Dina Santorelli Read online

  Jamie pressed her face against the large panes of glass, which looked out onto the vibrant blue of the sky where healthy cumulus clouds were drifting eastward. At this early hour, the sun cast long shadows of the area's surrounding tall trees, forming long black bars across the lawn. A shovel lay idly on the ground near a small shed.

  The water turned off in the shower, and within seconds the lock of the bathroom door was unhinged, and Bailino's head emerged from the bathroom, wet, water beading on his skin.

  "Could you bring me those clothes on the nightstand, please?" he asked her.

  Jamie hesitated and then handed him several articles of clothing, without meeting his eyes. She turned around and returned to her spot near the windows.

  Bailino reemerged from the bathroom dressed in a black V-neck T-shirt and a pair of gray khakis. His bare feet were making dewy footprints on the hardwood floor. He sat on the bed and rubbed the towel on his head, which made his short hair stick straight up in untidy spikes.

  "Did you sleep okay?" he asked.

  Jamie said nothing. She imagined he knew she was up most of the night.

  "I asked if you slept all right." Bailino turned toward her.

  "Okay, I guess," she said, looking at the baby.

  "She sleepin'?" Bailino asked.

  Jamie nodded.

  "I asked you a question," he said, his voice becoming disagreeable.

  Her eyes searched for answers in the dark, glossy knots of the hardwood flooring. Jamie knew she had to find a way to stand her ground without inflaming Bailino, while giving herself enough time to sort through her options, if she had any.

  "Please look at me when I talk to you." Bailino got up and tossed the wet towel into the bathroom and walked toward her.

  She met his eyes this time and kept her feet planted even though every inch of her body wanted to run and hide. He stopped just in front of her, his eyelashes wet and clumped together in sections, an after-shower glow to his skin that offset the darkness of his deep-set eyes. She could smell the Old Spice aftershave she'd seen in the medicine cabinet. "Yes, she is still sleeping," Jamie said bravely, just as Bailino reached his hand underneath the bottom of her shirt and grabbed the front of her bra.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "My bra," she said. The feeling of his wet hand on her chest no longer felt foreign, and Jamie mourned the death of the girl she had been just the day before.

  Bailino reached behind her and deftly unhooked the bra with two fingers, causing it to hang beneath Jamie's torn blouse. "You don't need this when you're in here with me. I don't want to see it on you anymore in this room. Understand?"

  Jamie nodded.

  "Understand?"

  "Yes," she answered.

  "Now take it off," he ordered.

  Jamie reached her left arm into her right sleeve and brought the strap of her bra down over her hand and then pulled the bra out from her left sleeve. She placed it on the nightstand.

  Bailino sat on the bed. He unraveled a pair of black socks and crossed his legs. "I see you found Gina's play makeup bag in the bathroom. You like nail files?" He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a small clipper, which he used to trim the nail of his big toe.

  "I was looking for a Band-Aid, something for my head."

  "Stop looking around so much." Bailino pulled his sock up toward his knee. "You'll be better off."

  "Are you going to kill me?" The words came out before Jamie could stop them, and Bailino stared, before letting out a laugh.

  "You're a no-nonsense kind of girl, huh?"

  "Not really. But I just want to know. Makes it easier... to know what you're up against."

  "Some people would say it's better not to know."

  "My mom used to say that."

  "Used to?"

  Jamie thought of her mother lying in bed, wasting away to a third of her size, day after day, never letting the doctors tell her or anyone how much time she had left. You don't always need a doctor, or people, to tell you what's going to happen, sweetie, she'd told her. Some things you just know. And maybe her mother did know, and maybe she was saving Edward and her from waiting around for the inevitable, but not knowing also left them unprepared for when her mother didn't wake up three weeks before Jamie's wedding. Not knowing led Jamie to convince herself that the diagnosis could be wrong, that her mother could beat the odds, that being in the dark could stop something from happening. It didn't.

  "I never understood that," Jamie said. She let out a slow breath and, suddenly feeling vulnerable, crossed her arms to hide her exposed breasts.

  Bailino nodded. "Well, I don't know how to answer your question exactly," he said, running his fingers along the waistband of his slacks, "although I tend to want to know things myself." He studied her. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  Jamie shook her head.

  "I asked you..."

  "No," she said.

  Bailino smiled. "I don't believe you."

  "I don't. I was married for eight years. He left me. I don't have a boyfriend."

  "Edward?"

  "Edward?" Jamie's thoughts drifted and then remembered that Bailino had her cell phone. He must have been doing some snooping of his own.

  "He was your husband?" Bailino asked.

  "Edward's my brother." There was no use lying, she thought.

  "Oh." Bailino seemed satisfied and disappeared into the bathroom. "Why?" he yelled.

  "Why what?" She could hear him moving around and the soft clink of metal to porcelain.

  "Why did your husband leave you?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I guess he didn't love me anymore."

  "Did you love him?"

  "No." It surprised Jamie how quickly, and adamantly, she said the word.

  There was a pause. "Did you ever love him?"

  "No," she said again, without hesitation, although she had never admitted that to anyone. Not even Edward.

  "Then why did you marry him?"

  "I don't know. I guess sometimes you get caught up in something and don't know how to get out of it."

  "That's very true." Bailino emerged from the bathroom. His wet hair was parted just off center and combed back on both sides. Jamie detected traces of baby powder in the creases of his neck, from which the hanging gold cross gleamed atop a coat of coarse black chest hairs, as if showcased upon a velvet-lined jewel box. "You want to shower?"

  Jamie hesitated. She wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, to wash the previous day completely away, but in her own bathroom.

  "You'll find towels in the linen closet and an extra bathrobe behind the door," he said, as if she were a guest in his bed-and-breakfast. "Now's the time. The baby's sleeping. You know how it is." He settled back down on the bed and put on his shoes. He used a shoehorn—she hadn't seen anyone use one of those since she was a little girl and spent summers at her grandparents' house in Brooklyn. "Chop-chop," he said. "Time's a-wastin'."

  As if on command, Jamie walked into the bathroom and shut the door. It was still steamy from Bailino's shower, and condensation covered the raised scrollwork of the ceramic tiles, which conjured up images of ornate bathhouses in Rome. Avoiding the mirror, Jamie disrobed and stepped into the deep, old-fashioned bathtub and pulled the shower curtain closed. She knew at any moment he could come in, so she moved fast. She turned on the water and grabbed the only shampoo that was there, one of those heavy-duty dandruff kinds, and poured the liquid onto her head. She lathered and then stood under the water, feeling the bubbles drift over her closed eyelids and down her body, imagining the suds carrying away the events of the day before and funneling them down the drain. She took scented soap and scrubbed her skin, when something dawned on her: Perhaps this was some kind of trick, a way to get the baby alone, to take her away. Then Jamie would really be alone; the thought terrified her. She washed off the lather and turned off the faucet.

  Wrapping herself in the plush bathrobe, she leaned her ear against the bathroom door, but d
idn't hear anything. She opened it a crack and peered out. No movement. Jamie opened the door all the way and ran across the floor, drips marking her path, to the nursery. The baby was asleep, just as she'd left her. There was no one else in the bedroom, and the bedroom door was still closed. Bailino must have gone. She glanced at the bed: In the few minutes she had been in the shower, the bed had been pristinely made, the flat sheet over the fitted sheet with military corners, the floral print duvet rolled neatly on top, all the pillows picked up from the floor and tucked behind one another against the headboard. A pair of boot-cut jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a pair of women's bikini underwear had been laid out on the bed, as well as the bra she'd left on the night table. The clothing looked as if it had never been worn. She held the tee and spied the label: 34/36. It was a man's shirt. But the jeans were women's. In her size.

  The last thing Jamie wanted to do was indulge Bailino in this game, whatever it was, but there was no denying what she saw last night, and she knew that she was but one blow to the head between life and death, at the mercy of a man who was capable of quick and sudden violence on a whim. But she had somehow managed to stay alive for the past twelve hours. Wounded physically and emotionally, but alive. She knew it was better, smarter, to play along for now. Something told her that Bailino—the man who kidnapped and raped her—was her best bet for getting through this thing. She picked up her bra and tightened the straps. And as she slipped on the unfamiliar underwear, a memory formed: It was the morning following her wedding night, which she had spent in a tiny hotel on Long Island's north shore overlooking the Sound, and Bob had gone out for coffee, which she didn't drink, so she had stayed behind. A wave of déjà vu swept through her—the sunlight streaming through the large windows, the barely used furnishings, the foreign detergent smells, the intense quiet, and that lingering sense of incongruity that reminded her of that childhood riddle, "Which of the following does not belong?" In both instances, the answer was the same.

  Chapter 20

  Phillip's hands shook as he buttoned his cotton shirt, his large fingers fumbling to get the tiny plastic through the holes. He hadn't slept at all, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The voice on the cell phone played over and over in his mind. It had been years, but its cadence and tone were instantly recognizable.

  "Where are you going?" Katherine turned over in bed. Her voice was raspy.

  Phillip had been practicing his response all night in his head. He put on a weary expression, which wasn't difficult. "For a drive. I need air."

  "A drive? To where?"

  "I need to get out of the house, Katherine. I need to think."

  "I'll go with you." She got out of bed.

  "No." The word came out brusquer than he had intended.

  "Well, you can't go alone," she said.

  "I'm not. Henry's driving me."

  "Henry doesn't count."

  "Why, Katherine? Because he's a driver and sits in the front seat?"

  "Don't start, Phillip," Katherine said. "Did you clear this with Nurberg?"

  "Katherine, I won't be long. Please. It's just a drive." He tucked his shirt into his slacks.

  "Have you heard from Nurberg at all?"

  "No, but Detective Matrick said he would be stopping by this morning."

  Katherine reached for her cell phone. She pushed a few buttons as she walked toward her computer, turned it on, and then brushed aside the long, heavy drapes to gaze out the window where a few detectives were milling around. The drapes had always reminded Phillip of a funeral home. He would have given anything to replace them with something lightweight, like beige linen tab-top curtains, but the historical society wouldn't go for it.

  "What do you think of that Nurberg?" Katherine asked.

  "Oh, I don't know, seems conscientious... and bright... and determined. Why?"

  Katherine wrinkled her nose. "I don't like him."

  "You don't like anyone."

  Katherine faced him and put her hands on her hips. In her flannel pajamas and her hair flopping in her face, she looked like a young co-ed rather than the most powerful woman in New York State. "Hey, I'm on your side, remember?" She stuck her hands in the pockets of her pajama pants, her rows of knuckles appearing as tiny ridges of red plaid.

  "I'm sorry." Phillip wrapped his arms around his wife, hoping that she couldn't feel his heart racing. "I haven't slept, and I can't think straight. I just need to get out."

  "Let me go with you."

  "No, stay here. One of us should, in case the detectives need something. Remember, I'm just a phone call away." He held up his phone and put it into his pocket.

  Katherine sat back on the bed. "Why haven't we heard anything?" she asked. "What does that mean, Phillip?"

  "No news is good news, Katherine," he said. He planted a kiss on the top of his wife's head and walked out the bedroom door.

  Katherine watched her husband disappear down the hall. He was usually the first one out of the bedroom on any given day, letting her sleep in or tending to Charlotte so that she could get work done if Rosalia had not yet arrived. In that respect, this morning was like any other. But Katherine felt very different, and the shame traveled up the skin of her arms as she realized that what she felt was relief.

  This was the first morning in the past ten months that Katherine didn't feel the obligatory pull of Charlotte on her—that sensation, she imagined, experienced by mothers of young children whose time is suddenly no longer their own. Today, of all days, she should have felt that pull the most—her child had been taken from her—and she felt nothing. She thought of Nurberg and his suspicious eyes, and of the press who had given her a multimedia flogging this past year. Was it so wrong to grieve for the life she'd had when it was just her and Phillip? When she could unwind by watching television without being saddled with guilt?

  She peered down the hall to be sure Phillip was gone, walked over to the bookshelves near her desk, and pulled out a small, wrinkled paper bag from behind a Spanish-English dictionary. All her life she'd had people depending on her, thrived on having people depend on her, but for the one person who really needed her, Katherine had failed. She stuffed the bag into her purse, checking one last time to see if the hallway was empty. Then she sat back at her computer and tried to focus on work, but it was fruitless. Right now, Katherine had only one thing on her mind. And that was Don Bailino.

  Chapter 21

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Leo asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Tony was sitting in the dining room, his head tilted down and practically touching the screen of a laptop computer that was set up on the buffet. "You gonna marry that thing?"

  "What?" Tony pulled back. "I'm comfortable like that. Stop busting my balls, Leo."

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm updating my Facebook page."

  "Are you fuckin' nuts?" Leo stood behind Tony, taking loud slurps of his coffee. "What the fuck you writing? 'Kidnapped a baby today'?" Leo slapped him in the head. Benny, who was reading the newspaper at the dining room table, let out a loud laugh and looked at Joey, who sat across from him reading a book while listening to his headphones.

  "No," Tony said. "I just wrote 'feeling hungry.'"

  "Oh, that's riveting stuff. You should write a novel." Leo sat on the sofa and stretched his legs onto the coffee table, rubbing his socked feet together. "I don't understand that shit. The photos... everyone's showing pictures of themselves from twenty years ago or pictures that are half-cropped out because they're so fuckin' fat. Look at your picture."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "It's the side of your fuckin' face. Where are the rest of your chins?"

  "Ha, ha."

  "What's the point of writing all that shit down anyway? Waste of time." Leo took another swig of his coffee.

  "So I take it you don't want to friend me," Tony asked.

  Leo stared. "Do I look like I want to friend you? I don't even want to be in the same room with you." He looked at Benny. "Are you
friends with him?"

  Benny nodded.

  "No shit? Another dummy."

  Bailino walked in, followed by Jamie, who was wearing the outfit that had been placed on the bed for her and carrying the little girl, who had just downed another eight ounces of formula and had on a fresh onesie and white socks. The jeans were long, so Jamie had cuffed them a few times on the bottom, but the waist was a perfect fit. Her feet were bare, and she was conscious of her red toenail polish that she had so carefully painted on just two days before. The three of them looked like a family making their way into the kitchen on a sunny spring morning.

  "Hey, maybe she wants to friend you," Leo said to Tony.

  Jamie's eyes glanced at the computer and then looked away. From the colors and layout of the monitor, she could tell that there was a Facebook page showing. That meant there was Internet access in the house. She held the baby tighter in her arms.

  "Finally!" Tony said. "I'm starving."

  "Morning, Sunshine," Leo said, winking at Jamie. "Rough night?"

  The sores on Jamie's face and head, which swelled slightly after her hot shower, seemed to sting from Leo's gaze. The little girl put her head down on Jamie's shoulder.

  "What's for breakfast?" Tony asked.

  "Make your own fucking breakfast," Bailino said. "Have a little respect. You're in my house." Bailino picked up a newspaper from the floor, put it on the kitchen counter, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  The men looked at one another.

  "But Blondie made breakfast for us yesterday morning?" Tony said.

  "It wasn't her idea." Leo said with a sneer.

  "Yeah, well, she's not Blondie. How difficult is a fuckin' Pop-Tart?" Bailino turned to Jamie. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Sit down." He pulled out one of the barstools and then reached up on the top shelf of a nearby cabinet for a box of Cheerios. The little girl watched Bailino, her eyes on the cereal box. Bailino held the box out, and she recoiled at first, but then took it from his hands and fumbled with its top.