischer had calmed down. Apparently, once someone gained entry to the house, they were no longer foe but friend, and Maggie marveled again at how useless he was. He lolled his head against Eva’s hand, hoping for a treat or at least a scratch behind the ears. Eva patted his head absently as her eyes scanned the hall.
Maggie didn’t know what Eva was expecting to find, but she could tell this wasn’t it. The walls were covered in Aunt Liddy’s artwork — genteel watercolors and floral embroideries. The oak telephone table was topped with handmade lace, on top of which sat a dark green rotary phone. Aunt Liddy had seen no reason for an upgrade, and neither did Maggie.
“Are these yours?” Eva studied a watercolor of a pristine farmhouse. This farmhouse, in fact, when the white paint wasn’t curling off the clapboard, before the wisteria had taken over half the front yard.
“My aunt’s. Well, great-aunt.”
“She’s very talented.”
“Was. Yes.”
Eva continued down the hallway until Maggie was the one trailing her, Fischer pulling up the rear.
“Would you like some tea?” Maggie finally asked when they reached the small kitchen at the back of the house.
“That would be nice.”
Maggie went to the stove and grabbed the kettle, glad to have something to do with her hands. While the water heated, she went to the slim shelves that held the collection of Mason jars.
“I don’t have anything with caffeine,” she apologized. “I dry the teas myself. I have dandelion, stinging nettle, lavender, chamomile…”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
Maggie grabbed the jars of lavender and chamomile off the shelf. They were her favorite for relaxation, and she could use some of that right about now. She could use a Xanax too, but she didn’t touch anything harder than melatonin these days. Besides, she wanted to be clearheaded for this conversation. She still didn’t know what Eva wanted or why she was there.
Maggie set a glazed teapot and two cups down on the table. She took a couple of oatcakes she’d made on Sunday and put them on a plate. Placed the plate on the table. The floorboards creaked with every movement. Fischer slid down into an auburn heap at Eva’s feet, hoping, probably, for a morsel of something and recognizing her as a better mark than Maggie.
“That’s Fischer,” she said, as Eva leaned over to scratch his head. Her voice seemed to echo, despite the snug kitchen.
Once the tea was served, Maggie should have slipped into the chair across from Eva, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she grabbed her cup and leaned against the apron sink.
“So, Ms. Kurtz, what can I do for you?”
“Please, call me Eva.” Eva blew on her tea.
“Not an answer to my question.” Maggie tried to smile, but the motion was rusty. Her cheek muscles twitched and she felt like she might look psychopathic, so she stopped.
“Fair enough.” Eva smiled, a gesture that obviously came much more easily to her. “First, I want to say how terrible it was, what you went through. I mean, to endure all that and then to have no one believe you? I can’t even imagine.”
Maggie didn’t reply. If she did, she’d probably start bawling again, and they’d both had enough of that. Besides that, she didn’t want to give Eva any more of an advantage than she already had. Maggie was starting to regret inviting her in. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened to her. What had happened to Rosalie.
“I host a show called Kurtz on Crime.” Eva sipped her tea. “It’s a true crime podcast.”
Maggie nodded. She vaguely knew what a podcast was, though she’d never listened to one and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to listen to one about true crime.
“Anyway, we mostly cover crimes that are unsolved or where justice may not have been done. You know, dig into the old evidence and present theories. The hope is that eventually the right person will hear the right piece of information and a new connection will be found, something that breaks the case open. You know, like Serial did with the Adnan Syed case?”
Maggie stared blankly. She didn’t know what an adnansyed was, and she suspected she didn’t want to. This entire conversation was making her uncomfortable. She had a feeling she already knew where it was headed.
“Anyway,” Eva continued, “most of the stories we cover are well-known crimes, but lately, I’ve sort of been digging into something on my own.” She took another sip of her tea, and Maggie could tell she was trying to frame her next thought. “Did you know that at least eleven women have gone missing from the southwestern part of Maine?”
Maggie shook her head. She didn’t know that. Her palms burned, wrapped around the teacup, but she didn’t want to put it down because then she’d have to think of something to do with her hands, and suddenly she couldn’t remember what hands were supposed to do, exactly. So she gripped the cup and relished the way it scalded her skin.
“The thing is, nobody else seems to know, either.” Eva leaned forward. “They’re all troubled young women — maybe mixed up with drugs, maybe prostitution. Violent boyfriends, high-risk lifestyles. A couple of ‘welfare moms.’ People nobody misses. Except the details are too similar — all of them were in their late teens, all brunettes. All of them disappeared on Saturday nights, all of them last seen at bars.” She paused and looked Maggie right in the eye. “Just like you.”
Excitement made Eva’s eyes sparkle, and Maggie realized how pretty she was. For a second, she let herself imagine having a life like Eva’s. To be a pretty girl, with nice clothes and an expensive skincare routine, who saw crime as a fascinating topic for research and discussion.
She felt an overwhelming urge to throw up. She set her cup down and turned to face the sink, the little window that overlooked the backyard, the chicken run. The back of her throat spasmed, and she spat against the white cast iron.
“Are you okay?”
Maggie jumped when she felt the touch on her shoulder. Eva rubbed her palm against the space between the blades while Maggie dry-heaved over the sink. When she could, she straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“What do you want?” she asked again because Eva still hadn’t answered the question.
“We want to do a show on this. A whole series, actually. Get people looking at it as a serial abduction scenario.”
“Fine. Do it.”
“We want you to be on it. Tell your story.”
There it was. The real reason Eva was here. Deep down, Maggie had known this was what it would be. Had known it since the moment Eva had said she was a journalist. Journalists told stories, other people’s stories, and Eva saw her as a woman with a story.
Only there was no way in hell Maggie would tell this story. She’d told it six years ago to a bunch of cops who hadn’t believed her, and to her father, whose response had been to kick her out of the house. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Liddy, Maggie would still be living on the streets. Would probably be dead by now, even. Telling that story had never brought anything but pain.
The answer must have already been written on Maggie’s face because Eva touched her arm. “Please, Maggie. Think about it. Think about the women you could be helping.”
Maggie didn’t want to think about them. She wanted to ask who had helped her, but she kept that thought to herself. She shook her head. “No. Ask one of those other women. You said there were eleven. I’m sure you can find someone who’s feeling chatty about the whole thing.”
“There’s no one.” The words echoed in the small kitchen. “They’re all still missing, Maggie. None of them have ever been found. You’re the only one who ever got away.”
Maggie’s legs didn’t want to hold her up anymore, but she put her weight against the counter. “You should go,” she said, her eyes on the pine floorboards. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but I can’t help you. I don’t talk about what happened. It’s in the past. I need it to stay that way.”
This time, Eva didn’t argue. She grabbed her bag off the floor and gave Fischer’s ear a gentle flick. When she straightened again, she pushed a small piece of paper across the aged surface of Aunt Liddy’s kitchen table. A business card.
“If you change your mind,” she said. “I’m staying at the Winsome Inn until Sunday. Room twenty-one. Call me or come find me or whatever you want. This is your chance to have your story heard. I believe you and I can make sure the rest of the world does, too.”
Maggie stared down at the card but didn’t pick it up.
“You say you want to leave this in the past,” Eva said, turning to go at last. “But it’s not in the past. He’s still out there, Maggie. He’s still doing this.”
Fischer followed her down the hall and, as soon as she had stepped outside, resumed his barking. He barked until Eva had climbed back into her car, until she’d backed the Prius all the way down the quarter-mile driveway, until she’d pulled back out onto the road and driven out of sight.
Once she was gone and Fischer was silent, Maggie pinched the corner of the business card, as if it was contaminated somehow. She tossed it in the trash. Then she poured her untouched tea on top of it for good measure.