Tess opens the door to a room on the right which surprises me. That means I have the lake view and Parrish doesn’t. Interesting.
I stop short in the doorway as Tess turns around, crossing one arm over her chest and clutching at her elbow with her hand. She’s nervous, not something a famous true crime novelist is used to being I’ll bet. She’s written over twenty New York Times bestsellers. Her first novel—Abducted Under a Noonday Sun—launched her career.
It was semi-autobiographical.
It was about me.
The irony is that I’d read that book—more than once, actually—and never once made any sort of connection. Stupidly, I’d even written an English paper analyzing the content and the deeper meaning in the story without ever getting it through my thick skull that I was dissecting a story about myself.
“Well, what do you think?” Tess asks proudly, chest expanding as she takes in a deep breath and gestures around the room with a hand decorated in a diamond ring and tennis bracelet. The day we met, she gave me a matching bracelet.
It’s in my bag; I can’t bear to wear it.
I force yet another smile. If there were a counter for it, I think we’d be at about nine-hundred and ninety-nine forced smiles in the six weeks since I met Tess.
“It’s great,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking the way my heart is. I almost miss the hot, angry feeling that Parrish gave me. It was a shit-ton better than feeling the way I am right now, like a ghost, a shell, a shadow of my former self.
The room is … nice. I mean, it’s got those light-colored bamboo floors, stark white walls, and modern light fixtures that look like abstract metal sculptures. There’s a bed in the center of the room, decorated with silver and faux fur pillows, and it faces out on a magnificent view of the water.
It’s just so cold and sterile in here. There’s no color, no art on the walls, no creaky floors. There isn’t a dent in the wall from that one time Maxine and I were wrestling. There isn’t a deep gouge on the baseboard molding from that day Grandpa and I bought an antique dresser and struggled to get it up the stairs and pushed into place in the corner.
“You can decorate it however you want,” Tess says eagerly, stepping forward. She’s so happy, I’m trying my best not to rain on her parade. I can only imagine what it must feel like to find the child that was stolen from you fourteen years prior. “We can hit the shops tomorrow, get you whatever you want.”
“That’s really nice of you,” I respond, our interaction stiff and forced. Tess’ eyes—the same raven-black as my own—crinkle at the edges as she struggles to smile back. We’re both trying here. It’s just … not a situation any normal person would ever find themselves in. “If you don’t mind, I’m a little tired from the flight …”
Polite code for please get the fuck out so I can die in peace.
“Oh, of course,” she says, shaking herself and falling right back into that famous novelist role she wears so well. When I first saw her, I thought she might very well be the coldest person I’d ever met. But then she started to cry, and I could tell that she was just a master of locking away her emotions. She’d have to be, right? Considering what she’s been through.
One day—fourteen years, three months, and sixteen days ago to be exact—Tess took her two-year old daughter Mia Patterson to a low-cost daycare center down the street from the diner she was waitressing at. According to her, she was holding a red plastic tray with four Cokes, three cheeseburgers, and a chicken salad on it when her phone went off in her apron. Somehow, she knew something was wrong. The first line of her book sums it up: In my stomach, I could feel it, a primal fear as cold as the snow and ice that kiss the Cascades.
Tess dropped the tray to the floor and started running in kitten heels and an apron. By the time she got to the parking lot of the daycare, panting and shaking and sweating, she saw the red and blue lights of a police cruiser. She never made it inside, falling instead to the pavement outside the cheery yellow walls of the building and screaming.
That’s the day Mia Patterson became Dakota Banks.
“You’ve got your own bathroom, too,” Tess gushes all of a sudden, like she can’t bear to leave just quite yet. She moves over to a shiny white door on sliders, like the barn doors at home in my grandparents’ house. Only, this one looks space-age. It’s shiny and perfect, and I don’t see any sort of handle. Tess seems able to slide it open with just a few fingers.
I step forward and peer into the room, finding it just as sterile and cold as the bedroom. At least there’s black marble on the floors instead of white, and the shower is big enough for four. A bathtub rests in the center of the room, with windows all along the wall. That’s the only thing I see that makes me feel any better. A bath in that giant tub, looking out at the water and the city lights across the lake, that should help a little.
But only a little.
I’d do anything to go home and soak in the old clawfoot tub in my grandparents’ house.
“Paul will be home soon, with the rest of your siblings,” Tess adds, and I can hear the slightest warble of nervousness in her smooth voice. “If you’re too tired to meet them tonight, we can go out for breakfast …”
“That’d be fantastic,” I blurt, wrestling my rebellious lips into forced smile Number One-Thousand. If Parrish is any sort of indication as to the reception I’m going to get here, I’d much rather wait until morning. Tess’ face falls a bit, but she, too, manages to maintain a smile.
“Sleep well, Mia,” she breathes wistfully, and then we both freeze up completely, any pretense of normality flying out the window. “I’m sorry, I meant … Dakota.” Tess pauses awkwardly as I do my best to swallow past the lump in my throat.
“It’s okay. We’re both working our way through this,” I respond with all the politeness my grandparents taught me but with absolutely zero sincerity. On the inside, I’m screaming. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why couldn’t you just leave me where I was happy? Tess nods once, her smile faltering just a little, before heading for the bedroom door. She glances over her shoulder one more time before leaving, but whatever it was she intended to say dies on her lips.
“Goodnight … Dakota.”
Tess steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her. I don’t hesitate more than a handful of seconds before moving over to it and locking the handle.
I toss my backpack on the floor and then flop down on the bed, putting my face in my hands. I don’t cry. I’ve cried enough over the last several weeks. Instead, I gather myself together and pull my phone out of the pocket of my hoodie.
It’s hard to fathom the facts: that my family—that is, the Banks family—is legally obligated to refrain from contact with me for an entire year. So I’ll have time to adjust, Tess says. Personally, I think that’s the most awful and wicked thing anyone has ever done to me. I video-call my grandparents, but nobody answers. I can only imagine Tess’ scary expensive lawyers and fancy legal documents are keeping them from picking up. Doesn’t stop me from texting them though.
I miss you guys, and I want to come home. I send that off, and I don’t care if that makes my grandfather cry again. I need them to know how much I want out of this place.