Page 68 of Find Me

Lindsay heard the sizzle of melting butter. “I can’t believe you’re making me a tuna melt.”

Hope looked up from the stovetop, one hand on her hip, the other holding a spatula. “You said you were craving one.”

“I meant from the deli.”

“This will be way better.” Hope had disappeared to the grocery store on the corner and returned with a can of fancy Italian tuna fish, kewpie mayonnaise, extra-sharp cheddar cheese, celery, onion, and tarragon.

Lindsay rotated her laptop on the kitchen island. “The application’s all done. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Of course.”

“You could be Tara King again, you know. Or pick any name you want,” she quickly added. Carter Decker had explained to them how he discovered Hope’s true identity after connecting the necklace he found on Lopez’s boat to Richard Mullaney’s murder. When shown photographs of Hope and Alex, Melanie Locke did not recognize either of them. It was Sophie, now twenty-five years old and a vicepresident of marketing at LockeHome, who remembered her former babysitter.

Once Hope learned more about her background, she had wanted to know where her mother was. Decker informed her that Laura King had been released from prison three years after Hope left Wichita, but died of a drug overdose five years later. It was a lot of new information at once, and Hope seemed open to the suggestion of resuming therapy to help process it. Lindsay had offered to track down the police reports for the criminal case against Hope’s mother, but Hope said she wasn’t ready to learn the details of her childhood quite yet. It was no surprise that she didn’t want to revert to her given name.

“How about Beyoncé?” Lindsay suggested. “You’d never have problems making a dinner reservation again.”

“Sacrilege. There’s only one Queen B. Besides, I picked the name I wanted fifteen years ago. I’m Hope Miller, and I have no desire to be anyone else.”

On Lindsay’s screen was the electronic form to petition for a legal name change. Now that Hope had a birth certificate for Tara King, she was taking all the steps to establish a legal identity. Once the name change was complete, Hope Miller—no middle name—would get a driver’s license and insurance. Hope reached over and hit the enter key. “Done! And so are these,” she said, sliding their sandwiches onto two plates.

Lindsay took a bite and nodded. “Okay, that’s good.”

“See?” Hope was mid-bite when her cell phone rang on the kitchen counter. She answered on speaker. “You should be calling my lawyer, Detective Decker.”

She flashed a smile in Lindsay’s direction. God, she was beautiful.

“I just wanted to make sure you were by your phone,” Decker said. “I’m sending you something right now on email. I think it’s going to make you very happy.”

Attached to the message that landed in Hope’s inbox was a copy of a handwritten letter. Lindsay read over Hope’s shoulder.

PLEASE READ.

Dear Hope,

Let me start by saying, I swear on my life, I thought you were dead after the car flipped. I was heartbroken and guilt-stricken, but also terrified. I didn’t know what to do. I saw headlights coming and ran into the woods. Then police cars and an ambulance. They took you away, and I was out there alone in the rain. I was a coward, and so I hiked out through the woods and hitched a ride down the road rather than get arrested with a stolen car.

I was checking the internet after for news about the accident and saw that you survived but couldn’t remember anything. I told myself that maybe that was for the best. I wished I could be the one to forget what happened that night. I wish I hadn’t lived for fifteen years knowing that I could go to jail for the rest of my life. I let myself believe that you were going to be okay.

Then one day, you show up on my boat, and I had to face the reality of the choices I made. I chose to believe you were better off, but how could that possibly be? Maybe your amnesia is because your subconscious has been burying the truth—or at least the truth as I allowed you to believe it.

After that boat ride, I struggled with whether to tell the truth. I even made some calls to someone from my past, even though I had promised never to make contact again.

But then you came back to East Hampton. I saw you walking out of Rowdy Hall and followed you home. It was clear you were living here now. I was shocked. It seemed too impossible to be a coincidence. And then I saw you through the salon window, talking to my girlfriend. I convinced myself you were faking your amnesia, but I couldn’t figure out why you’d do that. I thought maybe you remembered the truth about what happened that night and were going to find a way to punish me—Godknows I wouldn’t blame you. So after another night of following you, I finally said, Fuck it, let’s find out.

Your reaction at that house. You were so afraid. It became clear to me you were telling the truth about your amnesia. And so now I oweyouthe truth.

Your name is Tara King. Fifteen years ago, after a rich family (Melanie Locke and Richard Mullaney) fired you as their babysitter, you decided we should have a party at their house while they were out of town. You and the other couple at the house that night had left by the time Richard pulled into the driveway. I stayed behind to keep trashing his things to get back at him for what he did to my sister. When I left, he was pulling into the driveway. He got out with a gun and told me to stay put. All those feelings from when I was a kid came flooding back. I pictured him going after my sister, and I just charged at him and knocked him down. We were wrestling for the gun when it went off.

I told all this to someone I trusted, who said there were no mitigating circumstances. Because the killing happened during a felony, I’d get a mandatory life sentence. I needed to leave town, but I was terrified to go alone. I was begging you to come with me, but you didn’t understand why we needed to leave. You couldn’t remember anything at all from that night. I finally blurted out that you were the one who shot him, but I only told you that to convince you to come with me. We hitched a ride to Indianapolis from that truck stop by the airport, and then I stole a Toyota from a gas station when the guy went inside. We were heading for Montreal. Once we were settled there, I was going to tell you the truth, I swear. I just didn’t want to leave on my own. The next thing I know, we’re flipping over in the car. I thought you died still believing that you had killed a man.

But now you know the truth. I am the one who shot RichardMullaney. I alone am responsible. I hope this gives you freedom, Hope. I hope it gives you peace. You can live your life now.

Hope sat in silence for a few seconds when they were done reading, scrolling through the document again, as if to make sure it was real.

“Oh my god. He didn’t just confess. He totally cleared me.”

An announcement in Mullaney’s case was imminent. Lindsay had been trying to persuade the Wichita police to declare Alex Lopez the sole suspect in the killing, but she’d been given no assurances. This letter changed all that.

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