Kaycee couldn’t reply. She couldn’t remember being sick.
“For twenty-six years to this very month I’ve hunted you and your mother. She was good at hiding. Kept on the move. I’d nearly given up — and then you started writing your columns. Spilling all the details of the paranoia you learned from Monica Raye. Oh, the stories you told of constantly moving as a child, friends forever left behind. No relatives. Her untimely death. The circumstances seemed right, your age was right. I looked up your picture” — he smiled a chilling smile — “and then I knew. It was too late to catch Lorraine Giordano. But I could catch you. ”
The well water swirled and eddied. Any more from this man and Kaycee would fall in and drown. Her mother, always watching, flicking glances in the rearview mirror. She hadn’t been sick. She’d had a reason.
“I’m sorry for passing it on to you, Kaycee. I tried to make a better life for you.”
Kaycee thrust her fingers into her scalp. Her chest sagged.
“Tell me where the money is.” Rodney pushed his thumb against the base of her neck.
“What money?”
“The seven million! Your mother stole it from me.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“She took it, Tammy. Remember? You were with her. She fled Atlantic City that night.”
“My mother would never steal from anybody!”
“She did it to get me back for killing your father. Left me as good as dead.”
“I — ”
“Where’d she hide it?”
Kaycee emitted a bitter laugh. He’d tortured her with memories, killed two policemen, kidnapped Hannah — for this ridiculous story? “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Rodney jumped up and grabbed her arms. Yanked her to her feet. His face flushed deep red, his eyes specks of coal. “Don’t you laugh, don’t you dare laugh.” He pushed her backward and slammed her against a wall. Breath gushed from her throat. “You have no idea what I lost. I chased your mother that night — and could never go back. I lost my home, my family. My life.” He snarled at Kaycee, his voice like flint. “She chose to run, but Joel “Nico” Nicorelli didn’t. For twenty-six years I’ve looked over my shoulder. You know what it’s like to hide from La Cosa Nostra, Tammy? I had to change my name, my accent, the way I walked. I had to become somebody else, inside and out. You owe me. So you tell me where that money is, or Hannah will never leave here.”
“If she took the money, she spent it.”
“I’ve read every column you’ve written. You and your mother lived simply.”
It was true. Kaycee’s mouth snapped shut.
“You’ll remember! I’ve made you remember everything else.” Rodney jerked her from the wall and into the kitchen. “Here.” He rammed her against a cabinet, then flipped her around. “Open it.”
Kaycee lifted a shaking arm. Her fingers slipped off the handle. She tried again. The door creaked open.
Inside sat a tattered brown teddy bear. The sight sent her reeling.
Belinda.
Heat flooded Kaycee. Why had she thought that name? She shrank from the stuffed animal, then toward it, her hand lifting it out. She pressed its softness against her chest. Terror and comfort and joy and grief sloshed inside the well, spilling new memories over the top.
“I want Belinda!”
“We’ll get her, we’ll get her.”
Rodney whipped Kaycee to face him. “You dropped it. That night.”
Her throat swelled shut. She couldn’t breathe. This man’s story was for real.
“Where’d you go after that?”
Kaycee shook her head.
“You know! Your mother drove a big Ford van. Close your eyes, see it. Did you drive all night? Did she unload those boxes on the way to some new town?”
“I — I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
Rodney’s teeth clenched. “I will make you remember.”
He dragged her away from the cabinets, toward the closed-off room. Belinda slipped from her hands. She heard Hannah crying. At the door Rodney held on to both of her wrists with one hand and shoved his other into a pocket. He brought out a key and unlocked the door. Flung it open.
Hannah sat on a bare mattressed bed, her face tear-stained and eyes puffy. She wore the long-sleeved blue shirt Kaycee remembered, a sweatshirt wadded and thrown into one corner. The knees of her jeans were torn, a dark red scrape across one palm.
Kaycee fought against Rodney’s strong grasp. “Hannah — ”
“Shut up, Tammy.” He pulled her into the room and scowled a look at the girl. “Get out.”
Hannah’s eyes widened in terror.
“Get out!”
She limp-ran from the bedroom.
One corner of the room thrust inward about four feet square, with a door. Rodney smacked a wall switch, and the bare bulb overhead snapped off. He shut the bedroom door. Instant darkness fell, softened only by light filtering underneath. He hauled Kaycee toward the walled off corner and threw its door open.
She couldn’t see it, but she knew. A closet.
“No!” Kaycee’s lungs congealed. She would die in there. Her legs tried to pedal backwards, her arms wrenching free and flailing wild punches at Rodney. He ducked and caught them again. “A closet, Tammy. Just like the one you and your mother hid in. Your mind is ripe now. In there, you’ll remember. When you do, I’ll let you out.”
“No, please, don’t make me — ”
Rodney threw her inside and slammed the door. Kaycee thudded against the back wall and collapsed in darkness.
FIFTY-TWO
The unseen walls closed in. White-hot claustrophobia clawed Kaycee’s throat. Her mouth sagged open, air stutter-creaking down her windpipe. Not enough, never enough. She was going to die.
Kaycee threw herself forward, hands scrabbling for the door. Her fingers bumped over the frame, seeking a knob.
Nothing. Just bare wood.
Kaycee kicked it. Beat her fists against it. “Lemme out!” The small of her back caved in, pushing her stomach up against her lungs. No room to breathe, no oxygen in the air. She keened like a mad woman and flung herself against the door. “Lemme oooutt!”
She gasped and gulped, kicked and pummeled, her limbs out of control, mind shrieking. For how long she didn’t know, only that it lasted a lifetime. Each second she would surely suffocate. Each second she didn’t, only for her terror to swell. Her torso shrank, her hands and legs shortening. Kaycee’s cries rose in pitch like a little girl’s. “Lemme go! Mommeeee!”
Kaycee screamed until her throat was raw. Beat until her fists throbbed. Her chest swelled and shrank like creaking billows. Her side ached. Still she yelled and begged and pounded until her energy waned. Her beating fists slowed, her legs too heavy to kick. In her brain the fear shrieked on, but her limbs lost their ability to fight.
Kaycee sank to the floor, groaning.
A distant sound filtered to her ears. She raised her head. A child crying.
Hannah.
The panic beat back, a receding wave on battered shore. Kaycee leaned her head against the wall, trapped and helpless. A new, bright terror arose. If she died in here, no one could save Hannah.
From far away and days gone by came Tricia’s voice. “You have to pray every day. You have to pray against the fear.”