All the students had left.
All the cars were gone.
The school had that hot abandoned look of summer. Just brick and stones and silence.
“She’s Murielle,” said Lois Petrak, who had not yet moved. “She even called you Tommy.”
His mother’s emotions had tapered off only a little. Dad had driven away, too upset to take any more. Tommy had yet to coax his mother into his own car. He felt as if she might stand here till the sun went down, staring at the spot where Cathy had stood. “She called me Tommy because I introduced myself as Tommy,” he said patiently. “Anyway, I haven’t convinced anyone to start saying Thomas. They all say Tommy.”
“She’s Murielle. We’re going to the administration office. I need the file on her.”
“Mom, you can’t pursue this. Cathy’s just a passerby and I went a little crazy when I thought I saw a resemblance.”
“You did see a resemblance. So did I. She’s Murielle.”
Murielle’s fate was the tragedy of his mother’s life; worse by far than what her sister Rory had done. His mother still prayed for this little girl they didn’t have and never would. And now, thanks to his stupidity, Mom was going to bulldoze into poor Cathy Ferris’s life. Cathy had been polite about it, but how would she feel if this went on and on?
He well knew how the media, neighbors, classmates, friends and strangers were riveted by the concept of somebody vanishing and creating a new but hidden life. As long as you didn’t think too hard about the fact that the Lymans’ escape was made with stolen money, you could see it as some great adventure. Everybody wanted to skate on the edge of it and watch it unfold.
But the Petraks were not on the edge. They were in the middle.
In the blistering sun, Tommy felt himself at risk. Nothing about Rory and Cade and their disappearance had been clear or clean. They had left broken lives behind them. His mother had not been broken, but she had been damaged. What if the nightmare resurfaced? He hated Rory and Cade for continuing to cast a shadow five years later. He hated himself for being an emotional idiot and hurling himself across the room in front of all those witnesses.
To his relief, the headmaster was not in. The secretary snarled at them. “We do not give out personal information on our students,” she said to Mrs. Petrak, as if they were discussing possible arson.
But it could be arson, thought Tommy. Cathy Ferris’s life could go up in smoke.
Julianna could not drag herself up the outdoor wooden stairs that led to the garage apartment. She felt stripped of soul and strength. Safe solid Latin, invaded by Rory and Cade Lyman. There was no end to the ripple effect of those crimes.
It wasn’t fair to be mad at Tommy. But he had now ensured that every kid in summer school would take on the Lyman saga like an extra-credit project.
A floor above Julianna, her mother opened the apartment door and smiled down. It was not the huge happy smile that poor Mrs. Petrak had worn for so short a time. But it was the same need to touch. In prison, you cannot touch. Your arms do not encircle your child.
Julianna hoped that Rory and Cade Lyman knew every minute of every day that they could not touch their missing daughter. She hoped they suffered.
She had often wondered about the fate of Murielle. Ten years old was so little. Julianna knew what it was to realize that your own parent was the bad guy. But imagine if you also had to understand that your mother and father cared more about freedom than about you. Imagine gradually figuring out that you would live with strangers for the rest of your life.
When the long hug with her mother ended, Julianna set her book bag neatly in its slot. The garage apartment was so small for four people. Either you put stuff away or you tripped over it.
Julianna’s hobby was baking. Such a soothing activity, and good stuff to show for it. Rich enticing smells and yummy results. She loved the bowls and spoons, the rolling pin and the shine of the cookie sheets.
“How was your day?” asked her mother eagerly. There was a tiny breakfast bar, with only two stools. Aiden and her mother took the stools. They loved watching Julianna bake. Aiden would put dibs on the bowl, because he loved raw dough.
Julianna flipped open the King Arthur Flour cookbook to the molasses cookie recipe. The spices gave off such a cheerful scent.
“My day,” she said, “was not what I expected.” She told them about Tommy and the possible double. She had to. There would be repercussions from this, although as yet Julianna could not tell what they would be. But her brother and her mother might need to brace themselves.
The Benners had been through hell, and it showed no sign of ending. Her mother’s shame and fury had been sharpened, not dulled, by two years in the women’s prison in Niantic. Julianna’s father was staying only for the children’s sake. Julianna didn’t care why he stayed. She just knew she could not get through life without both parents.
She and Aiden had to coax and jockey and maneuver their parents to keep them steady. This was going to set her mother off something fierce. Julianna dreaded having to tell Dad.
“Do you think she is Murielle?” asked Aiden.
“How could she be? She’s registered at school. Her name is Cathy Ferris. You wouldn’t believe how into it our class is. Meg and Ava are research pit bulls. Graydon knows everything already, and he tried to chill everybody out, but of course that didn’t work. Even Colton and Ethan, who are total duds, were Googling and texting and discussing how they would vanish if they had to, and offering theories about the Lymans. Cathy herself just changed the subject.”
“Cathy sounds mature,” said her mother. “Why would she want to be related to Rory and Cade Lyman? Any more than you want to be related to me.”
“Oh, Mom, cut it out. I love you.”
They had all paid such a price. The year before the trial, the two years Mom was in prison and the first year after Mom was released, Julianna felt as if the whole family were behind bars. Every time she remembered the long traffic-jammed drives up 95 to the prison for their weekly visits, she wanted to run screaming into some other life. She tried not to resent Tommy for throwing her history into summer school, where everything had been safe and scholarly. Even now her classmates would be turning up the name Nancy Benner and reading about how Murielle was not the only one left behind: Rory and Cade had left Nancy Benner to face the music.
It was such a strange phrase: “face the music.” There had been no music in the investigation, trial and imprisonment of Nancy Benner.
If only they had moved away. But their father believed the Greenwich schools had no equal and wanted Aiden and Julianna to stay here.
“Is Cathy nice?” asked Aiden.
“If she is,” said their mother, “then she’s not the daughter of Rory and Cade.”
“You thought the world of them at the time.”
Her mother nodded. “They were so exciting. It was so much fun. They would say, ‘We’re skating on the edge today!’ And I’d laugh, and they’d laugh, and we’d do something iffy. Not illegal, but risky. And when we were facing huge losses and knew we could go under, we kept saying, ‘We have to do this one little thing to save ourselves. Not a big deal—we’ll pull it off. We’re winners; we’ll be fine.’ That was always the pronoun: ‘we.’ We were a team.”
Julianna couldn’t stand to hear how her mother kept believing that Rory and Cade would return and bail her out—literally—and bear the burden of punishment.
Julianna did not find reports of major theft shocking anymore, maybe because there were so many famous companies and big partnerships—men, and less often, women—that did exactly what Rory and Cade had done. What was shocking, and would always be shocking, was that the Lymans had left Murielle behind.
At least Julianna had had her father and her brother, all four grandparents, good neighbors and a generous church. “Mom, would Murielle have had money of her own?”
Julianna finished creaming the sugar with the butter. She began sifting in the dry ingredients. Aiden watched eagerly.
“Yes,” said her mother. “They had college accounts and investments for her. The apartment in New York was in her name.”
“So she’d be rich even though everything in Rory and Cade’s name was confiscated.”
“The college account would still be hers, because they contributed to that from the day she was born. It didn’t exist in order to hide stolen money. But the New York apartment—oh, it was huge and beautiful, just a great address!—they put it in Murielle’s name to protect it. It was seized along with the yacht they never sailed and the cars they never drove and the kayaks that never went in the water. They never took vacations. It was one of the things the auditors spotted. When two partners handle huge sums of money and neither one ever takes a vacation, and when one is away, the other is always still in the office, it means you don’t dare let anybody else see what you’re doing.”
Julianna’s phone rang. She walked into the living room to get her phone out of her purse.
It was Ava. The research pit bull was going to take her first bite. Julianna wanted to weep. Instead, she said in a hard voice, “Hello, Ava.”
“Hi, Julianna. Guess what? Meg and I think Cathy really is Murielle. We took pictures when you were pointing out Tommy’s parents. My photo shows Cathy laughing from all the stares and Meg’s picture shows Cathy shocked from all the stares. I’m sending them both to you because everybody says your mom knew Cade and Rory better than anybody. Show the pictures to your mother. If there’s a resemblance, she’ll see it.”
Cathy did not want Mrs. Tartaglia to call her parents. She wanted the possible double to stay in Greenwich. “That’s so nice of you, Mrs. Tartaglia. But I’m more worried about Latin.” A stream of air-conditioning froze Cathy’s arms and legs. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car. It was as much of a cage as school.
Spencer wound himself around the edge of the front seat and leaned as close to Cathy in back as his seat belt would allow. “Cathy, you are amazing. I can’t think about anything else, and I’m not the possible double.”
She had to laugh. He was cute, even though his ridiculous hair made it hard to tell front from back.
Mrs. Tartaglia called the beauty salon on her car phone to say she was running late.
In Cathy’s opinion, the person who needed the haircut was Spencer. She repressed an urge to lift his locks, as if he were a sheepdog, and find his eyes underneath.
“Yes, it is a big deal to drive from Wilton to Greenwich twice each day,” Mrs. Tartaglia said to the receptionist, “but my son is very very very bright, you know.”
Spencer winced. He had confessed to Cathy last week that taking Arabic wasn’t his idea. He had lined up a summer job with a construction company, hoping to spend all day every day outdoors. His parents had had other plans. “What happens when I don’t turn out to be quite that bright?” he murmured.
“She’ll blame the teacher,” Cathy comforted him, while Mrs. Tartaglia discussed hair schedules.
He nodded. “She always does. I’m never sure what to do about that, so I don’t do anything. Want to hear my theory about Murielle?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “My theory is the parents did come for her. After all, the parents must have known months ahead of time that they were under investigation. I bet they stashed money somewhere. I think the Cayman Islands have the banks of choice for your major-league lawless types. Next, I assume the Lymans bought fake passports. Not that I would know how to do that. But thieves find thieves, right? So here’s my theory: They flew out of the country as themselves and then flew right back that very minute into the U.S. under false names. International police would search where their plane landed and where their rental car got dumped, but the Lymans would already be in Atlanta, or wherever. I bet Murielle was on the phone to them the whole time. So they waited until the attention died down and then drove up to the foster home, Murielle hopped in their car and off they went to live happily ever after under aliases.”
Cathy considered this. “Wouldn’t there be a fuss? Wouldn’t the foster parents call the police? Wouldn’t the social worker mention she’s down one kid? I think your theory is a little weak.”
“Like my grip on Arabic. If I transfer to Latin, would it be easier?”
“Yes. Latin uses the alphabet. But you’d have missed seven days times six hours of class times three hours of homework, plus the weekend. It’s actually taking me four or five hours each night. How would you catch up?”
“I’m very very very bright, you know.”
Cathy laughed.
Mrs. Tartaglia exited the parkway and zipped into the commuter lot. “I don’t like dropping you here, Cathy. It’s a bit shabby.”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Tartaglia. It’s not a long walk to my street. Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow morning. Bye, Spencer.” She slammed the door.
Her heart felt like a school of bluefish leaping in the water, stabbing the surface of her memory.
Ava usually spent Wednesday evening at her mother’s, but she called to see if she could have dinner at Dad’s. “Sure,” said her stepmother, Kay. “Shall I pick you up? What do you want to eat?”
“I’m still a vegetarian,” Ava said, because this was an ongoing collision. “Tell Dad I have a million questions.”
“The Lyman case you texted about? He’s been researching it all afternoon.”
“He didn’t know about it before?”
“Everybody knew about it before. Even I knew about it before.”
Kay never followed the news. Her theory was that everybody else was following the news, so she could do something else. “All I remember,” said her stepmother, “is that the Petraks could not explain a one-million-dollar deposit in their accounts. That was a bunch of money for a woman who worked part-time in a gift shop and a man who taught math at the Stamford branch of UConn.”
At dinner, while her father and Kay had salmon, Ava had salad and rice. Her father said, “I didn’t know there was a kid, but now that I do, I bet the million-dollar deposit was either pay for getting the kid to Europe or pay for keeping the kid in Connecticut.”
“Then they didn’t earn their pay,” observed Ava. “Did they get to keep the million?”
“They begged the feds to take it back. They had to. Every minute that money sat in their names was another nail in their coffin. I think it went to help repay clients of the Lymans. It wouldn’t have made a dent. The Lyman misrepresentations were a precipitating factor in that huge stock market decline.”
“How did the feds know that Rory and Cade Lyman were doing anything wrong?”
“The firm couldn’t pay out when clients asked for their money. Suppose you had entrusted all your savings to the Lymans. Now you want to buy a house. No problem. You have a down payment tucked away. You call Cade Lyman, and he says, ‘Maybe next month.’ You shout, ‘It’s my money—give it to me!’ And he says, ‘I don’t have it.’ Now what do you do? You’re furious and you’re helpless. You don’t want the Lymans arrested and sent to prison, though. You’d never get your money back. To force them to pay up, you start a civil lawsuit. You’re not trying to send anybody to jail, you’re trying to recover your money. By the time there were half a dozen civil suits against the Lymans, the feds noticed. Usually an investigation into this kind of situation takes years. People negotiate over what papers to show the feds, and their lawyers do this, that and the next thing. Probably when the feds descended on the Lymans, it was just round one, not an arrest. Either Rory and Cade Lyman panicked, leaped on a plane and hoped for the best, or they had been planning this all along and they were ready to run. It’s rare to succeed in vanishing. That’s why people believed Rory and Cade made preparations to escape.”
Ava nibbled a lettuce leaf. “Would Rory and Cade Lyman have done business on the Internet?”
“I’m sure they used the Internet constantly. Just like everybody else.”
“So wherever they are, they’re still using the Internet. They could still be reading the Greenwich Time, whether they’re in France or Morocco or Kansas.”
“It’s probably their lifeline. Can you imagine the isolation they’ve created? What’s for dessert, honey?” he asked Kay. “I’m in a dessert mood. Don’t tell me how many calories anything has, just bring it on.” He turned back to his daughter. “What a coincidence that Julianna Benner would be in the same class as this possible daughter.”
“Who’s Julianna Benner?” asked Kay.
“Julianna’s mother was the Lymans’ office manager. Nancy Benner went to prison for her role in what the Lymans did.”
Ava choked on a half inch of lettuce.
“Ask your mom,” Ava had said, as if Julianna’s mother were any old mother and the Benners’ situation were any old situation.
She doesn’t know, thought Julianna. She didn’t research that far. Do other people know? Or is Mom’s role just history now?
For years, Julianna’s back had been stiff, her chin high, her voice sharp. But after she said good-bye to Ava on the phone, it didn’t take as much energy to stay upright. She felt a slump coming on and it was wonderful. Julianna had not slouched since the day her mother was charged with crimes.
What a gift.
It wouldn’t last. Ava was on a roll and Meg was on the team. Soon they’d find the right site and the full story. Tomorrow Ava would be too embarrassed even to look at Julianna. There would be no funny foursome of Ava, Meg, Julianna and Cathy.
Julianna regretted giving Cathy the evil eye. It wasn’t Cathy’s fault. Even if she was Murielle, it wasn’t her fault.
Julianna studied the pictures Ava had sent. In the laughing photograph, Cathy had a charming, in fact captivating, smile. Her shiny dark hair was pulled into a long careless ponytail. Her eyes danced with energy. But in the other photo, taken when Julianna named Tommy’s mother and father, Cathy was a deer trapped on the highway, about to be crushed. Why was she so shaken?
Was she, in fact, Murielle?
It didn’t seem logical. If Cathy was Murielle, why not admit it? If Murielle wanted to keep her identity a secret, why show up in the town where her parents were notorious and her cousin still lived? If Murielle wanted to see her aunt and uncle, all she had to do was phone. If Murielle wanted to check out the old home place, all she had to do was get in a car. Besides, accelerated Latin seemed like a tough way to sneak in and look around.
Julianna took two steps to the family computer, always on and always convenient in this tiny apartment. She Googled Norwalk High. They did offer Latin. So there was a valid reason to take this accelerated class: Cathy would be ahead one year and could start second-year Latin in the fall at her own high school. But if she was Murielle, and desperate to study Latin (did people actually get desperate to study Latin?), she could just wait a few months and safely take it at Norwalk High. Then she wouldn’t risk running into a relative.
On the other hand, when your parent had done a terrible thing and the world was watching, you had some funny reactions.
She herself was letting high school happen around her, while her heart and body stretched toward college. She hated living in Greenwich, forced to face her history every day. But no matter how many extra credits she got with accelerated Latin, no matter how high her grades, Julianna could not go away to college. She had to attend the two-year branch of the University of Connecticut (where, maddeningly, Tommy’s father was a professor) and continue living in this tiny apartment, because her parents could not scrape together a nickel.
They were still paying off the lawyers. Julianna supposed the legal fees were worth it, because the prosecution had asked for a ten-year sentence and her mother’s team had gotten it down to three. Nancy Benner got out in two because of good behavior. Julianna sometimes looked at her angry depressed mother and wondered what the good part had been.
Nancy Benner had been a beautiful woman. She had lost her beauty. Where had it gone in only two years? She had been a party girl, always having people over and laughing with them and telling great stories. Gone, all of it gone.
And when you went to prison for manipulating client money, you were not going to land a management position after you got out. An immense bread bakery was only a few miles away, and Mom was lucky to be hired as an ordinary hourly worker. She ran a machine in a huge windowless space that she described as prison with a nice fresh-bread smell.
Should Julianna show her mother pictures of Cathy? Ask if Mom recognized Rory or Cade in that smile?
From the kitchen, her brother called, “The oven’s hot enough, Jule.”
We’re all in an oven, thought Julianna. And just when I thought the heat was off, Tommy Petrak turned it back on.