Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Meaning Eddie Como may have a semblance of an alibi,” Griffin filled in.

“No way,” Fitz said firmly. “Even if the kid is right, it's just a little confusion over time. So Eddie returned a video in Warwick before he continued on to Providence. There's no rule that says rapists can't run errands. Hell, I'll bet even Ted Bundy tended to daily chores every now and then. But Eddie did it. DNA doesn't lie, and we've got Eddie's DNA. Once, twice, three times. The kid went up to bat, and we have struck him out.”

Griffin was quiet for a moment. He had a sense of déjà vu again. For the second time today, he was having a conversation where the evidence against Eddie Como appeared sketchy, except for the DNA. And then he finally got what was bothering him about this case. “Hey, Fitz,” he said. “How good was the DNA match with Eddie Como?”

“Huh?”

“How many points of the DNA matched? A four-point, eight-point, twelve-point match?”

“How the hell do I know? I'm not the guy in a lab coat. The report from the health department said the samples matched. A match is a match is a match.”

“Not necessarily.”

“ Griffin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm not sure yet. But tell me this: Are you absolutely positive that Eddie Como didn't have a brother?”

JILLIAN GOT HOME LATE. NEARLY 9:00 P.M., A LATE END TO a too-long day that had left her jumpy and anxious. She'd checked the backseat of her car four times for interlopers since leaving Meg's house. She'd walked everywhere with her car key sticking out like a weapon from her fisted hand. Once, she had even popped open her trunk, just to be sure. She was protecting herself from overly aggressive reporters, she told herself, but knew that she was lying.

Arriving home, she was grateful to see lights blazing. Since the first phone call from Eddie Como nearly a year before, she had installed motion-sensitive floodlights in the front of her residence, as well as strategically placed spotlights that illuminated each bush and shrub. There would be no skulking around her East Greenwich home. The house also featured a new state-of-the-art home security system with a panic button in every room, and a remote her wheelchair-bound mother kept in her pocket. Jillian hadn't quite convinced herself to buy a handgun yet, but had perhaps gone a little nuts procuring pepper spray. She slept with a canister beneath her pillow at night. Her mom had hers tucked in her bedside drawer. As Toppi had dryly observed, the Hayes women were ready for war.

Jillian pulled into her garage with her car lights on, closed the garage door first, then scrutinized the interior for trespassers before finally unlocking and opening her car door. She once more had her car key protruding like a blade from her fist. She would keep it that way until she entered her home and conducted a brief inspection of the kitchen.

Did you know that approximately one woman is raped every minute in the United States? Did you know that women are more likely to be raped in their own homes than anywhere else? Did you know that many intruders bypassed home security systems by simply ducking into the garage behind the woman's car? Did you know that fewer than ten percent of reported rapists go to jail, meaning that an overwhelming number of rapists are still walking the streets, ready, willing and able to strike again?

Jillian knew these things. She read the books. She scrutinized the statistics. Knowledge was power. Know thy enemy. And don't believe for a minute that for some special reason you are entitled to be safe.

Most nights, Jillian went to sleep with a giant knot in her chest. Most nights, around two A.M., she jerked awake with sweat pouring down her face and a scream ripe on her lips. It took some time to recover from these things. She had read that, too. In the meantime-and this was her own philosophy-that's why they invented good makeup.

In the garage, Jillian drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then raised her chin. Show time, she told herself, and carefully blanked her face as she walked through the door.

In the kitchen, she immediately encountered her mother's live-in assistant, Toppi, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed disapprovingly over her chest.

“Sorry I'm late,” Jillian said. She dropped her purse on the desk in the kitchen, took off her jacket, fiddled with her keys.

“Uh huh.”

“How is she doing?”

“She lost her voice, not her mind,” Toppi said testily. “How do you think?”

“She saw the news?”

“Of course.”

“And the press?”

“Phone's been ringing off the hook. At least until I disconnected it. Not like I was worried about your call getting through.” The edge returned to Toppi's voice. She gave Jillian another stern look, and Jillian obediently hung her head.

At twenty-six, in a wildly colored skirt and with a mass of kinky brown hair, Toppi looked more like a traveling gypsy than a health-care professional. She was cheerful, energetic and, in theory, Jillian's employee. Toppi, however, didn't answer to anyone. Since she had started three years ago, she had turned their stale little household upside down and inside out. She knew not only what was best for Libby, but what was best for Jillian, Trish and the paperboy down the street. She always gave her opinion freely and with great enthusiasm. Jillian's mother adored her. So had Trish.

“You hurt her,” Toppi said now. “I know you don't mean to. I know you have other things on your mind. But you hurt her, Jillian. She's already lost one daughter and when you disappear like this, she worries about you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not me who deserves the apology.”

“I'll tell her, too.”

Toppi snorted. “Like she hasn't already heard enough sorries from you. Come on, Jillian, she's your mother. She doesn't want your apology, she wants your presence. Come home for dinner. Read her a story. Or better yet, take her to see Trish.”

Jillian hung her car keys on the little hook. Then she picked up the mail and started sorting through. Bills, bills, bills. Junk mail. At least there was nothing from him. She didn't even realize that was what had her so worried, until she came up empty. She set down the stack of mail, and Toppi took that as an opportunity to continue her attack.

“That's where you've been, haven't you? You've been visiting Trish.”

“I went there.”

“Your mom misses her, too.”

Jillian didn't say anything.

“She can't tell stories, Jillian. Surely you understand that. When someone dies, you want to relive their life, and what they meant to you. Share the moments, the laughter, keep them alive a little bit longer by talking about them. Your mom can't do that out loud, but that doesn't mean she isn't doing it in her head.”

“I know.”

“If you would just sit with her, hold her hand. Let her look at you and tell you everything with her eyes. She does that, you know. In her mind, she is fluent, she does have a voice. If you would just be with her, it would allow her to pretend. She could tell you everything without saying a word. And I think it would mean the world to her.”

“I know, Toppi. I know.” Old ground. They had been covering it for twelve months now. And Toppi was right and Jillian was wrong, and she wanted to be a better person, but right now, she simply wasn't. At work she had to function, meeting every client's demand or she would lose her business. With Carol, Meg, the press, the police, she had to be capable, always saying and doing the right thing, because she was the leader and she couldn't let anyone down. And then, when she got home…