I drop my bag in the main room, grab my sunglasses, and set out. Unfortunately, med school and funeral director’s classes didn’t include classes on finding missing people. I suspect it would be easier with help. A part of me wants to ask Henry to come here, but I can’t imagine that going well. I’ll go to the police department and to the coroner—or let the Durham Police Department handle that.
Right now, I want to see if I can find Teresa. I have four days to walk throughout this city and look for her.
I start by walking into the French Quarter with a vague grid in mind. Street musicians, drunken revelers, and Midwestern couples pace by me. I probably look more than a little wide-eyed. I don’t know how many people live in the city or if Teresa lived here when that picture was taken. But whatever Sharon couldn’t tell me makes me think that she knew that Teresa was living here and not just temporarily visiting.
Why would a literary agency have pictures of one of the Carolina Creeper’s victims? Was someone doing a book on him? I’d like to say that no one would exploit a woman like that, that the people at Sharon’s agency would care enough about the women who’d died and one who was lost because of him . . . but nothing Sharon had told me about her co-workers made me think that.
Several hours later, I’m forced to admit that simply walking around looking at strangers wasn’t likely to get me anywhere. I stop in a coffee shop on Royal Street and show the barista Teresa’s pictures while I wait for my drink.
“I’m looking for this woman.”
The man looks at me. “Don’t work here.”
I try a smile. “Okay . . . but do you know her?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t know her, don’t know nothing.” He hands me my coffee and walks away.
I try a few other shops and stores. Asking around isn’t as random as simply staring in the faces of strangers, but the closest I come to any sort of answers is a very tattooed and pierced girl who asks, “Why you want her? Is she in trouble again?”
“Again?” I echo.
She shrugs. “People don’t come ‘round askin ‘bout her ‘less she done something.”
“So you do know her?”
She shrugs again.
“I don’t mean her any trouble,” I try. “She’s been gone, and—”
“Sometimes los’ things better off stayin los’.” The girl shakes her head, sending a twist of braids and beads rattling. “Let her stay los’. Better for her. Better for you. Better for ever’one.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Can you tell me—”
“Don’t know her.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Musta thought she was someone else at firs’, but lots a women look like her come through here. Don’t know dem. Don’t know her. Don’t know you.”
She starts to walk away.
“Someone hurt her. A man. He killed other women. Tortured them, and I need to find him.” I sound desperate. I know it, but I feel even more desperate than I sound. “I need to stop him.”
Her stern expression doesn’t change. “Can’t help you.”
I follow her.
“I don’t want to hurt her. Honestly. I just want to stop him. Maybe I can get her to help or . . .” I’m not going to tell anyone that Teresa’s a rich woman, that finding her would mean she got her inheritance. “If you know where she is, can you tell her I’m looking for her? I can leave you my”—I pull out a pen and grab a business card from the store to write on—“numbers and email and . . . please?”
She accepts the card I extend to her.
“Thank you.”
She says nothing as she drops it in the trash.
24
Michael
The screams wake me. My first thought is that they’re not human. The next is that they’re coming from within the apartment.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please.” Tess is standing in the middle of the room. Her head is bowed, turned toward the bathroom. “I know better.”
“Tess?”
“I’m sorry. Don’t make me leave.”
I don’t see anyone else here; now I’m fairly sure that it was Tess who screamed. “What’s going on? Is someone here?”
She ignores me, staring toward the bathroom. “I can do it. I can. I’m good, Reid.”
“What?”
I walk to stand in front of Tess. The touch of my hand on her shoulder is enough to make her start screaming again. I flinch backwards. I’ve never heard a scream that comes close to this, not even in a horror film. It’s not a sound that any person should ever make—and it was my touch that did it.
She’s cringing away from me, crouched on the floor, shrieking. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. I’m not sure a person can prepare for this. When she stops shrieking, I drop to my knees and crawl toward her. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t touch her if that’s how she reacts, and she’s not answering me. I’m not sure who she is answering, who this Reid is.
“I can do it,” she repeats between gasps. “I will.”
“Tess!”
“Please! Just don’t make me go home.”
“Tess, can you hear me?”
She stares, and even though her eyes are open and she’s speaking, I’m not sure she’s actually awake. I’ve heard of night terrors, but I thought they were something only children had. Maybe it’s a psychological break of some sort? Either way, I try to talk to her as if she were in either a nightmare or a hallucination.
“You’re in New York, Tess. Reid’s not here. Reid’s not here, Tess.” I sit on the floor in front of her, filling her entire field of vision.
For a moment, she doesn’t react. Then she frowns. “Michael?”
I nod, relieved. I can’t call the police, an ambulance, but I can’t just write this off as a nightmare, either. What do you do when someone loses their grip on reality? I push away my worries and reassure her: “I’m here.”
She stares, shakes her head, and insists, “You need to go. Reid doesn’t like it when I talk to people. I can talk to the pretty girls, but . . . he won’t want me to talk to you.”
My relief disappears as quickly as it had come. Anger flows in, despite my attempts to be kind, and my voice is harsh as I tell her again, “Reid’s not here, Tess.”
She looks away, and that’s it. She’s gone. Her moment of lucidity passes. She’s whimpering again. “Where is he?”
I’m not prepared for this, not prepared for the parts of Tess everyone warned me about. I don’t know who Reid is, but I know this is the secret she’s been hiding. Reid is the reason she didn’t want to leave New Orleans. He’s behind her scars.
A domestic violence case isn’t nearly interesting enough for my book. The thought comes unbidden in the moment. I thought she was my sparrow, my start of a story that would prove that I’m more than a one-book-success. Domestic violence, though? That story has been written too often. Despite how heinous it is, it doesn’t shock readers anymore. I’m not sure it even shocks people when it’s real.