By nine in the morning Andrea had run out of ways to distract herself. Watching television was out of the question. She’d made the mistake of turning on the TV and had caught part of a report on the arrest of Congressman Reynolds, which included a garbled recap of what the newscaster called “the MEDEA child murders of twenty years ago.” Radio was even worse. The call-in talk shows were a fever swamp of speculation by the uninformed and the self-styled experts, none of whom understood a thing.
She couldn’t sleep with the constant noise and couldn’t concentrate enough to read or to work a crossword puzzle. All she could do was pace the floor and occasionally sneak a glance through the curtains. The crowd of journalists and curiosity seekers surrounding her house never grew smaller. If anything, it had increased in numbers as the story spread.
After the attack on her home, there had been three or four TV news vans and a few other reporters. Now the vans lined the streets, representing not only the local TV channels but national cable outlets. Every news radio station had sent somebody, as had every newspaper within five hundred miles, it seemed. Not to mention half the population of the Valley, who apparently had nothing better to do on Sunday morning than stand outside her house. Enterprising vendors had already set up carts selling hot dogs and tamales, and somebody had printed T-shirts with her picture on them from twenty years ago.
What did they all want from her-the journalists and the spectators tramping on her lawn and snapping photos of her porch? Well, the answer was obvious enough. They wanted a comment, a statement, or failing that, a sighting, a few seconds of footage to run on their next newscast or a blurred image to print on the newspaper’s front page.
She knew better than to give it to them. They would not be satisfied with only one statement or one appearance. They would want more, always more.
Of course, it might be in her interest to cooperate. She could tell her side of the story, get the truth out to the public after two decades of lies. But she couldn’t be so pragmatic about it. The simple fact was, she hated the press. They had hounded her for years. They had forced her to change her name and live in hiding. She would give them nothing now. They could go to hell.
Her phone rang again. She was so tired of that sound. And yet-she blinked in surprise-her phone couldn’t be ringing, could it? Hours ago she had unhooked it from the wall.
It was her cell phone, then-the one Abby had given her. And only Abby knew the number.
She found the phone amid the items she’d brought home from the downtown hospital where she had been examined for injuries suffered in the car crash. There had been nothing serious, only a few scrapes and bruises. She had endured a long interrogation by a nice young man named Crandall and, much to her astonishment, had been released with no charges filed.
On the eighth or ninth ring she answered. “Hello,” she said tentatively, ready to end the call if a reporter had somehow gotten hold of the number.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s tricks?”
“Abby. Where are you?”
“Eating a late and much needed breakfast at a yogurt shop in Westwood. It’s within walking distance of the federal building, which is good since my Mazda is still in an alley downtown. Unless it’s been towed by now.”
“I was afraid you were in trouble. They said something about pressing charges against you.”
“They were bluffing. You know these Eliot Ness types. All talk, no action. I hear they let you go, too.”
“Yes. Though I’m still not sure why. I abducted Jack Reynolds. I shot him.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“I know. I was acting crazy. I don’t even know what I intended to do. I mean, I thought I was going to kill him, really kill him, but if that’s all I wanted, why did I bother to make him go anywhere? I could have killed him at any time. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Want my take on it?”
“Even if I said no, it wouldn’t stop you.”
“True enough. I think you were conflicted. Part of you wanted revenge on Jack. Another part wasn’t willing to pull the trigger. So you compromised. You put off taking any final action.”
“I would have had to choose eventually.”
“You weren’t thinking that far ahead. And if you have chosen, you would have made the right choice.”
“You believe that?”
“I really do.”
“Well I hope you’re right. You probably are. You’ve been right about most things. But I wouldn’t have thought that kind of explanation would get me very far with the authorities. There was no way I expected to be released. I’m still thinking they’ll show up at any minute and take me back into custody.”
“They won’t. What you’re not taking into consideration is a little thing called extenuating circumstances. To prosecute, they have to be reasonably assured of a conviction. Now, what jury is going to convict you after hearing the tape I made?”
“I suppose that’s true. I have to admit, though, that I was prepared for the worst.”
“Well, that makes two of us. But you know what they say. Always prepare for the worst, and most of the time you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“They advised me not to say anything about you if I talk to the press.”
“That’s a good idea. But you’re not going to talk to the press, anyway, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Didn’t think so. You weren’t too eager to be interviewed the night I pulled that stunt to get into your house.”
“I held a gun on you. I’m sorry.”
“All in a day’s work. So who are you going to be from now on?”
“What?”
“Andrea… or Bethany?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“No, it doesn’t. What matters is how you feel.”
“How I feel?” Andrea closed her eyes. “Well, I’m encircled by those jackals from the press. There are television vans parked up and down the street. People won’t stop ringing my doorbell. I think they’d climb in a window if I left one open. I had to disconnect my phone. Every time I turn on the TV or radio I see pictures of myself from twenty years ago. I can’t even think of looking at a newspaper. I’ve become a celebrity again. Only this time I’m not Medea anymore. This time no one is saying I killed my babies. They know I didn’t. And I know I didn’t. I know I never killed anyone.”
“So how do you feel?”
“Free, Abby,” Andrea whispered. “I feel free.”