The Wrong Girl

66

“Check. It. Out.” Keefer’s whispery voice had that stoned sound. Kellianne could always tell when he was high. Instead of passing the joint to Kev, he gestured with it, out the windshield. “Freakin’ a. It’s working. All we have to do is wait.”

“No shit,” Kev said. “But what if-”

“I took the batteries out,” Keefer said. “So the alarms won’t go off. Cut the phone. And it’s getting snowy, no one can see out their windows. Till it’s too late.”

Kellianne leaned forward, her arms on the padded back of the front seat, talking around the headrests. “If you guys don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m gonna call the cops myself. Rat you out. I can do it, you know.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. The boys weren’t that much fun when they were high, and sometimes even got mad. And kind of ugly. “Ha ha, only kidding,” she said. “But really, I mean-”

“Little sister,” Kev interrupted. “We are the problem solvers. How do we keep five-oh from connecting us with the geezer in the Lexus? We gotta make sure they don’t know we were in the dead woman’s house. And how do we do that?”

Kev sucked on the joint again, then handed it to Keefer with a nod. “Go ahead, say it, bro.” He choked out the words to keep the smoke down.

“We get rid of the house,” Keefer said.

Kellianne blinked, trying to follow Keefer’s pointing finger. It was hard to see the house. Snow was falling and there were trees and shadows everywhere and a huge shrub right in their way. All she could see was the backs of their heads, the fogged-up windshield, the dark outline of the shrub, and snow.

Kellianne was so confused. “You can’t even see the house.”

“We’re watching for the-never mind,” Kev said. “Shut the hell up and go back to your coloring books.”

Kellianne tried to see what they were seeing, but the whole van was smoky inside. Whatever.

Jane made it halfway down the path, heading back toward her car. Stopped behind the huge bayberry bush, protected from the icing night and the bitter sting of cold. Something smelled funny. She glanced across the street, looking for chimneys, thinking maybe there were fires in fireplaces.

She turned, sniffing again, and listened hard, trying to untangle the soft whistle of the wind and the hiss of the falling sleet from whatever had stopped her.

She should try Ella one more time. Jane reached into her parka pocket for her phone, but it slipped out of her gloved hand and onto the snow-slick flagstone path.

“Damn.” As she turned to scoop up the phone, she heard the sound of shattering glass. Glass? It wasn’t the phone screen, it was much louder than that. She turned, following the sound. The side of the house. The basement window. Smoke. Pouring from the blown-out casement. Smoke.

She grabbed her phone, yanked off her glove, punched 911, wiping with a finger to keep the snow off the screen. She stuffed the glove into a pocket. Her hand was already freezing.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Jane calmed her voice. She’d done dozens of stories about frantic 911 callers who delayed emergency response by incomprehensible terrified babble, talking too fast or leaving out facts.

“There’s a fire,” she said. “At twenty-seven Margolin Street.”

“Are you in Boston, ma’am? Fire?”

“Yes, fire.” It was all Jane could do not to shriek. She’d said fire, what was unclear about that? Oh, she was using her cell phone. The dispatcher had no idea where she was calling from. “Yes, Boston. A window’s blown out.”

“Are you outside, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, I’m outside, but-”

“Is everyone else outside, ma’am?”

“Are you sending the fire truck?” Jane was losing it, fast. This was taking forever and she couldn’t figure out why the dispatcher sounded confused. There was nothing confusing. “It’s a fire!”

Jane turned back to the front door, clamping the phone to her cheek. The door might simply be open. She’d never tried the lock, but only knocked and tried the bell, assuming that Ella would have answered if inside. But what if something was wrong inside? Maybe Jane should have called 911 sooner.

And hoped they wouldn’t think it was Jane-who-cried-wolf.

“Ma’am? Repeating the address, that’s twenty-seven Margolin, Boston, correct? We’ve got some power lines down and-Hold on please. Don’t hang up.” Jane heard the dispatcher’s voice connecting with someone, probably alerting the fire department. Jane strained to hear as she banged on the door again.

“Ella! Ella!” She touched the doorknob. Cold, even through her glove she could feel it was cold. She turned it. It opened.

“Ma’am? I have equipment on the way. Again, confirming it’s Boston, twenty-seven Margolin Street.”

“Yes, yes,” Jane said. How many times did she have to-“A white house, red brick trim, driveway, white front door. I don’t know if anyone is still inside. They might be. Should I go look?”

“No, ma’am,” the dispatcher’s voice was louder now. Insistent. “No. Please walk away from the building. As quickly as you can. Now.”

Jane stood on the porch, looking through the open door. She saw the living room. All looked fine.

“Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice cracked through. “Do you understand?”

“Reports of smoke showing at two-seven Margolin,” the deep voice of the BPD dispatcher bristled over the two-way in Jake’s cruiser. “Any available units are requested to…”

Jake stared at the blinking lights of his dashboard radio for an instant. Had he misunderstood? That’s where he’d been heading.

“Repeating, any available units to two-seven Margolin Street. Reports of smoke showing at a structure. All units fire and police, all units near and clear, please report. We have a caller on hold, awaiting…”

Shit. Jake flipped up his wig-wags, switched on the siren, hit the gas.

“Brogan responding to the available-units call,” he said into the radio. “ETA is in one minute.”

“Copy that, Detective. One minute.”

He felt his tires fishtail on the slick pavement, eased them straight again, powered through a red light, and banged the final turn toward Lillian Finch’s house. Shit. Maybe Perl had gotten there first.

Or maybe someone had gotten to Perl. If it was Perl.

Ella lifted the rack of files from the trunk, set the wire file holder on the braided rug, let the trunk lid thud close. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she stared at what was in the first manila folder she’d opened. The one marked BEERMAN.

A footprint. A photocopy, embossed with a notary seal. She ran her fingers over the raised letters. Woodmere Beach Hospital. The birthdate was-Ella quickly calculated-twenty-eight years ago. And it was marked BABY GIRL BEERMAN.

A tiny infant footprint, the incontrovertible evidence of identity. This was either Tucker Cameron’s footprint, or it wasn’t. Every folder she’d taken from Lillian’s desk Sunday night had been missing that one critical piece of paper. Ella had put those folders safely away, hiding them in her apartment.

Had Lillian taken the footprints out on purpose? Or had someone else removed the footprints-and Lillian found out? Found them?

Was Lillian saving the footprints that proved birth parents had been sent the wrong children? Why?

The rack also held files labeled HOFFNER. LAMONICA. DACOSTO. The very families she’d contacted.

And a dozen more. Were they all the wrong children?

What was that noise? Ella lifted her head. Scanned the room. Sniffed again.

Now she could see it. She wasn’t imagining it. That’s what she’d smelled. Not death. But smoke. Smoke. And now it was seeping into the windowless room. Wisps of gray curled through each metal vent lining one side of the room. And on the other side. Every one. No question. It stung her eyes. Filled her nose. Smoke.

Fire.

“Ma’am?” the dispatcher’s voice buzzed into Jane’s ear. “Are you away from the house? We need you to move away. Right now. Let us take care of this, ma’am. There are units en route. Please confirm you are away from the building.”

Jane stood in the doorway. She was brave, sometimes, but going into a burning building was-well, she’d done enough news stories to know what could happen. Sure there were sometimes those “hero” sound bites after. But not always.

The front door stood open now, no smoke in the entryway. Curvy wooden table under a framed mirror, circular rug. No smoke. Jane saw lights on in the living room and the back of the house. No smoke inside. Not that she could see. Maybe the fire was a little one, just in the basement. Maybe she should-

“Ella!”

“Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice. “I’m ordering you to-”

“Ella!” She screamed now. Ella’s car was still empty, that woman was somewhere, and if not inside this house, where? This had been Ella’s destination, she’d made that clear, and Jane had told her to wait. But Ella had obviously ignored her.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

She took a step inside.