“Next time I see you?”
He nodded. “Next time.”
She slid into her car and closed the door. Rolled down her window when she saw him lean down to talk to her.
“I will tell you this much about her,” he said.
“Yes?”
“You look so much like Anna, it takes my breath away.”
She could not stop thinking of those words as she sat in her living room, studying the photo of young Anna Leoni with her parents. All these years, she thought, you were missing from my life, and I never realized it. But I must have known; on some level I must have felt my sister’s absence.
Yes, she thought, touching Anna’s face in the photo. It takes my breath away, too. She and Anna had shared the same DNA; what else had they shared? Anna had also chosen a career in science, a job governed by reason and logic. She too must have excelled in mathematics. Had she, like Maura, played the piano? Had she loved books and Australian wines and the History Channel?
It was late; she turned off the lamp and went to her bedroom to pack.
EIGHT
PITCH BLACK. Head aching. The scent of wood and damp earth and… something else that made no sense. Chocolate. She smelled chocolate.
Mattie Purvis opened her eyes wide, but she might as well have kept them tightly closed because she could see nothing. Not a glimmer of light, not a wisp of shadow on shadow.
She was not in her own bed. She was lying on something hard, and it made her back ache. The floor? No, this wasn’t polished wood beneath her, but rough planks, gritty with dirt.
If only her head would stop pounding.
She closed her eyes, fighting off nausea. Trying, even through the pain, to remember how she could have arrived at this strange, dark place where nothing seemed familiar. Dwayne, she thought. We had a fight, and then I drove home. She struggled to retrieve the lost fragments of time. She remembered a stack of mail on the table. She remembered crying, her tears dripping onto envelopes. She remembered jumping up, and the chair hitting the floor.
Nothing. She could remember nothing after that.
She opened her eyes. It was still dark. Oh, this is bad, Mattie, she thought, this is very, very bad. Your head hurts, you’ve lost your memory, and you’re blind.
“Dwayne?” she called. She heard only the whoosh of her own pulse.
She had to get up. She had to find help, had to find a phone at the very least.
She rolled onto her right side to push herself up, and her face slammed up against a wall. The impact bounced her right onto her back again. She lay stunned, her nose throbbing. What was a wall doing here? She reached out to touch it and felt more rough wooden planks. Okay, she thought, I’ll just roll the other way. She turned to the left.
And collided with another wall.
Her heartbeat thudded louder, faster. She lay on her back again, thinking: walls on both sides. This can’t be. This isn’t real. Pushing up off the floor, she sat up, and slammed the top of her head. Collapsed, once again, onto her back.
Panic seized her. Arms flailing, she hit barriers in every direction. She clawed at the wood, splinters digging into her fingers. Heard shrieks but did not recognize her own voice. Everywhere, walls. She bucked, thrashed, her fists pummeling blindly until her hands were bruised and torn, her limbs too exhausted to move. Slowly her shrieks faded to sobs. Finally, to stunned silence.
She took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of her own sweat, her own fear. Felt the baby squirm inside her, another prisoner trapped in a small space. She thought of the Russian dolls her grandmother had once given her. A doll inside a doll inside a doll.
Closing her eyes, she fought back a fresh wave of panic.
Hand trembling, she reached toward her right side, touched one wall. Reached to her left. Touched another wall. How far apart was that? Maybe three feet wide, maybe more. And how long? She reached behind her head and felt a foot of space. Not so bad in that direction. A little room there. Her fingers brushed against something soft, just behind her head. She tugged it closer and realized it was a blanket. As she unrolled it, something heavy thudded onto the floor. A cold metal cylinder. Her heart was pounding again, this time not with panic, but with hope.
A flashlight.
She found the switch and flicked it on. Released a sharp breath of relief as a beam of light slashed the darkness.
Big-bellied and clumsy, she had to squirm to push herself up to a sitting position. Only then could she see what was at her feet: a plastic bucket and a bed pan. Two large jugs of water. A grocery sack. She wriggled toward the sack and looked inside. That’s why I smelled chocolate, she thought. Inside were Hershey bars, packets of beef jerky, and saltine crackers. And batteries-three packages of fresh batteries.
She leaned back against the wall. Heard herself suddenly laugh. A crazy, frightening laugh that wasn’t hers at all. It was a madwoman’s.
Air.
Her laughter died. She sat listening to the sound of her own breathing. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Cleansing breaths. But oxygen runs out eventually. A box can hold only so much. Didn’t it already seem staler? Plus she had panicked-all that thrashing around. She had probably used up most of the oxygen.
Then she felt the cool whisper in her hair. She looked up. Aiming the flashlight just over her head, she saw the circular grate. It was only a few inches in diameter, but wide enough to bring in fresh air from above. She stared at that grate, bewildered. I am trapped in a box, she thought. I have food, water, and air.
Whoever had put her in here wanted to keep her alive.
NINE
RICK BALLARD HAD TOLD HER that Dr. Charles Cassell was wealthy, but Jane Rizzoli had not expected
“Wow,” said Frost. “This is all from pharmaceuticals?”
