Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I am possessive of her now. And a very selfish part of me likes knowing how much she hates that world and everyone in it.
Because she’s in my world now. In my bed and my car and my thoughts and on my lips.
They don’t even know she’s alive.
The missing persons case is still open, unresolved.
But the news articles have been scarce over the last five years. The occasional anniversary post and photo of Tenly, asking if anyone has seen her.
They have all moved on from her. Left her memory to diminish over time.
It’s no wonder she goes it alone.
To be so easily forgotten by everyone you once knew. Forsaken by your own family. I ache for her, and I touch her face in the photos. Wishing I could turn back time. Wishing that I could save her.
I can’t change the past.
But I can make it right now.
The thing I really want isn’t in this file, and when I look up at Alexei, he knows it.
“She never reported it,” he tells me. “So finding the names will not be easy. But I’ve printed off the most likely candidates, given what you’ve told me.”
His report has well over fifty names on it.
“Are ye bloody kidding me with this?” I ask. “Is there not another way?”
“There is,” he says. “But I suppose it depends on how badly you’d like this to stay quiet.”
Twenty-Eight
Rory
I haven’t spent a whole load of time in New York.
Boston is generally where I conduct business and spend my free time, other than the occasional ticket back to Ireland to see mammy every couple of years.
It only stands to reason that Scarlett dragged me up here to set into motion the events with Ethan that night. I wonder how many other trips she’s made that didn’t include me.
The address on file is Park Avenue.
When I walk inside the building, it’s a far cry from where Scarlett lives now.
A doorman greets me and asks who I’m there for.
I give him the names of Scarlett’s parents, and he promptly tells me I’m not on the list. When I mention I’d like to speak to them about their daughter, his polite disposition withers.
He makes a phone call and then ushers me to the elevator without another word.
When it opens, I’m greeted by another woman in a maid’s uniform, who ushers me into a foyer.
“You have something you’d like to say about my daughter?”
I blink, and like an apparition, a waif of a woman appears. She is nothing like Scarlett. Her face is severe, and she is cold. Too tall and too thin and I’ve left a bitter taste in her mouth already.
She appraises me, in my jeans and faded tee shirt, like a bag of trash was just dropped at her doorstep. And in her hand is a checkbook.
This isn’t right.
None of this is right.
Scarlett in this place. Touching any of these things. Wearing these clothes. Talking to this woman who is nothing like my mammy.
“Well?” she says.
“Can we start over?” I ask. “My name’s Rory Brodick, Mrs. Albright.”
“I don’t care who you are,” she snaps. “What do you want to say about my daughter?”
I give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s a mother who has lost her daughter. I can only imagine what these last twelve years must have been like for her, wondering and waiting for her to come home. I need to believe that this is what turned her so bitter.
“Actually,” I say, “I was hoping that ye might be able to tell me some things about your daughter. I’d like to help.”
She shakes her head.
“You aren’t a reporter,” she says. “Or a New Yorker, for that matter. Where are you from?”
“I live in Boston.”
She sighs and gives me a resigned nod.
“I figured as much.”
She places the checkbook down on the table and scrawls in a dramatic fashion before she pauses to look up at me.
“How much?”
“Pardon me?”
“How much is it going to cost to keep you quiet?” she demands.
“I only want to help,” I tell her. “I’m just looking for some answers.”
“I have none to give you,” she says. “And if you keep poking around in this, you won’t get a cent from me.”
“Do ye not have any desire to know what happened to your daughter?” I ask.
“I know what happened to my daughter,” she says. “She had social deficits from the very beginning. She didn’t want to listen. She was too wrapped up in herself to care about what was important. And now she’s ruined this family, living like trash the way that she is.”
“You must be bloody joking me,” I snarl back at her. “You knew she was alive?”
“Of course I know.” A dry sound puffs from her mouth.
“But the case…”
“The media doesn’t need to know about this,” Mrs. Albright states with finality. “They’re better off thinking she’s dead. And so are we, for that matter. So tell me how much it’s going to cost for you to keep your mouth shut.”