Last Girl Gone Page 3

  “So I’ll match him contact for contact. Let me write the story, Bass.”

  Using his first name seemed to startle him. His eyes flicked open. “There’s no comparison, Miss Chambers.” His drawl landed even harder on the formal miss, stretching it out. “You’ve been here two months. I know, I know—you grew up here. But you also left a long time ago. People have opened up to Colin before. With you, I’m not so sure.”

  “So you’re saying people won’t talk to me because I got too big for my britches and left Hillsborough.” Her hands clenched into fists. “As though me leaving for something better draws attention to anything here that’s worse.”

  “That sentiment exists in certain circles, yes.”

  “So let me take a shot at it,” Laura said. “If you’re not happy, make the switch.”

  He nodded. “My thoughts exactly. I need something for Sunday’s edition.”

  “That’s in two days.”

  “Which gives you until tomorrow at deadline.”

  “There’s no way I can—”

  He raised a hand, cutting her off. “I need something for Sunday’s edition. It has to be good, too. No rehashing of old news. This story will probably get picked up in Raleigh, Atlanta, who knows.”

  Laura took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Good girl. That’s why I hired you.”

  “I know you took a chance with that, Mr. Herman.”

  He levered himself down into the room’s single chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers over his belly. “We’ve all made mistakes, Miss Chambers.”

  “Even you?”

  He allowed himself a rare smile. “Even me. In my youth.”

  “During my interview, you asked about what happened in Boston.”

  He waited expectantly, his face serene.

  “And I confirmed it happened just like the Globe told you.”

  “Mmm,” Herman said. “‘Parted ways.’ That was their euphemism of choice.”

  “But you never asked me anything else about it.”

  “Your memory is correct.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, that’s an interesting question. I could tell you I’m not a nosy person by nature, but who could believe that, me being the editor-in-chief of a local rag? All we do is nose our way into other people’s business. I guess maybe it’s because I know what shame looks like.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He pointed out into the newsroom, a space three or four times the size of the conference room with desks pushed together in groups of two. “I see you walking—no, make that skulking—around out there. Head down. Barely meeting anyone’s eye. Hell, you never look at me. You seem to think you sold me a bill of goods, young lady. That you tricked me into buying something damaged and got away with it.”

  She examined a ceiling tile. “Didn’t I?”

  “Hardly. Put it behind you, Miss Chambers.”

  “That doesn’t answer anything. Why hire me?”

  Herman tapped a copy of the day’s paper lying on the table. “Pure self-interest. You’ve got good instincts. Truth is, if you’d never screwed up, we never could have gotten a reporter of your caliber on staff.”

  “You think I’m worth the risk?”

  Bass Herman nodded his all-knowing nod. “Miss Chambers, I consider you a bargain.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  “DID YOU FEEL threatened?”

  “It was a newspaper, not a knife.”

  “Still, in the adult world, we rarely expect to be confronted with any type of physical violence. It doesn’t take a lethal weapon. If someone shoved you, or spit on you, wouldn’t you feel threatened then?”

  “If someone spit on me, I’d feel pissed off.”

  “But you’re not pissed off now.”

  “Like hell I’m not.”

  They sat across from each other in overstuffed arm chairs, Laura’s with a matching ottoman. Opposite her, Dr. Jasmine DeVane sat perched on the edge of her seat, legs crossed, absentmindedly twirling a pen.

  During their first session a month ago, Laura had asked the obvious question: “What, no couch?”

  Dr. DeVane had shaken her head. “Too much temptation.”

  Laura assumed she was referring to some dark corner of her patients’ minds, a negative, sexual behavior triggered in the presence of a couch, and Dr. DeVane had seen the look on her face. “No, no, it’s not what you’re thinking—the temptation is all mine. I used to have one, but I ended up taking too many naps.”

  It was right then, right at the beginning, when she’d noticed just how funny Dr. DeVane could be. She played the part of the professional well, always in low heels, trousers, and earth-tone tops. Her dark hair had a strain of muted red running through it, and she tended to pull it back in a loose chignon. Because of the polished façade, it was easy to overlook her sense of humor. Most therapists took their work, and themselves, very seriously. Laura had patronized a number of them over the years, and she’d laughed in all her combined therapy sessions about as often as while learning about Nazi Germany. But Dr. DeVane had a light touch, even when she was poking a sore spot.

  “Do you think he had the will to do you physical harm?”

  “I think he wanted to, yes.”

  “But those aren’t the same thing,” Dr. DeVane said. “We all want to do harm at one time or another, even if it’s just fantasy. For most of us it stops there, our own little theater of the mind playing out revenge on, say, high school bullies or the dry cleaner who ruined our favorite shirt. Fantasies like that are normal, even healthy in small doses.”

  “He wanted to hurt me,” Laura said. “He had the desire.”

  “How do you know?”

  Laura shrugged. “Just a gut feeling. There was something in his eyes.”

  “Still, that’s only half the equation. Plenty of people want to do things. An extra ingredient is necessary to separate fantasy from reality: will. People who cross the line into actual, physical violence need that little something extra.”

  “This was real. He was there, in the room, staring right through me with those dead eyes of his. Isn’t that more than fantasy?”

  “Of course. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whether you perceived it as a threat or not, the kind of person who could do what he did—it suggests the capacity for more.”

  “So what now?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Laura. But I can tell you to be careful around this one.”

  Sometimes the doctor’s gaze could be a little too penetrating. It gave her the willies and a knot in her stomach, the same one she got from dreams about being naked in front of her sixth-grade class. Laura looked away, pretended to glance around the office even though she remembered every inch. It was a block off Churton Street, Hillsborough’s main thoroughfare, in a one-time warehouse split into office suites. Gauzy, floor-to-ceiling curtains admitted plenty of soft, natural light. Exposed brick walls, Asian-inspired decor. Oriental rugs adorned the floors and the walls, sucking up even the smallest sounds. There were no echoes. It felt like talking in a box full of cotton balls.

  Which was effective, she had to admit. There was security in knowing that no one could hear them, and no sound from the outside world made it in. A room walled off from the world, like a castle with a moat. Safe.

  Best of all, the thermostat was set to sixty-eight degrees.

  “Can we back up for a second?”

  Laura turned her focus back to the doctor. “To where?”

  “Well, you finished the story about your colleague.” She said the word with a forced professionalism, almost as if she were rolling her eyes, that made Laura like her all the more. “But you glossed over the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “When he said you get ahead on your back.”

  Laura said nothing.

  “You’re normally quick to answer,” Dr. DeVane observed.

  Laura reexamined the drapes.

  “And
I can’t help but notice your sudden silence.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Laura said.

  “Professional hazard.”

  “Are you asking me whether I’m sleeping with the deputy?”

  “Not a bad place to start.”

  “Is it relevant?”

  “Considering the comment that is the focal point of our discussion?” Dr. DeVane tapped her pen against her front teeth. “I’d say it’s relevant, yes.”

  “It shouldn’t be. I can sleep with whomever I damn well please.” Laura took a deep breath. Despite her best efforts, her voice had doubled in volume.

  “Laura. Laura.” Dr. DeVane made her voice quieter and more soothing in response. “Of course you can. When I say it’s relevant, what I mean is that veracity plays a part here. The barbs people throw at us are sharpened by truth. Even when it’s something that has no place being barbed in the first place—our beliefs, our appearance, who we sleep with—the ring of truth provides the necessary weight. It’s how words can manage to cut us so deeply.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That if someone says something offensive, it hurts, but when we think it’s true, that’s when it rings in our ears. So, three questions. One: are you in a relationship with—?” She trailed off.

  “Franklin Stuart,” Laura supplied.

  Dr. DeVane raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, I know. Everyone calls him Frank.”

  “Okay, Frank. Are you in a relationship?”

  “I’ve been here two months.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Neither. It’s just too soon to tell. We’re seeing each other.”

  “Two: in your own mind, are you leveraging your relationship with Frank to get ahead?”

  Laura crossed her arms and took another deep breath. “He’s the one who called me yesterday, told me what was going on. It got me the article.”

  “And three: do you feel bad about it?”

  Laura shook her head. “No.”

  Dr. DeVane reached out and put a hand on Laura’s knee. “You shouldn’t. It’s our social connections that let us prosper, and the lack of them that makes people wither. Fathers get jobs for sons, old college friends make the right introductions. That’s life. There’s no shame in taking help from anyone, and your sex life has nothing to do with it.”

  “So why are we talking about it?”

  “Because this kind of thing does matter a great deal to a great many people, but the only thing I’m concerned about is whether it matters to you.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  The doctor threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Which means I don’t think we need to explore it any further.” She paused. “But how’s Frank?”

  Laura felt the corner of her mouth tug up, the beginning of a grin. “I thought we were done exploring.”

  “My extreme perceptiveness is clueing me in to the fact that it’s a little strange you haven’t mentioned him. I mean, relationships are the sort of thing most people talk about right away.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “No, you definitely are not.”

  Laura cocked her head, the second corner of her mouth pushing up now too. Another few seconds and it would count as an actual smile.

  Dr. DeVane flushed and fidgeted with the bridge of her glasses. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I actually meant that in a good way. Most of the people who visit me here in Hillsborough only come for one or two reasons. My sessions with you are, well … I look forward to them, Laura. I like you. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re my patient, you and I might even have been friends. At the very least, why don’t you start calling me Jasmine.”

  “Jasmine,” Laura said, trying it out.

  “Okay, if not your love life, how about your career. Can we talk about that?”

  “Better than talking about my mother, I guess.”

  Laura had spent the first two sessions talking almost exclusively about her childhood, a topic that never seemed to wear out. Those years were like a fractal: no matter how closely she examined them, it was the same shit over and over again. Allowing herself to embody a cliché—the patient with mommy issues—had been almost as painful as the memories themselves.

  “Do a lot of people come in here and talk about their mothers?”

  Dr. DeVane nodded. “It’s extremely common, yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Asking questions. About me, about therapy in general. About the modern state of psychological thinking. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

  Laura shrugged. “Professional hazard.”

  Dr. DeVane nodded. “Point taken, and a perfect segue. Can we talk about your career?”

  “Sure,” Laura said.

  “Can we talk about Boston?”

  “Nope,” Laura said.

  “It’s obviously weighing on you. The very refusal to talk about it suggests—”

  “Not today, okay?”

  “You mentioned it in passing during our first session, and only then to explain your move back to Hillsborough. As far as I can see, it upended your life. And we’re not going to talk about it?”

  “I don’t pay you to bitch at me.” The words slipped out, and she regretted them almost instantly.

  Most people would have flushed at the comment, but the doctor remained perfectly calm. “Actually, you do,” she said. “In fact, that might be one of my favorite descriptions of exactly what I do in here—bitch at people. Shine a light on the things they’d rather not see.”

  They sat together in silence for a while.

  Finally, Laura said, “I’m sorry I snapped.”

  “I know you are.”

  “But I just don’t want to talk about it today.”

  “Okay, let’s make a deal. We skip it for today, and we talk about it next week.”

  Laura nodded.

  “So tell me about this story.”

  “The dead girl?”

  “I have a feeling that’s what everyone’s going to mean when they say ‘the story,’ at least for a while.”

  “Did you read my article?”

  “Of course.”

  The majority of the seven thousand people in Hillsborough must have read that article. Still, hearing it one-on-one gave a her a little thrill.

  “Then you know what I know. Between you and me, that’s about all the police know too.”

  “And do you think the editor, Mr.—”

  “Herman.”

  “Do you think Mr. Herman will take the story away from you?”

  “He’s giving me until the Sunday edition to come up with something; that’s effectively until tomorrow night. He wants me to prove myself, otherwise he’s going with Smythe.”

  “And is that a fair offer?”

  Laura weighed this question.

  “I think he thinks it is. Finding something new in a murder investigation in about thirty hours, when the police have nothing, isn’t exactly easy. On the other hand, that’s the nature of the job, investigating facts and reporting them. Bass didn’t write the rules; he’s just playing by them.”

  “A brutal set of guidelines for a small-town paper,” Dr. DeVane said.

  “But not a small-town story.”

  “How do you think losing the story would make you feel?”

  This time Laura didn’t weigh her answer. “Bad,” she said.

  Dr. DeVane shot her a grin. “Can you expand on that? Forgive my ignorance of the profession, but isn’t it just one story? Won’t there be others?”

  “Two-part answer.” Laura started ticking them off on her fingers. “One, it’s the principle of losing the story. I may be biased, but yes, I’m the better reporter.”

  Dr. DeVane cut in. “Then why would your boss take you off it?”

  “He gave a reason that didn’t sound like complete bullshit. Colin Smythe has lived here all
his life and might have more success getting locals to open up to him, but I’m the better reporter and he knows it. In the end, Bass is just going with what he knows and who he knows. Bass Herman is old-school, from a different era. It’s the same everywhere, the good ol’ boys’ network at play.”

  “So he lied to you.”

  “No, he doesn’t see it like that. Which makes it worse. There are no villains in the world, just millions of people with a very screwed-up idea of what constitutes the right thing.”

  Dr. DeVane’s brow furrowed. She said nothing.

  “And two,” Laura extended two fingers, “yes, losing this specific story would hurt more than losing another.”

  “Is it the girl?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Just that this story involves a dead girl, another one missing. It’s in progress. Most reporting is on things that have already happened. Here, something you discover could be the key to finding Teresa Mitchem.”

  Laura gave her a thin smile. “It’s not that. When I started in Boston, I covered some horrible things. Husbands killing wives, wives killing husbands, strangers killing strangers. Grown men beating children to death. I started out thinking the random killings were the worst. Then at the end of my first month I get assigned … I guess you’d call it a human outrage story.”

  “Human outrage,” Dr. DeVane repeated.

  “It was a term of art in the Globe newsroom. Like human interest, but not so warm and fuzzy. The opposite, in fact. Stories like that are one step above the police blotter. But it sells papers. People love to hate.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Dr. DeVane said.

  “But it’s never Pulitzer material either. I was new, so I get assigned Howard Jenkins. Howard worked on Fleet Street as a partner at a law firm, and at the ripe old age of forty-nine he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. Terminal without intervention. Mrs. Jenkins—Susan, that was her name—stepped up and a liver donation was scheduled. It all goes great for Howard. He sheds that jaundiced yellow skin and goes back to playing squash and yachting and sleeping with his mistress.”

  “His mistress?”

  “Turns out that the cirrhosis was caused by hepatitis C, which he picked up sometime during his exploits around town.”

  “And Susan Jenkins found out.”