And of course, her father had not hit her, never would have laid a hand on her, he was not that kind of a man.
But she hadn’t wanted to appear vulnerable or weak to Brad, so she’d invented a second past, a dual life, with just enough truth in it to keep things believable.
Though her father was a good dad, even as a child Astrid could tell something wasn’t right. Often, she would hear him crying when he was alone. Sometimes in the morning before work, sometimes late at night, sometimes in his study when he was supposed to be preparing for the college classes he taught.
She’d finally decided that maybe he cried because something inside of him was broken.
It was an explanation that made sense to a child.
She was the one who found him that night in May.
He hadn’t cried that day. Just stared at her with a distant, sad look and told her how much he loved her and how he would always love her and did she understand that? Did she really? And she’d told him that of course she did, and then he’d held her close in a way that frightened her.
“I need to do some work tonight,” he explained to her, “after you go to bed. So if you hear me in the study, don’t worry.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she’d said.
Then he tucked her in.
And soon afterward, when she’d finished reading the Nancy Drew book he’d given her for her birthday and had just turned off the light, there was a harsh scraping sound in his study, and then all at once she heard the clatter of a wooden chair against the floor, and the house shuddered around her.
She sat up. “Daddy?”
Silence, except for a thin creaking sound coming from the study. Almost like the sound of a swing in motion on a windy day at the park.
She called again. “Daddy? What happened?”
No answer.
She picked up her favorite stuffed animal, a kitten named Patches. “Daddy?”
No reply.
She slipped out of bed and she was afraid again, like she’d been when he’d told her earlier that night, with some urgency, how much he loved her.
“Daddy?”
Silence.
She padded to the hall, but it was dark and lonely and seemed to stretch forever in front of her, as if it’d grown longer since the last time she’d walked down it.
The sound of the tired creak was now growing quiet and dim.
She held Patches close.
Walked toward the study.
Her dad almost never locked the door because, as he liked to say, “You’re more important to me than work, honey. So anytime you need me, just come in. A daddy has to have his priorities straight, you know.”
But tonight it was locked, and when she called to him, he didn’t answer. So it was a good thing she knew where he hid the key-in the kitchen, in the cupboard where he kept the nice china dishes, right above the sink.
It didn’t take her long to find it.
She returned to the study.
Then unlocked the door, put her hand against it, and pressed.
The door slowly mouthed open before her.
She saw his feet first, about a foot off the ground, and then her eyes traveled up his legs, his body, past his head to the rope that stretched taut and straight and tight to the rafters that had stopped creaking now. Then her father’s body pivoted toward her.
And she saw his face.
And screamed.
Dropping Patches, she ran down the hall as fast as she could and dove under her bed. She was crying and trembling and wished, wished, wished she hadn’t left her kitty behind in the hall. Wished she hadn’t seen what she had.
Her daddy’s face.
Terrible, terrible thoughts tumbled through her mind. Scary thoughts and frightening thoughts and bad, bad images that she did not want to think about.
Her daddy in the study.
His face.
The tight, tight rope.
But the thoughts wouldn’t go away.
She wanted to help him, wanted to, but couldn’t.
Couldn’t do anything.
But pray.
Maybe she could pray.
So even though she wasn’t sure if God was there or was even listening, she prayed and prayed that her daddy would be okay.
But nothing changed. Her daddy didn’t come to be with her.
God ignored her. The house remained silent.
So quiet.
So lonely.
So still.
Until morning, when she heard the cook arrive, and then she ran past the study-somehow made it past the study, grabbing Patches as she did-and found the cook standing in the kitchen getting things ready for breakfast, and she told her everything.
Her father had left a note with only five words: “I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.”
Then came the foster families who would shuffle her off to new homes if she cried all the time or if she refused to go to bed because she was too terrified of her dreams. And for a long time she couldn’t help but cry and disappear into herself and stay up all night sitting on the bed, staring at her door, but it was lonely going to new families all the time, so she’d learned to act like a good little girl, a girl who wasn’t broken inside.
Acting, acting, always acting.
The good little girl.
But now.
Now.
She was no longer the frightened little child who’d trembled under the bed and lost her faith in the Almighty on a cool night in May. Now she was a woman, strong and confident and self-assured, everything people expected from someone in her highly respected, much sought after position.
Something about the memory of that night when she found her father began to chew away at the anger and disappointment she’d felt toward her man last night.
After all, he hadn’t deviated far from the plan. Yes, he’d made a few mistakes, but those were forgivable.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was showing some, had put on a little weight, but Brad hadn’t seemed to notice.
A child.
A baby growing inside her.
She hadn’t felt the baby kick yet, but soon, soon the evidence of her life, or his, would come.
The more she thought about her own father and the father of her child, the more she considered telling him about the baby.
Maybe it was time.
According to the plan, she would go to work today, Brad would get the plates and the car, then pay a visit to FBI Executive Assistant Director Wellington’s home, and tonight, after the explosion, they would swing by the FBI Academy to leave a little surprise. And then this game would be over. Then they would move on.
So for now.
Watch.
Watch and see.
Keep an eye on him and only if necessary put him in the freezer and close the door.
Only if absolutely necessary.
9:48 a.m.
Margaret Wellington did not like the feeling that something had gotten by her, so after the press conference, rather than go directly to the task force command post at police headquarters, she returned to the Lincoln Towers to see if there was anything the officers might have missed in their search for Mollie Fischer.
She spent twenty-five minutes retracing the route Bowers had taken as he chased the killers through the hotel, looking for any place they might have found to hide a body.
Nothing.
Now, she scanned the lobby.
The atrium extended up all twelve floors, with terraced gardens and a narrow waterfall that spilled out of a faux rock wall on her left. The water tumbled into a goldfish stream that meandered along the ground beneath a network of bridges and walkways.
She still believed that somehow the killers had managed to get Mollie Fischer out of the building, perhaps through the parking garage, which might explain the glove that had been left behind.
Or maybe they’d found another way.
Or maybe she was wrong and Mollie was still here somewhere.
Margaret rubbed her head.
Room 809, the room in which they’d found the wheelchair, was still sealed of course, but the rest of the hotel was open. Last night Agent Cassidy and the new transfer from St. Louis, Natasha Farraday, had cleared it.