“Well, I guess that settles it,” you answered. You glanced at your wrist, feigning a watch. “Checkout is at five, but hoping we can eat somewhere other than Big Frank’s? It’s the only food I haven’t been craving.”
Mom stepped forward.
“We have new evidence that shows you were tied up. The marks around your wrists were caused by a rope restraint, not handcuff irritation. Do you remember that Pen—Eve—do you remember someone binding your wrists?”
You looked up at the ceiling.
“Hmmm … that’s a no. Sounds kinky though.”
“We can’t argue it in court because we’d have to change your plea,” Annie said. “But it gave us an idea that you should take the stand in your defense. It’s not common, but in your case, we think it will help.”
Mom chimed in here. “We think you’ll be very persuasive for the jury. Attorney Navarro will go over your testimony with you in detail, but he’s available by phone now if you’d like to ask him anything.”
You smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have any questions. Do whatever with me. Put me on the stand. I don’t really care anymore. But it would save everyone a whole lot of time and hassle if you’d just find the rope that was around my wrist and tie it around my neck.”
“Don’t say that,” Mom said. “This could work.”
“You’ll be cross-examined,” I said. “The prosecutor will come at you hard. Attorney Navarro is worried you’ll crack, that you’ll be nervous up there, and juries equate nervousness with guilt.”
“Do I strike you as the nervous type?” you said.
“No,” I said.
“What’s in your hand?” you asked, pointing at the atlas. I’d almost forgotten about it.
“I want to show you something,” I said.
I opened the atlas, and flipping to the first marked page, showed you the state of Alabama in all its glory.
“Does this state mean anything to you?”
You said, “Sweet home,” and I smiled.
It took a few minutes, but I went through every place you had rattled off in your prior dissociative states. The last one I revealed to you was Virginia.
You looked at that page for quite some time, your head at a tilt, and you said in a quiet voice—unlike Eve’s, unlike anyone’s I’d heard before:
“Boats and water … it has a blue cover … I love that book.”
“What book?” I asked. “This one?”
You looked at me wide-eyed with fright. “There’s a picture on his arm. I can see the picture.”
Your voice was very small, sounded so far away. Tiny. Little. Frightened.
“Picture? What picture? Whose arm?” I asked.
You blinked … once, twice, three times … and then your whole body stilled, and your eyes blinked no more.
“Eve?” I asked with some alarm. “Are you all right?”
No response.
“Eve?”
You shook your head as if coming to from a blackout. You assessed me, Annie, and Mom, with your familiar darkness.
“Are we done here?” you asked, pointing to the atlas. “I said I’m fine to take the stand, but it’s a waste of everyone’s time. I’m going to prison for the rest of my life, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
* * *
A heavy sadness followed us out as we climbed into Annie’s SUV. Nobody knew what to make of what we’d just seen.
“That damn book with the water and boats,” Annie said.
“She definitely switched,” Mom said. “I don’t know to whom, but I know a switch when I see one.”
“What did she mean a picture on his arm?”
“A picture on an arm … it’s got to be a tattoo,” said Annie.
Almost simultaneously Annie and Mom said, “Vince.”
I powered on my phone as soon as I was in my seat. After we’d passed through security, after the guards had checked to make sure we weren’t smuggling someone out, I announced that I had information to share.
“My friend at school … my doxing buddy … she found something new on Rachel,” I said, feeling quite excited.
Mom and Annie craned their necks backward to look at me.
“What?” Mom asked eagerly.
“She found an address in Lynn where Rachel and Isabella used to live,” I said.
CHAPTER 46
GRACE, ANNIE, AND JACK were no more than a quarter mile from the spot where Rachel Boyd’s murder had taken place. Duke Street, a narrow, one-way road in Lynn, featured a mix of multi-family units and single-family homes, most of which had yards with no landscaping of any kind. These homes had tired exteriors that would never make a magazine cover, but inside were the real stories, the ones of love, joy, sadness, and triumphs of the families who resided there. 17 Duke Street, where Rachel and Isabella—as she was known back then—once lived, was a small, box-shaped home with a pitched roof and vinyl siding, but it appeared to be one of the newer and nicer homes on the block.