Page 116 of The Change
The Others
Nessa sat in her car across the street from an old beachfront cottage. From the outside, the house looked cozy. Its blue-trimmed windows with their overflowing flower boxes were a perfect contrast to the weathered gray shingles. Nessa had never been inside, but she’d driven past on several occasions over the previous weeks. No matter what time of day she went by, there was always a silver SUV in the drive. So far, she’d resisted the urge to pull in behind it.
Nessa kept her hands on the wheel and left the car idling. She was scared. Not of the man who lived in the cottage, but of what he would say to her when she knocked on the door. She knew this was one of those moments when things were decided. If he sent her away, there would be no coming back. If he invited her in, she’d be there to stay.
Nessa had already turned the wheel toward the driveway and her foot was making the transition from the brake to the gas when the front door of the cottage opened and Franklin stepped outside. Whatever happened, she knew she would always be grateful for the few moments that followed. Dressed in an old T-shirt and jeans, Franklin walked barefoot down the crushed-shell drive and crossed the road to her where her car sat on the shoulder. Then he leaned in, his forearms resting on the edge of her window.
“Is this a stakeout?” he asked.
In that instant, Nessa knew everything would be okay.
“I’ve missed you,” she told him.
“You didn’t need to,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve seen you drive by. I’m glad you finally decided to stop.”
After she pulled her car into the drive, Franklin guided her down a little path that circled around the house to the back porch. It was nothing more than a wooden platform with two Adirondack chairs and a table between them. The dunes started right at the edge, and beyond them lay the sea.
“There aren’t many places like this anymore,” Nessa noted. When she was a girl, there had been hundreds of similar cottages along this stretch of shore, all owned by Black families who arrived every summer. Nessa’s great-grandfather had learned how to swim on the island. Her parents had met on a beach nearby. Now the families like hers were long gone and only a few cottages remained. The rest had been razed to make way for mansions and oceanfront condominiums.
“The house belonged to my great-uncle,” Franklin said. “He was a cop, too. When things got too much in the city, he’d come out here by himself to fish. Over the years, developers offered him a fortune for the land, but he said you couldn’t put a price on solitude.”
“You feel the same way?” Nessa asked.
Franklin laughed. “I like the house. Solitude is overrated. Have a seat. You want a beer?”
“Sure,” Nessa said, settling down into one of the wooden chairs and trying to remember the last time she’d had a beer.
She listened to Franklin bustling about in the kitchen, opening the fridge and popping the tops off bottles, and realized she felt at home. She’d expected it all to be awkward, but it hadn’t been. It was like easing into a warm bath on a frigid day.
Franklin appeared on the deck with two bottles in hand. He passed one to Nessa before taking a seat beside her. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, sipping their beers and watching the waves.
“I’m sorry about how we left things,” Nessa said.
“You’re sorry you did what you had to do?” Franklin asked. “If you guys had taken my advice, Spencer Harding would still be murdering girls. And Jo had every right to be furious after what happened to her daughter. I should be the one apologizing to the three of you.”
“I’m sorry Chief Rocca lied and said you were the source for the podcast. I know you lost your job because of it.”
Franklin looked over at her. “Do you honestly think I wanted to keep it after everything that happened? You and your friends were right. The system is broken. If you’re looking for justice these days, you have to find it by other means. That’s what you did. Then they went and blamed Harding’s escape on you. What they did to me was bad. But that was damnedlow.”
“Can I ask you—was anything the chief said onNewsnighttrue? Was Danill Chertov really an informant?”
She wished she could be more direct, but unless she wanted to see Harriett arrested, she couldn’t let on that Chertov was dead.
“Not to my knowledge,” Franklin said. “I was the lead detective on the case. If they brought Chertov in for questioning before Harding’s death, they must have hidden him pretty well, becauseIdidn’t see him. Half of what the chief said onNewsnightwas meant to cover up his incompetence. I just haven’t found a way to prove it.”
“He wasn’t covering up incompetence,” Nessa said. “He and Harding were working together. Harriett went out to the Pointe this morning and spoke to a woman who works there. The lady said Rocca was at Harding’s house before the helicopter took off that night.”
“Doing what?” Franklin asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Nessa shrugged and took a drink. “No idea. But it means the chief lied when he said Harding escaped after he was tipped off bythe podcast. Rocca was at Harding’s house. He could have arrested Spencer at any point, but he didn’t. There should be security tapes that can prove it. We’re going to see if we can get our hands on them.”
“I’m impressed,” Franklin said. “You guys are turning out to be better detectives than I am.”
Nessa stared out at the water. “We’re still missing most of the story. I can feel it. The gift has limits, and this sure isn’t how my grandmother taught me to use it. I think you were right, Franklin—the two of us are meant to work as a team. I shouldn’t have pushed you aside like I did. We need your help.Ineed your help.”
“You really mean that?” Franklin asked.
Nessa nodded. “I do,” she said.
