Page 94 of Another Girl Lost

“See it from my perspective. Sandra was seen with Tanner. She vanishes. Tanner took you for eighty-eight days. Someone on July 2 called in the tip from a location where witnesses can place you. I found Sandra’s body. See how you and Sandra keep showing up in this story?”

“I didn’t place that call. I never met Sandra in high school or in Tanner’s house. Della had told me about the Other Girl, but no one thinks Della is real.”

“You believe she’s real, and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“No one is saying you are.”

Time compressed, superimposing Della over Margo. “I have a piece of art that I think you might like. It would look great on the south wall.”

“I couldn’t.” Curious amusement sparked.

“Of course you can. Consider it a housewarming gift, and when you’ve found Sandra’s killer, reach out to me. We’ll do this again.”

I opened the door, and she followed me into the hallway. “Thanks for the wine.”

“Will we find your DNA on Sandra’s body?” Margo asked.

If Sandra was the Other Girl, we’d never spoken or touched, so it didn’t make sense that my DNA would be on her body. However, the tone rumbling under her words triggered an alarm bell. “Have a good evening, Margo.”

“Were you wearing any jewelry when Tanner took you?”

Why ask now about my bracelet and necklace? “I’m sure if I was it’s in my police file.”

Margo left her front door gaping as she followed me toward the elevator. “Lynn Yeats. When’s the last time you saw her?”

Lynn Yeats. Tanner’s girlfriend. “You’re full of questions.”

“I’ve only just begun.”

As I punched the elevator button, I felt her gaze on me. When the doors opened, I stepped in and faced her. She smiled and waved. Dawson might be the louder of the two, but she was the more dangerous.

Lynn Yeats. She was my closest living link to Tanner. According to Della, she’d been in his house many times, and if anyone might have known about the girls in the basement, it would be her.

Back in my warehouse, I glanced up toward Margo’s unit, still lit up. There was no sign of her when I reached for my phone and opened social media.

I kept an account for my business and used it to post pictures of my art and interface with clients. However, I never posted anything personal about myself. On my page, I noticed a couple of direct messages and responded to potential client queries.

I searched Lynn Yeats. There were a half dozen of them, but only one in this area. Oddly, her page wasn’t private, because maybe she no longer worried about anyone associating her with Tanner. And why would she? It had been a decade, and life had moved on for everyone but me. The world didn’t really remember Tanner, Sandra, Della, Tiffany, or me. I could almost imagine people when one of our names came up.Oh yeah, I remember that case. The girl survived. But she must be messed up. How could she not be?

Lynn Yeats, according to her page, liked wine tastings in New Kent County, lingering on the narrow beach rimming the Chesapeake Bay,and riding bikes along the Capital Trail. She worked at the local hospital as an oncology nurse. I guessed she’d always been a nurse, but that factoid had never reached me. Mrs. Rose had said Lynn brought lunches to Tanner at the renovation jobsite where Sandra’s body had been found. Della said she’d met Lynn once when Tanner had introduced her as his cousin.

Maybe Lynn had finally decided that she no longer had to keep Tanner’s secrets.

The sun dipped closer to the horizon as I drove to the hospital located fifteen minutes away. I didn’t know Lynn’s work schedule, but I was curious about her. I wanted to know what she knew about Della.

As I parked in the lot, I stared at the gray building, remembering this was where the rescue squad had taken me. I recalled the rumble of the gurney wheels, the quick conversations of the paramedic who gave the attending doctor my stats, and the curious stares of the nurses.

Officer Rogers, a six-foot-six man with graying short hair, had escorted me to an examination room. He’d said nothing to me, jogging alongside the gurney as if he were a football defensive end ready to block trouble. Officer Rogers was the kind of guy who kicked down doors, not a caretaker of a sketchy, broken girl suffering with injuries from a car accident and months of sexual assault. I didn’t look fixable, and that had made him feel helpless. When he looked down at me, I saw pain etched in his hard features. I suspected he had a daughter or a sister and saw his worst nightmare in me. His voice had been gruff, as if annoyance trumped tears. “Hang tough.”

Oddly, I’d appreciated his words.

I finished my coffee. Cool air gusted from vents, and soon my skin chilled and gooseflesh puckered the surface.

Out of the truck, I moved with a steady pace to the main entrance. I walked up to the front desk to an older woman sporting a gray bun and a blue hospital volunteer jacket. I remember someone just like her coming in my room when I’d been here and offering me a copy ofSeventeenmagazine.

“Hey, I’m looking for my next-door neighbor,” I said, smiling. “I don’t have her phone number or a key to her house but I’m hoping you can get a message to her.”

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