“That’s right.” Truella’s eyes grew moist. “I’m not a bad person. I did want the reward money—I admit it. But that’s not the reason I hung up. I’ve got more to tell than just about . . . I hung up because I was scared.”
And from the pallor of her skin, Spense could tell she was still scared. He wasn’t immune to her feelings, but there was too much at stake to go easy on the kid. Tragic that the one nice thing Truella tried to do for Harriet—keeping her secret from her mother—turned out to be the worst possible thing she could’ve done. Classic enabler. “You didn’t call Harriet’s mom, but did her mom try to contact you?”
“Not until this morning.”
Spense waited.
“She said Harriet was supposed to check in with her by phone once a week. She said she’d gotten a few texts, but when she told Harriet to either call her or pay the piper, the texts stopped.”
Didn’t help much. Whoever had taken Harriet, assuming she was in fact their Jane Doe, would have her phone and could’ve sent the texts. Still, they might reveal something useful. He drummed his fingers together, sensing Truella was still holding out. “What about you? Did you get any texts?”
Her throat moved in a long visible swallow. “Mrs. Beckerman asked me did I know where Harriet was, and I told her the truth. I didn’t. I don’t. I bet I’m wrong. I bet she’s just on a binge like I told you before.”
“Tru, Agent Spenser asked you a question.” Caity placed her hands on the young woman’s shoulders and turned Truella toward her. “Did you get any texts from Harriet’s phone?”
Truella looked around for an escape route. There weren’t any. Spense was in front of her, Caity beside her. “Just one—on Monday. The text said she was with a friend.” Her voice trembled uncontrollably.
“Take it easy, Tru,” Spense said. “I was just messing with you before. I needed you to take this seriously, and now I can see you do. Whatever it is that’s got you so worried, just tell us. We’re the good guys.”
“We’re the good guys,” Caity repeated, locking eyes with Truella.
“Harriet’s text said she was partying with a friend—the girl who lives in 317—Laura Chaucer.”
Chapter 30
Friday, October 25
12:15 P.M.
Get Wired Coffee Shop
Denver, Colorado
“It’s me.” Huddled in a back cubicle in front of a pay-as-you-go computer, Laura tugged her blond wig to better secure it in place and whispered into her new burner phone.
“Laura, is that you?”
She heard the surprise in Dr. Webber’s voice. He was the last person she ever thought she’d call, but the televisions in the electronics store, where she’d bought a phone and a watch, kept looping recorded footage of him begging her to return home. When she’d seen her mother and father standing in the background at that press conference, looking stricken and pale, she’d felt the weight of their suffering like Sisyphus’s rock.
Was she doomed to disappoint them for all eternity?
She desperately wanted to make it to the top of the hill and just once be the daughter they deserved.
She could’ve called her father, but then when he ordered her home, she’d have to refuse. And her track record of standing up to the senator wasn’t the greatest—as in when had she ever? Never, except this fall, when she’d enrolled in college away from home. She was certain he’d be quick to remind her how that had turned out.
Then there was her mother, but Tracy had always been fragile. No telling what the shock of hearing Laura’s voice would do to her. So, in the end, Dr. Webber seemed like the best way to get a message to her parents.
She owed it to them to let them know she was alive . . .
And she owed it to Harriet’s mom to tell the cops it was her daughter’s body they’d found.
“Your parents are sick with worry. I’m sick with worry,” Webber said.
“I—I’m safe.”
“Safe where?” he asked, his tone suddenly coaxing.
Ah yes, good old Dr. Webber, the master manipulator.
“Just tell me where you are, dear. I’ll come get you myself.”
“No!” She cringed at how loudly she’d spoken. She had to be careful after that press conference. A blond wig could only hide so much.
“Laura, please let me bring you home where you belong.”
“I—I can’t come home. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he said, trying a sterner approach. “Your parents love you. They don’t deserve this.”
“I know that.” She hesitated. She didn’t trust him like her parents did, but he couldn’t deliver her message if she didn’t give it to him. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet—the reason I can’t come home.”