*   *   *

TESSA FINDS US a hotel. Not a major chain, but a smaller operation near a ski resort where hotel rooms outnumber the local population ten to one. This will make it harder for the reporters to track us down, I realize.

She leaves me in the car to book the room. When she returns, she drives to the back of the hotel, where it turns out she’s gotten us a second-floor walkup. There are no buildings across from the hotel, meaning there is no way for anyone, say, a photographer with a telephoto lens, to find us. I realize I’m starting to think the way she thinks, or maybe I’ve known these things all along. Back of the hotel is more secure than the front. Lower level too accessible, second floor easier to control.

The room is basic but nice. Two queen beds, relatively new beige carpet, flat-screen TV. There is the obligatory picture of a moose on one wall, a photo of a snowcapped mountain on the other. Could be any hotel in the North Country, I think, which makes it perfect.

Tessa has a small overnight bag with her. Obviously, I have my quilt.

She places her bag on the bed closest to the door, so I set the quilt down on the other bed.

“Are you staying?” I ask. By which I really mean, are we sharing a room? The thought already has me uncomfortable. Like I traded in one set of jailors—Wyatt and Kevin—for another.

Tessa doesn’t answer, just takes a seat at the foot of the bed. She’s already drawn the curtains. Now she turns on the TV, finds a cable news channel, sets the volume on low.

“All right, we have some basics to cover.”

I don’t know what else to do, so I sit.

“Are you hungry?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll bring you food. Write up what you want; I’ll take care of it. But no room service. Not yet. Draws attention.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“I have no idea. My turn: Where is your husband?”

I decide to play along: “I have no idea.”

She smiles. “Let me clarify some things. I imagine Diane had this initial conversation with you, but given the post-concussive syndrome and the fact you barely remember employing Northledge at all—”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” I interject.

“Can you describe our Boston office?”

I try, come up blank.

She nods. “Exactly. So when you hired Northledge to track down Marlene Bilek, you handed over a large deposit, a retainer check to be used to cover the expenses of that search. In your case, you handed over a cashier’s check.”

She pauses a beat. I fill in the rest. “I couldn’t use a personal check. I didn’t want Thomas to know.”

“Fair enough. The firm never minds being paid in cash. But the truth is, tracking down Marlene Bilek took about fifteen minutes of my time. Meaning, we didn’t come close to burning through the retainer. You are, by virtue of your money sitting in our account, a client in good standing.”

“Okay.”

“This makes me the investigator handling your case. Couple of things you should know. The first principle of our firm is that your privacy is our most important asset. I need you to be honest with me. I can help you best if you are honest with me.”

I study her. I think I’m getting good at this game: “But?”

“But while a private investigator can offer her client confidentiality, our relationship still doesn’t rise to the level of privilege. For example, anything you say to a doctor or a lawyer is automatically protected in a court of law. I’m only your investigator, not a doctor or lawyer.”

“Meaning you can be forced to disclose what I tell you.”

“I can be subpoenaed, yes, much like a reporter. At which time I can protect my source, so to speak, and be found in contempt of court, or I can disclose the information.”

“Contempt of court equals jail time. Why would you want to go to jail for me?”

Tessa tilts her head to the side. “I don’t know, Nicky. Why would I want to go to jail for you?”

“You need me to be truthful,” I say at last. “But you also need me to be careful. For both our sakes.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to try to make it easier for both of us.”

“How so?”

“Wyatt . . . Sergeant Foster—”

“Wyatt. You know him. You have a relationship.”

“We’ve worked together before.”

“This isn’t a court of law,” I tell her. “You’re not under subpoena.”

Tessa smiles, still doesn’t take the bait. “Wyatt says you claimed you were kidnapped and held as a sex slave. In a fancy home, maybe a Victorian, probably somewhere in the greater Boston area. You referred to it as a dollhouse.”

“Yes.”

“There were other girls there. At least one roommate, but most likely dozens more.”

“It was a big house.”

“And the clients who frequented, we’re talking successful men, well-to-do. This was an elite operation.”

I shrug. “Perverts come in all socioeconomic classes.”

“Trust me, I know. This was a sophisticated operation, yes? You weren’t the first girl taken, nor the last.”

I can’t look at her anymore. “No.”

She nods. “The police are going to look for the dollhouse. This kind of sex-trafficking operation, the resources it would take, the players involved. I bet they already have a few ideas of where to start. Given your situation, however, I have a different idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nicky, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re not the first girl to have gotten away?”

I can’t help myself. I stare at her blankly. No, I’ve never thought such a thing.

“Maybe,” Tessa continues now, “there are more of you out there. And that would be a good thing, Nicky. There’s strength in numbers. It bolsters your story. It takes some of the pressure off you. It would mean, by definition, you’re not alone.”

I can’t speak; I can’t breathe. Another girl. Would that be a good thing? Sisters in arms? Or . . . I can’t sit anymore. I get up and pace.

“Thirty years ago,” Tessa is saying, “the investigative landscape was very different. ViCAP, a database for linking criminal cases from around the country, was just getting started. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children had barely been founded. All in all, it was very difficult for law enforcement agencies from different jurisdictions to compare notes. Meaning a six-year-old girl could be kidnapped from a park here, while a twelve-year-old runaway disappeared from a shelter there, and an eight-year-old delinquent never came home from the mall, and no one would necessarily connect the dots. We know better now, and I’d like to use that to our advantage.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a friend. A Boston detective who currently has some time on her hands. I’m going to ask her to go back through thirty years of missing-kid cases, from all over New England, to see if she can connect some dots. If we can establish just how many girls they were taking, and how, and from where, that would enable us to corroborate your story. It might also help identify the players involved.”

I walk away from her. Check out the flat-screen TV. I’m rubbing my arms, though I’m not sure why. I’m not cold but I’m covered in goose bumps.

I miss Thomas. I wonder where he is right now. Where is he going and what is he doing? Right or wrong, I wish he was here.

“Why are you hiring someone else?” I mumble. “Can’t you just ask around yourself?”

Tessa doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her question takes me off guard.

“Do you know what a Chinese wall is?”

I shake my head, already confused. I need more sleep. My head hurts.

“A Chinese wall is an informational barrier constructed within a firm for the sake of ethical integrity. For example, in a law firm, if investigating one client’s case might result in identifying information that was detrimental to another client, the firm could construct a Chinese wall. Essentially, the company would establish two separate investigative efforts, operating independently and not sharing information, thus enabling itself to serve both clients without compromising ethics.”