Exposure

FIFTY

Tammy. Tammy.

The name glistened like water drops at the bottom of that dark, dried well.

Tammy Giordano.

Kaycee’s startled gaze rose to Rodney’s face. He turned his head, considering her askance. “You remember, don’t you.”

She swallowed, her eyes dropping to the picture of the woman. In her brain a pale light flashed. She leaned closer to the photo, examining the eyes, the lips. “That’s my mother.”

“Yes.”

“But my mother had dark hair.”

“Only as far back as you remember. She dyed it to hide her identity.”

Kaycee stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Think, Tammy. Did you ever see pictures of your mom before you were in elementary school? Pictures of her childhood, your parents’ wedding? Even one photo of your father?”

The well opened up before her. Black, deeper than ever imagined. How had she not known it was there? Kaycee’s eyes widened. She shook her head.

The picture of the couple pulled at her gaze. Her mother — and the man.

“M – my father?”

“Yes.”

Kaycee drank in the handsome face, the dark hair. Sudden longing swept through her. The father she had never known —

But he was the dead man.

Kaycee gasped. No. None of this was right. “My father died when I was a baby. He was in a car accident.”

Rodney separated his lips with a small popping sound. He picked up the manila envelope and stuck his hand inside. “I have one more picture.” He looked pleased with himself. Out came an eight-by-ten of her father and her — at the same age she was in the other picture. Kaycee shook her head. “No — ”

“Your father died when you were four.”

“No. When I was a baby. My mom told me. And he wasn’t shot!”

“Your mother told you lots of things.”

“But I don’t even remember him!”

“You did then.” He pointed to Kaycee’s picture. “Until your mother — Lorraine Giordano — changed your life and your name and your memories. Until she filled your head with lies.”

“Why? Why would she do that?”

Rodney’s fingers scrabbled through the stacked photos. He yanked out the close-up of the dead man. “See this? I did it. I shot him when you were four.”

Kaycee jumped up, knocking into the table. She stumbled sideways. “You’re lying.”

Rodney leapt to his feet and ran around the table. He caught her by the neck and shoved his face in hers. “I. Shot. Him. You were there, you and your lying mother. She hid you in a closet. Remember that? Remember, Tammy? The darkness. The heat.” With one hand he snatched up the picture of the dead man and the blood- smeared floor. Shook it before Kaycee’s eyes. She tried to jerk away, but he held her neck with a rocklike grip. “You saw this with your own eyes, Tammy — when your mother let you out of the closet. You saw your daddy dead on the floor. You threw yourself at him, got his blood on your hands, your clothes. I saw it all in the police report. That pig’s blood I smeared on the picture in your car is nothing. In your head it’s your father’s blood you’re smelling!’

A sob burst from Kaycee. She wrenched her head away. “No. No! ”

Rodney let her go. She fell sideways, wobbled, then sank to her knees. No, she yelled silently, but she knew the truth. A gush of water, newly tapped, poured into the well within her. Her mother had lied to her. All these years, nothing but lies.

The water rose — and Kaycee felt the darkness of the closet. Her little hands beating against her mother’s chest. “Let me go!”

Vaguely Kaycee registered Hannah calling her name from beyond the door.

“Shut up!” Rodney spat toward Hannah. He strode to Kaycee’s side and leaned over her. “You’re so close. I’ve given you everything you need. Now remember.”

Kaycee covered her face with her hands. The well filled more, and she heard her panicked footsteps running. “Daddy!” Horror shot through Kaycee. She doubled over, head sinking. The dead man’s gruesome face flashed in her mind — Tammy’s mind. Kaycee felt her four-year-old knees hit the floor, saw her pudgy fingers reaching for her daddy’s face. They came away red, and they smelled tinny and sweet . . .

Kaycee’s muscles lost all strength. She lurched sideways and fell, grinding a cheek against dirty wood. Her limbs curled into a ball. The smell of blood filled her head, and she shut down her nostrils, sucking air through her mouth, but it did no good. Kaycee groaned from deep within her stomach. Hands closed around Tammy, and her mother caught her up and ran, her shaking body bouncing up and down against her mother’s chest, and a door opened, and sunlight poured in, and her mother ran outside, screaming, and she was screaming, and they tipped back their heads and lengthened their throats and shrieked louder, and somebody shouted, and a man came running, and the sky broke into pieces and hurtled to the ground . . .

Kaycee clawed the dusty wooden floor of the cabin and sobbed.

FIFTY-ONE

“Get up, Tammy.” Rodney shoved a foot against Kaycee’s leg. “We’re not done.”

She lay on her side, shallow-panting, tears spent. The well had filled, and the memories bobbed on the surface, taunting.

Hannah had fallen silent.

“I said get up.” Rodney kicked her in the thigh. Pain shot through her muscle. Kaycee gasped. With effort she pushed herself to a sitting position.

Rodney dragged a chair over to her and sat. He leaned toward her, anticipation curling one side of his mouth. “You see it now.” It wasn’t a question.

Kaycee narrowed her eyes, hating the man. “Why did you kill him?”

“He helped me steal seven million dollars from the bank where he worked. He knew too much.”

She stared blankly, her emotions saturated. His crazy words would not soak in. “Why Hannah?”

“She got in the way. But how convenient when she came up that road. More persuasion for you.”

“You knew who she was?”

He smirked. “I know everything about your life, Tammy. I know you were a sick little girl in Atlantic City. So ill your father was willing to rob a bank to help you get well.”

Kaycee couldn’t reply. She couldn’t remember being sick.

“For twenty-six years to this very month I’ve hunted you and your mother. She was good at hiding. Kept on the move. I’d nearly given up — and then you started writing your columns. Spilling all the details of the paranoia you learned from Monica Raye. Oh, the stories you told of constantly moving as a child, friends forever left behind. No relatives. Her untimely death. The circumstances seemed right, your age was right. I looked up your picture” —