“Dean,” I say when he answers. “Remember the rehab center I showed you? I need you to look on the website for me and find the staff page. There’s a nurse who was recently honored for twenty years of volunteering there. Her name is Jessica Blanchett.”
I wait for a few seconds while he searches.
“Alright, I found it. She’s a nurse with a special interest in helping those with addictions live healthier lifestyles. Recently marked twenty years volunteering her time at River Bend. When she isn’t volunteering, she uses her exceptional nursing skills and compassionate nature to care for patients at Gunther Memorial Hospital.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Okay, I need you to do something for me.”
“Name it.”
“Work with Ava and figure out how to get our hands on court records, arrest records, anything that will tell us when Misty went into River Bend and for what. John made it sound as if it was voluntary, but I don’t think it was. Figure out why she was there. Then see if you can track anyone else who was sent there in the two years before she went.”
“Anything to narrow it down?” he asks.
“Look for links to her time there. People who were sent by the same judge or with similar charges. Talk to the judges if you can. That might be easier than getting subpoenas for the court records,” I say.
“Where are you going to be?”
“Gunther Memorial,” I say. “Then to the courthouse.”
I get to the hospital in record time and ask for Jessica Blanchett at the information desk. The man behind the desk directs me to the fifth floor and I ride the elevator up. I have no intention of talking to her. Not yet. I just need to see her. To make sure I’m on the right track.
It’s not a track I want to be on. It’s making me feel sick and it’s sending prickly, painful heat along the back of my neck and through my chest. But it’s slowly falling together.
One glance at Jessica tells me it’s the same person. I already knew it was, but seeing her changes things. She’s distinctly older than in the picture with Misty that John showed me. Not just because of the years that have passed. This is the kind of age that comes from what a person’s been dragged through over those years.
I watch her for a few moments, then leave.
My next stop is the courthouse. I go to the Department of Vital Records to access public documents. Scanning through the weeks surrounding the day Ashley was born, I find exactly what I was expecting to. Or, more precisely, don’t find it.
It takes two more days for us to gather all the information from the judges and the rehab center. Every moment of those days, I’m on edge. I’m waiting for the next phone call, the next alert. I visit Ashley each day, but she tells me nothing else. It’s more of the same. More memories rattled off from the statements Misty made, more carefully crafted recollections.
On the second day, she sits next to Leona on the couch and I notice the older sister swallow, the color in her cheeks draining away. She looks as if she’s going to be sick. Ashley’s hand moves in a slow crawl across the cushion toward Leona’s and when her fingertips touch the back of her hand, Leona stands and rushes out of the room.
“She’s just scared,” Misty says, trying to comfort Ashley. “This has all been a lot for her.”
When the information finally comes, Dean, Xavier, Ava, and I sit around it, scouring it for any detail that might fit. I haven’t told them what I’m thinking yet. I can’t seem to make the words roll down my tongue. Once they are out, there’s no putting them back; I don’t know if I’m ready to take that step. Soon. Once I know.
It doesn’t seem real. I want it to be what the girls told me. As horrible as the stories have been, I want the timeline to be true. But there’s a voice that’s missing. One that’s been here the whole time and yet none of us has heard it. That’s where the problem lies. I just have to get to the answer.
“This man,” I say, pointing at the record in front of me. “He was in the center twice.”
“Not when Misty was there, though,” Ava says.
“I know. But that’s the point. He was there when Jessica was there. His charges line up. I need to call John.”
“Why?”
“He’s going to be able to get me information no one else can.”
“About the center?”
“About Misty.”
An hour later, I’m sitting in a rock garden outside the hospital with John. I’ve been as careful as I can to skirt around what I think is happening while still letting him know how important it is for him to get me the information I’m asking for.
“But we weren’t married when she was in the center. We didn’t get married until I got out a few months after her. I wouldn’t be able to access her financial records from then.”
“You were in rehab for months after she got out. I’m assuming when you were discharged, you didn’t have a whole lot to your name. Didn’t have a great job to go back into or somewhere to live. Right?”
“That’s right,” he says, sounding uncomfortable at the memory.
‘So, you probably moved in with Misty. When she put you on her bank account it helped you get on your feet,” I say.
“Yes,” he says.
“Then you have access. It’s the same bank account as before you were listed on it. Now that you are, you can request statements. I know I’m asking a lot. But I need you to do this. It’s critical,” I say. “I really don’t want to have to go through the time and the effort to convince the courts to
