Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

Is this how the victims were chosen? Through Charlotte?

Jane picked up the phone and called Patrick Dion.

“I’m sorry to bother you at dinnertime,” she said. “But would it be possible for me to take another look at Charlotte’s school yearbooks?”

“You’re welcome to come anytime. Has something new turned up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What are you looking for, exactly? Perhaps I could help you.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Charlotte. About whether she’s the key to everything that’s happened.”

Over the phone, she heard Patrick give a mournful sigh. “My daughter has always been the key, Detective. To my life, to everything that’s ever mattered. There’s nothing I want more than to know what happened to her.”

“I understand, sir,” Jane said gently. “I know you want the answer, and I think I might be able to provide it.”

HE ANSWERED THE DOOR wearing a baggy pullover sweater, chino slacks, and bedroom slippers. Patrick’s face, like his sweater, was sagging and careworn, every crease etched deeply with old grief. And here was Jane to bring back the awful memories. For that she felt guilty, and when they shook hands, she held on longer than necessary, a grasp meant to tell him that she was sorry. That she understood.

He gave her a sad nod and led the way into the dining room, his slippers shuffling across the wood floor. “I have the yearbooks waiting for you,” he said, pointing to the volumes on the dining table.

“I’ll just bring these out to my car and be on my way. Thank you.”

“Oh dear.” He frowned. “If it’s all right, I’d rather you didn’t take them out of the house.”

“I promise I’ll look after them very carefully.”

“I’m sure you will, but…” He placed his hand on the stack of books, as though blessing a child. “This is what I have left of my daughter. And it’s hard, you know, to let any of it out of my sight. I worry that they’ll get lost or damaged. That maybe someone will steal them from your car. Or you’ll have an accident and…” He paused and gave a rueful shake of his head. “That’s terrible of me, isn’t it? To value a stack of books so much that I I focus only on what happens to them . When they’re just cardboard and paper.”

“They’re worth more than that to you. I understand.”

“So if you could humor me? You’re perfectly welcome to sit here as long as you need and look through them. Can I get you something? A glass of wine?”

“Thanks, but I’m on duty. And I have to drive home.”

“Coffee, then.”

Jane smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

As Patrick went to the kitchen to make coffee, she sat down at the dining table and spread out the books. He had brought them all out, including the volumes from Charlotte’s elementary school years. She set those aside and opened the volume from Charlotte’s first year at the Bolton Academy, when she was a seventh grader. Her photo showed a fragile-looking blonde with braces on her teeth. The caption read: CHARLOTTE DION. ORCHESTRA, TENNIS, ART. Jane flipped through the book to the older students and found Mark Mallory’s photo in the sophomore high school class. He would have been fifteen then, and his interests were listed as orchestra, lacrosse, chess, fencing, drama. It was music that had brought them together, music that had changed the course of their lives and their families. The Dions and the Mallorys had met because of their children’s performances at school. They became friends. Then Dina left Patrick for Arthur, and nothing would ever be the same for them again.

“Here you are,” said Patrick, carrying in a tray with the coffeepot. He poured her a cup and set the sugar and cream on the table. “You must be hungry, too. I can make you a sandwich.”

“No, this is perfect,” she said, sipping hot coffee. “I had a late lunch, and I’ll eat supper when I get home.”

“You must have an understanding family.”

She smiled. “I have a husband who knew what he was getting when he married me. Which reminds me.” She pulled out her cell phone and tapped out a quick text message to Gabriel: HOME LATE. START DINNER WITHOUT ME.

“Are you finding what you need here?” Patrick asked, nodding at the yearbooks.

She set down her phone. “I don’t know yet.”

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help.”

“I’m looking for connections,” she said.

“Between what?”

“Between your daughter. And these girls.” Jane opened the file she’d brought with her and pointed to the list of four names.

Patrick frowned. “I know about Laura Fang, of course. After Charlotte went missing, the police explored whether there was any connection. But these other girls, I’m afraid I’m not familiar with their names.”

“They didn’t go to Bolton, but like your daughter, they disappeared without a trace. From different towns, in different years. I’m wondering if Charlotte knew any of them. Maybe through music or sports.”

Patrick thought about this for a moment. “Detective Buckholz told me that children vanish all the time. Why are you looking at these girls in particular?”

Because a dead man named Ingersoll pointed the way, thought Jane. What she said was: “These names have come up in the course of the investigation. There could turn out to be no connection at all. But if a link with Charlotte does exist, I might be able to find it right here.”

“In her yearbooks?”

She flipped through the student activity pages. “Look,” she said. “I noticed this the last time. The Bolton Academy’s very good about chronicling everything their students do, from school concerts to tennis meets. Maybe because it’s such a small student body.” She pointed to a page with photos of smiling students standing beside their science projects. The caption read: NEW ENGLAND SCIENCE FAIR, BURLINGTON, VERMONT, MAY 17. “With this documentation,” she said, “I’m hoping to reconstruct Charlotte’s school years. Where she was, what activities she participated in.” Jane looked at Patrick. “She played the viola. That’s how you got to know the Mallorys. At the kids’ musical performances.”

“How does that help you?”

Jane turned to the section for the music department. “Here. This was the year she first played in the orchestra.” She pointed to a group photo of the musicians, which included Charlotte and Mark. Below it was the caption: THE ORCHESTRA’S JANUARY CONCERT BRINGS A STANDING OVATION!

Just the sight of the photo made Patrick wince with what seemed like physical pain. He said softly, “It’s hard, you know. Looking at these photos. Remembering how…”

“You don’t need to do this, Mr. Dion.” Jane touched his hand. “I’ll go through these books on my own. If I have any questions, I’ll ask.”

He nodded, suddenly looking far older than his sixty-seven years. “I’ll leave you alone, then,” he said. Quietly he retreated from the dining room, sliding the pocket doors shut behind him.

Jane poured another cup of coffee. Opened another yearbook.

It was for Charlotte’s eighth-grade year, when she would have been thirteen and Mark sixteen. His growth spurt was already under way, his photo now showing a square jaw and broad shoulders. Charlotte still had a child’s face, pale and delicate. Jane flipped through the school activities section, searching for photos of either one. She found both of them in a group portrait, taken at the statewide “Battle of the Orchestras,” March 20, in Lowell, Massachusetts.

Deborah Schiffer lived in Lowell, and she played the piano.

Jane stared at the image of Charlotte and her fellow musicians. Two months after that photo was taken, Deborah vanished.