Leaving Time Read online

  I realize that, of all the years of cop work I did, and all the private investigations, this might be my first true confession.

  The agent sighs, walking toward an empty computer terminal behind the counter, gesturing for me to follow. She takes the confirmation number I hand her, keying in letters so slowly I could invent entire alphabets between the touches of her fingers. “I’ve been here for forty years,” she tells me. “Don’t come across a lot of guys like you.”

  This woman is helping me; she’s a bona fide human willing to work her magic instead of leaving me at the mercy of a glitched computer terminal—so I bite my tongue. After an eternity, she hands me a boarding pass. “Just remember, no matter what happens, you’ll get there eventually.”

  I grab the boarding pass and start to run for the gate. I take the escalator steps two at a time. To be totally honest, I can’t even remember getting through security, I just know that I am racing down the hall to Gate 12 as I hear the loudspeaker announcing the final call for travelers headed to Nashville, like a narrator broadcasting my fate. I sprint toward the gate agent as she is about to close the door and fling the boarding pass in her direction.

  I step onto the plane, so winded I can’t even speak, and immediately see Serenity in a seat about five rows back. I collapse beside her as the flight attendant begins her spiel for departure.

  “You made it,” she says, nearly as amazed as I am. She turns to the guy in the window seat to her left. “Guess I got all worked up for nothing.”

  The man smiles at her stiffly, then buries his nose in the in-flight magazine as if he has been waiting all his life to read about the best golf courses in Hawaii. From his attitude, I’m pretty sure Serenity has been talking his ear off. I almost want to apologize.

  Instead, I pat Serenity’s hand where it sits on the armrest between us. “Oh ye of little faith,” I say.

  Our flight is not exactly uneventful.

  After being grounded in Baltimore due to thunderstorms, we sleep upright in chairs at the gate, waiting for clearance to fly again. It comes shortly after 6:00 A.M., and by 8:00, we are in Nashville, rumpled and exhausted. Serenity rents a car with the same credit card she used to get our plane tickets. She asks the rental agent if he knows how to get to Hohenwald, Tennessee, and while he is digging for a map I sit down and try to stay awake. A coffee table sports a Sports Illustrated magazine and a dog-eared copy of the white pages from 2010.

  The Elephant Sanctuary isn’t listed in the white pages, which makes sense, since it is a business, even though I check under both Elephant and Sanctuary. But there is a Cartwright, G., in Brentwood.

  Suddenly, I am alert again. It is almost, as Serenity says, like the universe is trying to tell me something.

  What are the odds that G. Cartwright may be the same Gideon Cartwright we had been hoping to find? It is almost too easy, and yet how can we come this far without checking? Especially if Jenna is trying to find him, too?

  There is no phone number listed, just the address. And so instead of driving to Hohenwald, Tennessee, to blindly search for Gideon Cartwright, we wind up driving to a place called Brentwood, just outside of Nashville, and the residence that might belong to him.

  The street is a dead end, which seems fitting. Serenity pulls the car up to the curb, and for a moment we both just stare at the house on the hill, which looks as though it has not been inhabited for some time. The shutters upstairs are hanging at odd, broken angles; the whole exterior needs a good scraping and a coat of paint. Weeds grow knee-high in what once must have been a tended lawn and garden.

  “Gideon Cartwright is a slob,” Serenity says.

  “No argument there,” I murmur.

  “I can’t imagine Alice Metcalf living here.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone living here.” I get out of the car and navigate the uneven stones of the front walkway. On the porch is a potted spider plant, now brown and brittle, and a tacked sign from the town of Brentwood that has been faded by rain and sun: THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED.

  The screen falls off when I open it to knock on the front door. I prop it against the house. “Clearly if Gideon lived here, it was past tense,” Serenity says. “As in, Moved out ages ago.”

  I don’t disagree with her. But I also don’t tell her what I’m thinking: that if Gideon turns out to be the joint at the crux of Nevvie Ruehl’s death and Thomas Metcalf’s anger and Alice’s disappearance, then he has a lot to lose if a kid like Jenna starts asking the wrong questions. And if he wants to get rid of her, this is exactly the sort of place no one would ever look twice.

  I knock again, harder. “Let me do the talking,” I say.

  I don’t know which of us is more surprised when we hear footsteps approaching the door. It swings open, and standing before me is a disheveled woman. Her gray hair is tangled in a messy braid; her blouse is stained. On her feet are two different shoes. “Can I help you?” she asks, but she does not look me in the eye.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We’re looking for Gideon Cartwright.”

  My investigator’s brain is buzzing. My gaze is taking in everything behind her: the cavernous parlor, without a stick of furniture. The cobwebs lacing the corners of each doorway. The moth-eaten carpets and the scatter of newspapers and mail on the floor.

  “Gideon?” she says, and she shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him for years.” She laughs, then raps her cane against the doorframe. For the first time I notice its white tip. “Then again, I haven’t seen anyone for years.”

  She’s blind.

  She would be an awfully convenient roommate, if Gideon was living there and had something to hide. More than ever, I want to get into this house and make sure Jenna isn’t trapped in some room in the basement or in a concrete cell in the gated backyard.

  “But this is Gideon Cartwright’s home?” I press for the answer, so that before I officially break the law by trespassing without a warrant, it’s for good reason.

  “No,” the woman says. “It belongs to my daughter, Grace.”

  Cartwright, G.

  Serenity’s eyes fly to mine. I grab her hand and squeeze it before she can open her mouth.

  “Who did you say you were again?” the woman asks, her brow furrowed.

  “I didn’t,” I admit. “But I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me by my voice.” I reach for the old woman’s hand. “It’s me, Nevvie. Thomas Metcalf.”

  From the look on Serenity’s face, I think she might have swallowed her tongue. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a disaster. “Thomas,” the woman gasps. “It’s been a very long time.”

  Serenity elbows me. What are you doing! she mouths silently.

  The answer is: I have no idea. I’m having a conversation with a woman I saw zipped into a body bag, who now apparently lives with her daughter—a girl who allegedly committed suicide. And I’m pretending to be her former boss, who may have gone crazy ten years ago and attacked her.

  Nevvie reaches up until her searching hand finds my face. Using her fingers, she traces my nose, my lips, my cheekbones. “I knew you’d come for us one day.”

  I pull away, before she can figure out that I’m not who I said I was. “Of course,” I lie. “We’re a family.”

  “You must come inside. Grace will be back soon, and we can visit in the meantime …”

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  Serenity and I follow Nevvie inside. Not a single window in the house is open, and there is no air circulation. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water?” I ask.

  “No trouble at all,” Nevvie says. She leads me into a living room, a big space with a vaulted ceiling and several couches and tables covered with white sheets. One couch has had its protective cover removed. Serenity sits on it while I peek under the sheets, trying to find a desk, a filing cabinet, any sort of information to explain this turn of events.

  “What the holy hell is happening?” Serenity hisses at me as soon as Nevvie shuffles into the kitchen. �€