She was getting ready to go to the play the following Friday night, smoothing the wildness out of her hair with her curling iron, when Jack walked into the bathroom.
He picked up his toothbrush. “They found one of those guys,” he said.
No. She lowered the curling iron to the counter. “One of what guys?” she asked.
“You know, those kidnappers.” Jack spread toothpaste on the bristles of his brush.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “Where? How did you hear?”
“It was just on the news.”
She walked into the bedroom and turned on the TV, changing the channel to CNN.
“Did they show pictures or anything?” she called to Jack. Maybe they had the wrong guy. Please let them have the wrong guy.
Jack stood in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. “I just caught the tail end of it. They said they found him in California.” He looked at his watch. “Honey, we only have about twenty minutes.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m ready. I just…”
A picture of a man flashed on the screen. He was handcuffed and being led by a guard or a police officer, someone in uniform. Eve sat on the bed, leaning close to the screen. The prisoner was fiftyish, wiry and bald. For an instant, the camera caught his eyes, translucent as green glass. Tim.
You pig, she thought. You lying, cheating pig.
“Timothy Gleason, suspect in the kidnapping and murder of Genevieve Russell, has been arrested in California,” a male voice said. “Gleason was living in Modesto under the name Roger Krauss and was working as a bartender.” A police officer, the same man who had given the press conference the week before, appeared on the screen, again in front of a bank of microphones. “Gleason accompanied the arresting officer without resistance,” he said. “We expect him to be extradited to North Carolina immediately, where he’ll be charged with the kidnapping and murder of Genevieve Russell and her baby.”
The camera returned to Sophia Choi at the news desk. “Police reported that Gleason was turned in by a cousin, David Gleason, whose family owned the cabin near where Russell’s body was found two weeks ago,” Choi said. “David Gleason said he knew that his cousins had gone underground, but hadn’t realized the seriousness of the charges against them until Russell’s body was discovered. He said that the other suspect, Martin Gleason, died of a heart attack in 1998.”
“Okay.” Jack laughed from the doorway of the bathroom. “You got your news fix. Now let’s get going.”
She nodded, getting to her feet. The room spun and she nearly lost her balance. Was she going to get sick again?
She walked woodenly into the bathroom and leaned against the counter as she waited for the dizziness to pass. Then she switched off the curling iron and turned away from her reflection in the mirror. Right now, her hair was the last thing on her mind.
During her break the next day, she went to the faculty lounge to watch CNN. She was glad she was the only person in the lounge, because she probably looked as crazed as she felt when the footage of Tim aired. He was being led quickly toward a car in preparation for extradition to North Carolina, but a reporter managed to dive in front of him to ask if he killed Genevieve Russell and her baby.
“I kidnapped her,” he said, a bit breathless as he was rushed past the camera, “but I didn’t kill her or her baby.”
A man walking next to him—his lawyer, most likely—whisked the reporter away with a wave of his hand. “We have no further comment,” he said, grasping Tim’s elbow and pushing him forward.
Eve sat still when the footage ended. She stared into space, wondering if Tim had already told his attorney about the girl who knew he’d murdered no one. The girl who knew what really happened in the cabin on the Neuse River.
She looked at her watch. Nearly one. Time for her weekly appointment with a first-year student, Nancy Watts, whose obsessive-compulsive disorder was getting in the way of her studies. Eve walked back to her office thinking that she was the last therapist who should be working with a student who had OCD. At least now, she could have some real empathy for the demons Nancy had to deal with much of the time.
Nancy was waiting for her, and Eve ushered her into her office. She was a likable young woman who was highly motivated to conquer the hand washing and repetitive thoughts that were dogging her. She started to tell Eve about the improvement she’d made during the week, but Eve barely heard a word she said. She felt tense and jumpy and kept shifting her gaze from Nancy’s face to the window, through which she could see the entrance to her building. At any moment, she expected to see a police officer walk through that entrance with a warrant for her arrest.
Okay, she thought to herself. Stay calm. So Tim tells his lawyer about CeeCee Wilkes. How would they be able to find out that CeeCee became Eve Bailey, who became Eve Bailey Elliott? Maybe it would be impossible. Maybe her tracks were so well covered that no one could ever learn the truth.
If, though, they somehow found Naomi and Forrest and could get them talking, she was doomed. Did they still live on that run-down piece of property outside New Bern? Were they still together? God. She remembered the box of disguises, the magically appearing documents and the general insanity in that household. Ugh. She’d been such a fool. If only she could turn back the years and make different choices. Take herself back to the coffee shop where she’d worked with Ronnie and ignore the overtures of the sexy guy in the corner. If only she had kept her mind focused on her goal: getting into school. If only.
Then of course, she would never have had Cory, and that thought, despite her daughter’s antipathy toward her, was so painful it made her jerk in her seat.
“Eve?” Nancy asked. “Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, yes.” She smiled. “Just had a sudden chill.” What had Nancy been talking about? She tried to rewind the young woman’s dialogue in her memory, but it was gone. She hadn’t registered a word of it.
“Nancy,” she said. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat what you just told me? My mind slipped away for a moment.”
Thank God, Nancy was the easygoing sort. “Sure,” she said, and she proceeded to tell her about the ritual she went through before bed every night and how it was driving her roommate crazy. Eve managed to pay attention, nodding and empathizing, for only another minute or two before her mind returned to her own travails. So the cops would somehow find Naomi and Forrest, who would tell them they’d sent CeeCee Wilkes to live with Marian Kazan in Charlottesville. Marian would be easy to find; just stop anyone on the street and ask if they knew her.
“Marian?” they’d say. “Of course! Everyone knows Marian. She lives in the retirement home on Sycamore Street.”
At eighty-nine, Marian was still sharp as a tack, if not particularly agile. Eve visited her a couple of times a month, taking her books or magazines or movies for her VCR. Marian would do her best to protect her if the cops questioned her, but she might realize the jig was up. Even if she denied that Eve had ever lived with her, there were a hundred people who knew the truth. The connection would be made. The path to Eve’s door suddenly looked easy to follow. I’m trapped, she thought. She would be caught, but it was Cory who would suffer most when the truth came out. She couldn’t let that happen.
“I think your mind is slipping again,” Nancy said.
She was looking straight at Nancy without hearing her.
“Eve?” Nancy asked again.
Eve brought her attention back to the young woman in front of her. “Yes,” she said.
“I don’t think you’ve heard a word I said today.”
“I’m so sorry, Nancy.” Eve let out a long breath. “You’re right. I’ve got some things on my mind, and I probably shouldn’t even have tried to work today. Listen, can you come in tomorrow?” She reached for her Day-Timer. “I promise I’ll have my head back together by then.”
Nancy looked concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re really pale.”
Would Nancy know the truth in a week? In two weeks? Eve would be the talk of the university. People would speculate as to whether or not Jack had known what she’d done. If he did, then he was a criminal himself, they’d think. If not, his marriage had been a lie.
“I have class all morning,” Nancy said. “Do you have anything in the afternoon?”
Eve’s hands shook as she opened the Day-Timer, and it took her a moment to find the right page. “Three o’clock is free,” she said.
“Okay.” Nancy handed her a pen. “Write it in. Do you want me to write it in for you?”
Eve laughed, the sound false and jarring. “I’ll do it,” she said, writing Nancy, unable to remember the girl’s last name. She got to her feet. “And again, I apologize,” she said. “Tomorrow will be better.”
Then again, she thought, tomorrow I might be in jail.