Page 102 of The Change
“Of course,” Jo said.
“Then who else do we need to convince?”
Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing
There were no more requests for interviews. After Chief Rocca’s appearance onNewsnight,the episode ofThey Walk Among Usfeaturing Nessa and Jo was pulled from the podcast’s website and replaced with an apology from Josh Gibbon. He refused to explain his actions to Jo over the phone, worried the conversation might be recorded. Later that day, Nessa spotted him pumping gas at a station in town, wearing a ridiculously unkempt beard and dark glasses. When confronted, Josh admitted that while he knew everything she and Jo had said to be true, he couldn’t afford to stand by them. His credibility had taken a serious hit. He’d lost sponsors and received hate mail from thousands of listeners. He pleaded with her to leave him alone.
“Just take my number.” She scribbled it down on a scrap of paper when he showed no sign of pulling out his own phone. “If you hear anything new or receive any tips, please let me know.”
“Why?” he asked. “Spencer Harding is dead. He’s not going to hurt anyone. Didn’t the three of you get what you wanted?”
Not yet,Nessa thought as she watched Josh drive away. Harriett seemed confident that Rocca would be punished, but Nessa couldn’t figure out how. If Harriett had a plan, she hadn’t shared it.I’ll do my job,she’d told Nessa.You focus on yours.Nessa’s job was to identify Spencer Harding’s victims, and two of the three girls still remained nameless.
That truth was tormenting Nessa several days later as she pushed a cart through the Stop & Shop aisles, her arm reaching out to grabthe usual items as though it had a mind of its own. She was so lost in her thoughts that she got all the way from produce to canned goods before she finally sensed someone was following her. She spun around, hoping to catch the lurker off guard. Behind her was a woman Nessa recalled seeing in the parking lot who’d done a double take as Nessa passed her.
“You’re Ms. James?” the woman asked shyly.
“I am,” Nessa said, steeling herself for what might come next.
“My name is Mary Collins, and I’ve heard you have the sight,” she half whispered. “My girl disappeared a year ago. We’re from Queens, but she was out on the island visiting a friend when she vanished.”
The woman pulled a photo, creased and dog-eared, from her wallet. When she held it out, Nessa took it, though she could hardly bear to look. Smiling back at her was a teenage girl with braids and braces.
“She’s beautiful.” Nessa stroked the face in the photo with her thumb and ordered herself to stay strong. “What’s her name?”
“Lena. They told me she ran away from home—like that girl Mandy Welsh. I never believed them, but what could I do? Have you seen Lena, Ms. James? Can you tell me what happened to her?”
“I’m so sorry.” It broke Nessa’s heart to say the words. “I haven’t seen your girl. But I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for her. I promise I will.”
The girl’s mother looked so crestfallen as she tucked the photo back into her wallet that Nessa stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the woman.
“I miss her so much,” Mrs. Collins whispered into Nessa’s shoulder. “This whole time I haven’t had any peace.”
They stood there in the canned vegetable aisle, Nessa holding a woman she’d only just met as they both cried.
Later that afternoon, Nessa lay on Harriett’s sofa, her brainthumping. The migraines were becoming a regular occurrence. Harriett made a tonic that helped relieve the pain, but the headaches usually returned by the next day. This one, though—it was worse than the others.
“The pain is telling you something,” Harriett said. “It will go away once you get the message.”
“For God’s sake, what is it?” Nessa croaked. She had a hunch, but she didn’t want to confront it.
“I don’t know,” Harriett responded. “It’s not meant for me.”
That conversation ended with a knock at Harriett’s door.
“Pardon me for a moment,” Harriett said. “That must be my next client.”
For the past few weeks, there had always seemed to be someone knocking on Harriett Osborne’s door. Annette Moore kept track of the visitors. She’d lived in one of the houses across the street from 256 Woodland Drive ever since she returned home from her rained-out Hawaiian honeymoon two decades earlier. In all the years that she and Harriett Osborne had been neighbors, the two women had exchanged exactly sixty-two words. But the mental dossier Annette kept on Harriett was nothing short of exhaustive. She liked to think of herself as the eyes and ears of Woodland Drive, and the truth was, Harriett Osborne was the only resident worth watching. Throughout the months of July and August, Annette had noticed a steady stream of visitors to the Osborne house. The women—they were always women—would park their vehicles several blocks down the street and travel the rest of the way on foot. They clearly didn’t want their cars to be spotted outside the witch house, as it had become known throughout Mattauk. They’d stand on the porch, one toe tapping nervously as they checked over their shoulders to make sure no one was watching, and wait for thefront door to open. There werealwayspeople watching, of course. It wasn’t just Annette. And a few of the visitors would have set tongues wagging. Among them, Annette recognized the mayor’s trashy daughter-in-law and prissy Juliet Rocca, the chief of police’s wife. But after what happened to the head of the homeowners association, Annette kept her mouth shut. Brendon Baker still showed up once a month to weep on the witch’s front steps. Everyone in Mattauk knew all about it—and no one dared mess with Harriett Osborne.
According to Annette’s observations, Harriett’s guests usually stayed for twenty minutes. A few would disappear into her jungle for hours. But when the women emerged, they invariably carried a little brown baggie. As they speed-walked back to their cars, clutching the bag as though it were the most precious object, they all seemed a little more at ease in the world.
“You know, I think Harriett Osborne is selling marijuana out of her house,” Annette said as she peeked between the blinds.
“Naw, Eric sells the pot. Shrooms, too,” her teenage daughter replied absentmindedly as she shot aliens on the TV.
“Who’s Eric?”
“You know, the hottie from the grocery store.” No more explanation was needed. Mother and daughter both managed to be near the front window whenever Eric delivered Harriett’s groceries.
