SIXTEEN
Arlo Gatley remained in Jessie’s office for another hour and a half, filling out paperwork and talking about Zee. Apparently his daughter heard voices. Zee talked to herself, even got into arguments with her reflection in the mirror. She’d once hidden inside a mail truck, and twice she’d made herself at home at the neighbor’s house. The first time she was making a sandwich, and the second time she was asleep in the master bedroom. Two years ago she was fired from her job at a large retailer after she slapped a customer across the face for being rude. All the stories combined made Jessie realize that this girl could be absolutely anywhere.
It was two o’clock by the time Jessie stepped outside and walked down the block toward home to check on Higgins. A few minutes later, she slipped the key into the lock on her front door when she heard someone call her name from across the street. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man heading her way. She recognized him immediately.
Ben Morrison in the flesh. He appeared taller than the six foot three specified during her Internet search yesterday. His hair was longer, too, pulled back with a rubber band at his nape. She could see the scarring from third-degree burns on the left side of his face and neck. Part of his left ear was missing. The skin was pulled so tight she could see the formation of muscle and bone beneath.
“You must be Ben Morrison,” she said, offering her hand as he approached.
His fingers were as big as sausages, his handshake firm. She could feel the hard texture of his skin on the palm of his hand where he’d been burned.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told her. “I just pulled up when I saw you crossing the street. Is this where you live?”
Although she wasn’t the trusting sort and didn’t usually invite strangers into her home, she was worried about Higgins. She was also interested to know what Ben Morrison had to say about Sophie. Besides, she thought fleetingly, he was a well-known crime reporter in the area, and a family man. She opened the door wider. “I need to check on the dog. You’re welcome to come in.”
He nodded and followed her inside. As they walked up the stairs, she told him about Higgins and the hit-and-run.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they both stopped and stared. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. The synthetic stuffing had been removed from the couch and was littered about the floor, making it look as if it had snowed inside her house. An empty cereal box and assorted garbage made a trail from the kitchen.
Cecil was napping on the windowsill.
Higgins was nowhere to be seen, but Jessie followed the path of chewed-on shoes and debris through the hallway and into her bedroom. “Higgins,” she said. He was lying in a corner of her closet. He gave her a guilty look. Although there was a small fenced-in area in the backyard, it had been too hot to leave the dog outside. Instead she’d set up a place in the kitchen, complete with newspapers, blanket, water, and food. She’d used furniture to block his exit.
Jessie looked at Ben Morrison and raised both arms. “You said you wanted to do a story about me and my family. Well, this is my life in a nutshell. Chaos. Come on,” Jessie said to the dog. “Let’s take you outside.”
Higgins growled as she leaned over to pick him up.
“Here,” Ben said. “Let me take him outside for you.”
She backed away. “Be my guest. I’ll grab his leash and a plastic bag.”
Twenty minutes later, Jessie had picked up most of the garbage scattered about and was shoving the last of the stuffing back into the couch when Ben returned with Higgins. She used duct tape to cover the torn fabric, then held up the tape and said, “My go-to repair tool.”
He smiled. “I can see that. I took Higgins around the neighborhood,” he told her. “He’s basically walking on three legs, but overall I think he’ll make a quick recovery.”
“Thank you for doing that.”
“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that this dog has been abused. He’s fearful and untrusting, and I think I know why he seems to have a problem trusting you specifically.”
His statement took her by surprise. She straightened and plunked her hands on her hips. “Why is that?”
“There’s a lot of foot traffic out there, but the only person he showed aggression toward was a brown-haired woman who was about your size. He had no problem with men, children, or other dogs. My guess is he associates his abuse with petite, dark-haired women.”
“Interesting.”
“My wife and I adopted an abused Labrador when we were first married. He was afraid of small children. We did some investigating and found out he’d been raised with children who kicked him and threw rocks at him. Higgins,” he said, petting the dog, “got it much worse than that. He still has the scars to prove it.”
“I thought those patchy spots were from malnutrition,” she said.
“Some of them are, but if you look closely at his backside, you can see he’s been whipped. Probably with a belt. He also has scars that appear to be burn marks, most likely from cigarettes.”
She dropped her arms to her sides. “That’s horrible.” She wanted to go to Higgins, but it was easy to see that he was truly fearful of her. “How did you help your dog recover?”
“Patience, time, and lots of love.” He removed the leash. “Where should I put this?”
She took it from him and put it aside. She then led Higgins into the kitchen to give him his pills and some food and water. He ate half the food and then plopped down on the blanket, exhausted.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Jessie told Ben.
She brought him a glass of cold water and then took a seat across from him. “I need to be straight with you. I’ve thought about what you said about wanting to do a story on my family, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea.”
Before he could respond, she added, “My niece, Olivia, recently started high school, and I’m not sure how I feel about her mother’s life being put out there again for public consumption.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but—”
“The truth is, I’m not sure how you could help. I’ve been to every place Sophie ever set foot in multiple times. I’ve talked to teachers, friends, the postman, and acquaintances—anyone who ever said two words to her. And yet I’m no closer today to finding out what happened to her than I was ten years ago. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.” Jessie leaned forward and tapped a finger on the coffee table. “Sophie was twenty when she disappeared. She hardly had any friends. I don’t even know who the father of her child is.”
As soon as the words were out, she berated herself for saying too much. She didn’t know this man.
“In your line of work, I’m sure you’ve handled a few cold cases over the years,” he said.
“Yes, I have,” she said, wondering what he was getting at.
“Then you know there’s nothing better than having a fresh pair of eyes to look things over. My helping would have nothing to do with critiquing an old investigation or making anyone who worked on the case look bad.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I get that.”
“The thing is,” he went on, “most people investigators talk to are more likely to open up about an old case rather than a new one. Witnesses and friends tend not to be so secretive about something that happened a decade ago. Many people don’t like to cooperate with authorities because of fear or disdain. But after the years pass by, things change. People grow up. Sometimes they grow a conscience. Minds muddled by drugs grow clearer.”
Jessie met his gaze and wondered if she could trust him. Everything he said made sense. She found herself warming up to him and changed her mind. Besides, she really could use some help. She thought about Parker Koontz and Arlo Gatley and the stacks of files on her desk at the office. She needed him a lot more than he needed her.
“This isn’t about dragging your family’s name through the mud,” he said. “I’m not interested in casting dark shadows of any kind on your family. My plan would be to start by retracing every detail of the last day your sister was seen.”
“You said on the phone that you might have known Sophie. Is that true?”
“I have amnesia—”
“Yes. I did a search on the Internet. Retrograde amnesia. You were in a car accident.”
He nodded. “The doctors had hoped I would regain memories by now, but that hasn’t happened. Not until I saw your sister on television. It felt as if a switch had been flipped inside my head. I know I’ve met her,” he continued, “but I have no idea when or where.”
“Maybe your sudden interest in Sophie has more to do about discovering your past than mine.”
He seemed to ponder that. “Perhaps.”
“If this is about finding Sophie, then why bother doing a story about my family?”
“I needed to sell the idea to my boss so I could continue to collect a paycheck, and your story makes good copy.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You and your sister were born and raised right here in the neighborhood,” he explained. “Your mother leaves. Your father starts drinking. One sister goes missing and the other never stops looking.”
“I appreciate your brutal honesty, but I’ll need to talk to Olivia about this before I make my final decision.”
“Talk to Olivia about what?”
Jessie looked across the room and saw Olivia standing at the top of the stairs. Jessie sighed. “This is Ben Morrison with the Sacramento Tribune. He’s interested in helping us find out what happened to Sophie.”
Olivia looked from Ben to Jessie. “You said yes, right?”
“Don’t you think that might be a problem at school?” Jessie asked her. “Your friends will be reading about Sophie’s life, which means they’ll be asking questions about you, too.”
“I don’t care about that,” Olivia said with a shrug. “My closest friends know everything anyhow.”
Ben pushed himself to his feet. “I should go and let the two of you talk in private.”
Jessie stood, too.
Ben looked at Olivia. “It was nice meeting you, Olivia.”
“You, too,” she said.
Jessie walked him out and then joined Olivia in the kitchen, where she hovered over the dog.
“I don’t know why you would even think about turning down his offer,” Olivia said. “Don’t you want to find out what happened to Sophie?”
Olivia had stopped referring to Sophie as her mom years ago, and Jessie had never pressed her about it. But there were times like now when she wondered what was going through that head of hers. “Of course I do,” Jessie said. “But you’re older now, and I worry about people talking, saying unkind things. How would that make you feel, hearing things that may or may not be true about someone you love?”
“I guess I wouldn’t like it if people were talking crap about her, but I’m tough. I can handle it.” Olivia pushed herself to her feet and looked Jessie in the eyes. “I want to know—no, I need to know why Sophie left and whether or not she’s ever coming back.”