“Are you going to help the writer, Mom?” asked Janie. It felt as if that ancient kidnapping had spilled acid on her beautiful spring and her sweet romance.
Get a grip, she ordered herself. It’s not a big deal. It’s the past. I don’t live there. Let the writer do his worst. It won’t touch me.
But she felt the cold fingers of the media stretching toward her. It was her face they wanted. They wanted to see her crumple and cry.
“The decision is yours, honey,” said her New Jersey mother. “You do what you think is right.”
Doing the right thing was harder than anybody admitted.
By no evil act of their own, two good people—Frank and Miranda—had been hurled into evil by Hannah.
Poor ruined Frank tried to do the right thing for his real daughter. He also tried to do the right thing for his other daughter, Janie. He wasn’t going to know how it turned out. He didn’t even know what he had for lunch anymore.
Poor ruined Miranda had tried all her life to be good, kind, and fair. She had been a wonderful mother to the little Janie who had suddenly appeared on her doorstep. Miranda had given Janie everything, from Christmas morning to cake decorating, from driving lessons to bedtime stories, and every minute of it had been just right. And so what? The media attacked her anyway.
Yes, Hannah should be caught. Yes, Hannah should be tried and found guilty and sent to prison. But Hannah’s parents would be tried as well. Frank and Miranda would be found guilty on television and radio. Found guilty on the Internet and in newspapers. Found guilty by new neighbors and former friends.
“I can’t always see what’s right,” Janie said to her real mother. “I hide out instead.”
“There’s no rush,” said Donna. “We can all think about it and decide together sometime during the summer.”
Summer.
That long lovely world of slow days and late nights, warm air and friendly sun.
But Calvin Vinesett would spend the summer writing of crime and filth, hounding Janie and her brothers and sister, tracking down Janie’s high school friends, visiting her two sets of parents.
When her call from Donna ended, Janie held her phone for a long time, wanting to call Reeve and hear his voice and be comforted. Only Reeve would understand.
I believe Michael would understand, if I let him, thought Janie. Do I dare?
THE THIRD PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE
In the group, no one used the name their parents had given them.
The group would be a family, strong and loyal and true. They would protect one another and be more pure and valuable than the men and women who accidentally gave them life.
All initiates the year Hannah Javensen joined were given musical names. She became Harmony and the other girls were Vivace and Glissando. She loved that name, Harmony. It meant she fit in everywhere, gently and perfectly.
One year, the group needed a post office box.
It was her job to get it.
She hated jobs.
She wanted them to do the jobs!
But they insisted. She was to pay a year’s rent on the box using a false name.
But the false name had to be a real name, because to open a post office box, it was necessary to have proof of identity. (It was typical of American society that they were always trying to match you up with numbers and photos.)
Hannah had to find and use somebody else’s identity.
The leader told her that as long as she obeyed him, she would always be safe. But Hannah was scared. What if she got caught?
Every night the leader would ask Hannah if she had done her job yet, and every night she had not, and every night she was dismissed from the group and had to sit alone.
Sitting alone! It was the worst punishment.
The leader screamed at her, “Harmony! Just steal a wallet! You’re not pretty enough to be remembered and you’re not different enough to be noticed and you’re not plain enough to be interesting. You’re just there! Nobody will notice you. Nobody ever has!”
The group laughed at her.
It isn’t true! thought Hannah. They notice me! I’m their friend. They love me.
The next day, Hannah forced herself to wander through a nearby college campus. She followed various girls with long blond hair like her own. One girl was wearing pants so tight that she could have nothing in a pocket. She must be carrying everything in her skinny little backpack. The girl went into a ladies’ room. Hannah saw the tips of the girl’s fingers as she hung the backpack on the hook inside the stall. Hannah waited for the girl to sit down, and then she simply reached in over the door and took the backpack. The girl on the toilet screamed.
Hannah walked out. In the hall, she removed the wallet. She passed through a student center, where she left the backpack on a chair. In two strides, she was outdoors. She wandered across the grass, removed the driver’s license and the cash, set the wallet on a trash can lid, and kept walking.
The leader of the group had been right. Nobody had noticed her.
But it was a good thing, not a bad thing.
In the post office, she gave the clerk Tiffany Spratt’s driver’s license and Tiffany Spratt’s cash and in exchange they gave her a key. She could hardly wait to tell everybody how well she had done. She tucked the key into her jeans pocket and approached the leader. “About that post office box,” she said timidly.
“I told you to do that last week! We’ve got a box now. Don’t bother me.” He never even knew that she had obeyed. He never asked for the key. He just walked away from her.
It was her parents’ fault.
They had spoiled her, and done things for her, and helped her out, and now, when she had to be independent and contribute to the welfare of her group, she goofed.
Years later, standing in her parents’ living room listening to her mother singing to that little girl, Hannah thought of that key. She had kept it. She had kept up the box payments too. The leader of the group used to say that things were meant to be. She had been meant to use that post office box.
It was time to get out of Connecticut, but Hannah did not want to leave broke. She took her father aside. “You bring Janie up. It’s too much for me. But I need money. I have a post office box in Boulder, Colorado. Send me a check every month.”
Hannah could not miss the joy in her father’s eyes. It was not his own daughter he wanted. It was that kid. He was perfectly happy to purchase a grandchild.
Hannah found herself giggling. They’ll get caught, she thought. Probably in a day or two. They’ll go to prison. Well, they deserve it, ruining my life.
Her father gave her lots of cash and Hannah drove away. She got rid of the car as soon as possible and took a bus. She took tranquilizers, too. She didn’t like to be up and she didn’t like to be down. She liked to be smooth.
Within hours, she barely remembered the little girl.
CHAPTER THREE
Calvin Vinesett would not give up.
Not only did he bother Janie with a second letter, he found her email address. Janie was not a big email user. It was not the end of the world to have some stranger connect by email. But her email appeared on her iPhone as well. She could ignore and even forget about emails on her computers. But on her iPhone, she could not help opening her messages and reading them.
Every communication included Calvin Vinesett’s cell phone number.
Her beloved cell phone felt infected.
He had communicated with her brothers and sister. Stephen, Brendan, Brian, and Jodie seemed to be waiting for Janie to make the first move. As for Sarah-Charlotte and the rest of Janie’s high school friends, Calvin Vinesett must not have known about them, because if they had gotten letters, they would have told her.
Michael chiseled away at her, wanting to know her better. “I still don’t see why you won’t use Facebook.”
“Give it a rest, Michael! Just because you like to present a nicely edited version of yourself doesn’t mean everybody wants to.”
He backed off immediately. “You’re right. I agonize over what to have on my profile. I’m showing off the guy I want to be, not the guy I am.”
She loved him for that confession.
Six weeks, she told herself. I’ve known him only six weeks, and because it’s me, it’s been a careful six weeks. But that’s okay. There’s no reason to rush into my history.
Michael did not share this belief. His smile was forced. He’s getting sick of this, Janie thought. I have to do more of what he wants and less of what I want.
Sophomore year was nearly over.
They were well into the month of May and final exams were beginning. Michael was irritated because Janie insisted on studying hard—and alone. “I promised in my application essay to be a good student,” she told him. “I’ve pulled it off for three semesters, and I’m determined to get good grades again this semester.”
“Oh, come on!” said Michael. “Your professors didn’t read that essay! They don’t know what you promised. I want to study with you.”
“You’re too much of a distraction.”
He did not take this as a compliment. He left the city for a job interview and Janie tried to remember why she had wanted to study alone.
Her second-to-last exam was early on Friday morning. With her last exam scheduled for the following Tuesday, a much-needed three-day weekend lay in front of her.
The exam was easier than Janie had expected. She wafted out of the classroom. No need to return to her dorm to pack an overnight bag, because she kept stuff at her mother’s. She took a crosstown bus through Central Park and then the subway down to Grand Central, where she bought a Metro-North ticket to Connecticut. “Hi, Mom,” she said on her cell. “I’ll be at the station at eleven-fifty.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see you. And I think Frank knows you’re coming! He’s been smiling all morning.”
“Give him a kiss,” said Janie.
Grand Central was one of her favorite places in New York. She crossed the great room slowly, enjoying it like a tourist, and then walked down the long concrete platform to her train. She liked to ride facing forward, and she liked a window seat. This train was relatively empty; most people would not head out of the city until after lunch. She found a good seat in a clean car where nobody was yelling on a cell phone or eating something smelly. She sat down, tucking her bag between herself and the window, and took out her e-reader. She was on chapter six of some historical fiction novel Eve had loved. So far, Janie didn’t love it. It was yet another wives-of-Henry-VIII thing, and there were probably ten chapters until the beheading, which would most likely be detailed and gross.
The train left the station.
She got her ticket out even though the conductor wouldn’t collect it for quite a while. They slowed for 125th Street, where they would pick up passengers and then continue express to Greenwich.
Janie stared out the window.
Leaving the city always gave her a sort of heart stoppage, as if she were leaving a safety zone. As if anything could happen out here.
And anything did happen. Michael sat down next to her. She was too startled to be polite. “Michael! What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”
He kissed her cheek, put his arm around her, and settled in. Very close.
She felt smothered. The kiss did not feel like love. “He’s buying you,” Eve had said. Janie shook off Eve’s negative aura. “How did you find me, Michael?”
“Eve said you were headed out to Connecticut. I thought I’d catch up.”
But Eve had finished her exams two days ago and left the city. Eve didn’t know Janie’s plans for today. Even if Michael had texted Eve, she couldn’t have told him where Janie was.
She stared at Michael.
“Okay, that’s a fib,” he admitted. “I didn’t see Eve. I stalked you. Don’t be mad. I love you, Jane. I haven’t seen you in three days and you didn’t even answer my last text!”
This was what her past had done to her: she suspected people of things. Janie relaxed and leaned against him after all. It felt good.
“So where are we going?” said Michael. “Are you visiting your parents or do I have a rival I don’t know about?”
His only possible rival was Reeve, but Reeve was far away and occupied another world. Michael was this world.
Janie Johnson took a deep breath. It was time. “I’m going to have lunch with my parents. My dad had a serious stroke and a heart attack a few years ago. He’s in a wheelchair, and if it’s a good day he knows me and if it’s a bad day he doesn’t.”
“That’s awful,” said Michael. “I’m so sorry, Jane. He must have been very young.”
“No. My parents are pretty old.” Janie still wasn’t ready to approach the central theme of her life. She talked alongside it. “We used to have a lovely big house, but my dad couldn’t go up and down the stairs anymore, and even after they rebuilt the downstairs bathroom, my mother couldn’t manage, so the summer before freshman year—”
“Before we met,” said Michael, as if referring to some other century.
“Exactly. Sad times.” Janie rearranged his arm to snuggle herself even more safely inside his affection. Safe, she thought. How often I use that word. I remember feeling safe senior year in high school. Here I am with my boyfriend’s arm around me and I don’t feel romantic; I feel safe. “Anyway, my parents had run out of money. I got the house repainted inside and out, held tag sales, sold stuff online, and then sold the house for enough to move them into an assisted living facility, which Daddy needs but my poor mother doesn’t. She’s got an easier life because the staff takes care of him but a harder life because she isn’t with her old friends and can’t do all the things she used to do. She’s very brave.”
“She must really rely on you,” said Michael. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Janie. “My parents aren’t very good company these days.”
“Maybe I could make it better. Sometimes a new face makes conversation easier.”
Tears pricked her eyes. Michael could put anybody at ease. And her mother would rejoice that Janie had this sturdy fine man in her life. Since Mom never referred to the kidnapping or the New Jersey family, Janie wouldn’t find herself dealing with an angry Michael, stunned and hurt that Janie had neglected to tell him all the important aspects of her life. “Taking you to meet my parents is heavy,” she said to Michael. “Freighted with meaning.”
“Wow. Big vocabulary. You sound like a college girl. And speaking of college, your university costs a ton of money. If your parents are so broke, how are you paying for it? Did you get scholarships?”
“No. My grandmother set up a trust for my education. If I could have given my parents every dime of that money to help them out, I would have, but the trust pays directly to the university.”
“Your mother’s mother?” asked Michael.
“Yes.”
Her grandmother Barnette had been one of the very few who knew that Hannah Javensen had shown up one day, handed her little daughter Janie over to her parents to bring up, and vanished. Grammy approved the plan to change the name Javensen to Johnson. Grammy believed that Janie was her real true great-granddaughter, and she died before they ever knew about the kidnapping, one of the few blessings in the nightmare.
Janie sometimes wondered if her grandmother would have left all that money to a little girl who wasn’t related to her after all.
It was the kind of thing that could still make Janie’s heart hurt.
They ate in the private ell of the big dining room at the Harbor.
Michael had beautiful manners. He helped Janie’s father with the wheelchair and with his glass of water. He complimented Janie’s mother on her pretty scarf and glittery earrings. Miranda blossomed under his attention, and Frank gave Janie a smile that seemed real, that seemed to know things and to love her.
Michael took pictures of eve
rybody. “We’ll want to remember this,” he told Janie.
Her heart double-timed in her chest.
For the rest of our lives, she thought.
She had no photograph of Michael, although of course a cell phone took photographs effortlessly and well. For everything else in her life, she took pictures and immediately sent them on to Sarah-Charlotte or whomever. She hadn’t even told Sarah-Charlotte about Michael, although Michael knew all about Sarah-Charlotte, and loved reading her tart little texts. Janie could not believe she had never taken a picture of Michael. What had she been thinking?
While Michael was laughing, telling her mother a story, Janie snapped his profile, so sharp and strong, and sent it to Sarah-Charlotte: The man I love, she wrote in the text. Can’t wait to tell you about him. Which was quite a fib, since Janie had waited six weeks already to mention Michael to Sarah-Charlotte.
Before dessert, Janie and her mother went to the ladies’ room while Michael took her father to the men’s room. It happened easily, and without anybody having to say anything.
“He seems like a wonderful man,” said her mother excitedly. “Though part of me will always miss Reeve.”
“Part of me will always miss Reeve too.” In fact, the image of Reeve was all but in the mirror with her. Do I still love him? Janie asked herself. Yes. But do I love him enough?
When they returned to the table, Michael and her father were already seated and apparently having a conversation. Janie and her mother exchanged hopeful looks. Daddy could surface now and then, though rarely with a complete sentence.
“Barnette,” her father was saying.
“Goodness,” said Janie’s mother. “How did you two get on the topic of my mother?”
“I was just asking about family,” said Michael, beaming.
Janie’s mother beamed back.
“College money,” said her father thickly, but with a grasp of the topic.
Janie was so pleased! She circled Michael to reach her chair.