She let herself be held, breathed in her mother’s fragrance, a scent she’d worn from Sally’s earliest memories. “I’m sorry, Noelle. Are you all right?”
Her mother released her, stepping back. “It’s been difficult, what with the police and not knowing where you were and worrying incessantly. You should have called me, Sally. I worried so much about you.”
“I couldn’t. I imagined that the police had your phone bugged. They could have traced me.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the phones. Surely they wouldn’t dare plant devices like that in your father’s home?”
“He’s dead, Noelle. They’d do anything. Now, listen. I need you to tell me the truth. I do know that I was here the night that he was murdered. But I don’t remember anything about it. Just violent images, but no faces. Just loud voices, but no person to go with the voices.”
“It’s all right, love. I didn’t murder your father. I know that’s why you ran away. You ran away to protect me, just as you tried to protect me for all those years.
“Do you believe me? Why would you think I’d know anything about it? I wasn’t here myself. I was with Scott, your husband. He’s so worried about you. All he can talk about is you and how he prays you’ll come home. Please tell me you believe me. I wouldn’t kill your father.”
“Yes, Noelle, I believe you—although if you had shot him I would have applauded you. But no, I never really believed that you did. But I can’t remember, I just can’t remember, and the police and the FBI, they all believe I know everything that happened that night. Won’t you tell me what happened, Noelle?”
“Are you well again, Sally?’
She stared at her mother. She sounded vaguely frightened. Of her? Of her own daughter? Did she think she would murder her because she was insane? Sally shook her head. Noelle might look a bit frightened, but she also looked exquisite in vivid emerald lounging pajamas. Her light hair was pinned up with a gold clip. She wore three thin gold chains. She looked young and beautiful and vital. Perhaps there was some justice after all.
“Listen to me, Noelle,” Sally said, willing her mother to believe her. “I wasn’t ever sick. Father put me in that place. It was all a plot. He wanted me out of the way. Why? I don’t know. Maybe just plain revenge for the way I’d thwarted him for the past ten years. Surely you must have guessed something. Doubted him when he told you. You never came to see me, Mama, never.”
“Your father told me, and you’re right, I was suspicious, but then Scott broke down—he was in tears—and he told me about all the things you’d done, how you simply weren’t yourself anymore and there hadn’t been any choice but to put you in the sanitarium. I met Doctor Beadermeyer. He assured me you would be well cared for.
“Oh, Sally, Doctor Beadermeyer told me it would be better if I didn’t see you just yet, that you were blaming me for so many things, that you hated me, that you didn’t want to see me, that seeing me would just make you worse and he feared you’d try to commit suicide again.”
But Sally wasn’t listening to her. She felt something prickle on her skin, and she knew, she knew he was close. She also knew that her mother wasn’t telling her the truth about the night her father was murdered. Why? What had really happened that night? There just wasn’t time now.
Yes, James was close. There was no unnatural sound, no real warning, yet she knew.
“Do you have any money, Noelle?”
“Just a few dollars, Sally, but why? Why? Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer. He’s already called several times. I’ve got to protect you, Sally.”
“Good-bye, Noelle. If you love me—if you’ve ever loved me—please keep the FBI agent talking as long as you can. His name is James Quinlan. Please, don’t tell him I was here.”
“How do you know the name of an FBI agent?”
“It’s not important. Please don’t tell him anything, Noelle.”
“Mrs. St. John, we saw the car parked on Cooperton. Sally was here. Is she still here? Are you hiding her?”
Noelle St. John stared at his ID, then at Dillon’s. Finally, after an eternity, she looked up and said, “I haven’t seen my daughter for nearly seven months, Agent Quinlan. What car are you talking about?”
“A car we know she was driving, Mrs. St. John,” Dillon said.
“Why are you calling my daughter by her first name? Indeed, Sally is her nickname. Her real name is Susan. Where did you get her nickname?”