Elena guided Frances inside her, one finger, then two, then three, and Frances gasped a: "You feel so good, you're so wet."

  "Do that thing with your thumb."

  Frances knew what Elena meant. She found the tempo that bound Elena to her, and Elena came, too soon, without the pleasure and anticipation of build-up. Elena refused herself another orgasm, a better one, instead devouring Frances's mouth, tasting strawberries. And tongue, a very nice, excited tongue.

  Beep.

  Time was up.

  Shit. Shit! She should have set the alarm for fifteen minutes. Or twenty. Or for five hours. She shut the damn thing off. Why hadn’t she done what she did with other clients? Once she said they could kiss her, they could--any time. They were not limited to a silly ten-minute period. You know why. Frances is different.

  "Nothing happened," Frances said.

  Elena kissed her one last time--quickly, but with longing. For an excellent tip. To convey to Frances she had done great, she was an incredible kisser, any woman would be lucky to have her. Elena rolled out of bed. The gray cells of her mind swirled with confusion. So I’m allowing Frances to pleasure me, to make me come, but not to kiss me? What’s the…

  Elena sighed. It worked for her, in her gut, although it failed on a logical level. Ah, whatever. As long as her heart was okay with the arrangement. Good thing she and Frances were excellent pretenders. "Monopoly?" Elena asked.

  Chapter 22

  The phone jerked Frances out of her sleep. The Marissa phone. One a.m. The prostitute was long gone. Frances had released her at ten, an hour early.

  One a.m.

  The time meant the news was significant, not an alleged sighting or two. Marissa was back, or she was dead. Dead. Found. Back. Hi, Mommy! Long time no see. Dead.

  Frances let the phone ring nine times, and then she answered. Wished she could be in the comforting cocoon of the prostitute’s arms instead.

  "Hi, Jimmy."

  The FBI agent’s voice held a tremble of excitement. Happened at three-thirty p.m., we think it’s genuine, we really do, there’s something about it, we’ve been looking into it all night, thought you’d want to know now rather than in the morning, it’s no hoax, we’re analyzing the hell out of the thing, now listen...

  Jimmy had a tape. Frances listened for a minute stretching into another minute. Asked Jimmy again and again to play it, play it, play it. Another minute lengthened into five amid more "agains" and more playings.

  The voice of a girl filled Frances’s ear. Scared girl, tones shaky in places. She spoke with a southern twang sometimes. Other times, most of the time, she spoke slowly, deliberately, mechanically. Like she had set out to disguise her voice.

  "Hello. Hello," the girl said. "I have a lot to say, and I have to go really soon, so please do not interrupt. If you interrupt, I will hang up. Okay." Deep breath. "I am Marissa Dourne. I think I am. I'm calling to ask you to please tell my mother I'm okay. I'm okay, but…maybe someday I can see her. I’d like to meet her. Not now. I'm not called Marissa anymore, but she probably figured that out. I can't say where I live because I don't want my dad to go to jail. But tell her. Tell my mother I'm okay. I like to look at pictures and videos of her online. She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much. I'm boring-looking. Well, until I got my hair--uh. I read in her book that she doesn’t like ketchup on hamburgers. I'm the same way. You'll tell her, won't you? No ketchup on hamburgers. Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup. Maybe when I am eighteen. Tell my mother I'm okay. I have to go, time's up. I don't want this call to be traced. Tell my mother I'm okay, please. And that I--I’d really like to meet her someday. I think I remember her in one of my dreams. We are outside, looking at the moon, and we are cold. She is crying, and her crying makes me cry."

  Click.

  Jimmy let her listen who knew how many times, and then asked, with a certain delicacy: "Frances? Is it Marissa?"

  He did not have to ask. He knew damn well her account of her last time with her daughter, an account never made public. Marissa’s thin pink sleeping gown, Frances taking her outside so they could try to see Venus among the city and light pollution. Frances’s crying because she was wholly responsible for the girl, she refused to let Daniel have anything to do with her, he had not seen her for two months, and Frances did not know how to be her mother. Did not like being her mother, because Marissa was demanding and hungry all the time, and because of the way Marissa looked at her with love in her big brown eyes. A love Frances did not deserve.

  Marissa started crying and wailing, and her face was red and purple, and then Marissa was wheezing and gasping, and Frances was crying harder too.

  Both their crying was intolerable.

  She called Daniel at two oh-seven a.m., telling him to come get his daughter, to promise to have her back by noon for her birthday party, and she would let him stay for the party, too.

  Frances did not kiss or hug her child goodbye.

  Had she known what she was doing, had she known she was giving her daughter away?

  Of course not. She could not have.

  She almost told Jimmy no, she’s not Marissa.

  "Yes, Jimmy," Frances said, hating that her voice was robotic--she was a person, damn it, she was a person!--"Yes, Jimmy, you know it’s Marissa."

  *****

  Jimmy said he would email her the recording, but that she would have to keep it to herself. The FBI did not plan to release the whole tape. They needed to keep parts secret to verify the authenticity of people who might claim to have made the call.

  Frances pretended the prostitute was with her. Kissing her neck, her lips. She checked her email; the tape had arrived. She set a meeting with Jimmy for eight a.m., hung up in the middle of a sentence from him, turned the Marissa phone off, and played the tape again.

  She got back into bed. Why am I not feeling anything? Why was she so damn numb? Shock? The resilience, the belief, the faith in the girl’s voice? Her desire to reassure Frances she was okay?

  Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup. Maybe when I am eighteen.

  Frances would be a huge disappointment to her daughter. This daughter who had reached out to her, to a mother who, as far as the child knew, was still homophobic and closed-minded.

  Frances closed her eyes. She had long ago forgotten Marissa’s voice. Obviously, a fourteen-year-old’s voice was not the same as a two-year-old’s, but now little Marissa’s voice wedged itself in her mind. Her giggles. Mommy! Look me, look me! How could she have forgotten what her daughter sounded like?

  Mommy, look me! Mommy, look dog! Mommy, look duck! Mommy, look Daddy here!

  She was still numb, but she dialed a number. The prostitute's work phone, directly for the first time. No going through the booking agent.

  No, no.

  Frances canceled the call before the prostitute’s line rang. Shame burned inside her. At how much she liked the prostitute. I won’t end up like Randy. I will make sure of it. Randy had been going through bankruptcy when he applied to GIC for its counseling program and for financial assistance. He’d spent his and Nora’s savings on money for Joseph. Mortgaged their house. Opened up credit card accounts in Nora’s name without her knowledge.

  This was how addictions started, wasn’t it? How people went from having too much money to none.

  Mommy! Gleeful shrieks. Love ya, Mommy, love ya! Frances took a deep breath. Anything to get little Marissa out of her mind. You’re fine. You’re fine.

  Frances asked herself WWTPS? What would the prostitute say? We all pay our friends. We all pay to get friends in some way or another. Maybe not always in money, but we invest time, we present different sides to ourselves, we give up part of ourselves or…don’t be embarrassed or ashamed. Please. A phone call. Seeing me most every day. That’s nothing. Doesn’t mean you’re bad or weak. I’ve been involved with worse. Much worse. You’re fine. You’ll be done with me soon, so enjoy me while you can.

  Frances dialed again, and the prostitute answered on the third ring. "Hello?" Her voice held no trace of sleepiness.

  Was the voice on the tape actually her daughter? Had she heard Marissa for the first time in eleven years? If she tried hard enough, she could rationalize away the girl’s dream.

  But, no. She was trying to be a new Frances Dourne.

  Frances shook herself into action and filled the prostitute in on the call. Played the tape for her. "It's Marissa. Has to be."

  "I’ll be right over," the prostitute said.

  "No, no. Just talk to me on the phone. I should call Nicholas. He'll come over if he's in town."

  "I will be there in twenty minutes."

  "You can’t. I don’t have enough money here."

  "Hang tight. I will be right there." The prostitute hung up.

  *****

  Elena took Frances in her arms and kissed her outside the corner of her mouth. Just enough outside so that she was not violating her own rule. Again.

  Frances was deadened and unseeing. Most likely had no idea Elena kissed her. "So it’s Marissa. You're sure?" Elena asked.

  Frances was pale. "You shouldn’t have come. You’ll get in trouble."

  "I won’t get in trouble."

  "I have to call Nicholas."

  "Call him. I could stay if he comes. I’ll listen to the tape all night with you and him."

  "I don’t have enough money here," Frances repeated.

  "I won't put this meeting on the calendar."

  Frances wrung her hands together. "What if she comes forward? What do I do with her? Why did she call? She's not supposed to like me. What if she likes hair and fashion and makeup? What if I can’t keep Daniel from going to jail, and she moves in with me? What if she hates me? I can’t be a mom. I never was. I’m not cut out to be a mom. I’m not--I’m not--the first time I held her in the hospital, panic suffocated my throat. My whole body. I knew right then I couldn’t be her mom. Daniel would be great. He’d be mom and dad. You see who I am? See what kind of monster I am? I didn’t want my own daughter, but I kept her from her true parent. Because he had the courage to come out as gay. Of course he took her. Of course he fucking took her! I admire him, I admire him every fucking day of my life. Oh, God. Why did she have to call? She screwed her life up."

  "You will be a great mom, Frances. You give your kid a chance, she’ll give you a chance. That’s all she wants." Frances would be fine as a mother. The passion in her words said as much. She loved her daughter, and that love scared her to death.

  "But why did she call?"

  "Because she wants her mother. She doesn't care if you're--" Elena gestured vaguely. "She sees something in you. The goodness in you."

  Frances swallowed. "I’m calling Nicholas. I have to."

  In other words, hello and goodbye, whatever your name is. You’re unwelcome. You’re not my lover, you never were. You’re a hooker. But that was how it should be. "Does he know you’re scared of Marissa? Scared to be her mother?"

  Something stark and vivid glittered in Frances’s eyes. "Of course he doesn’t! You better go. I told you not to come. I told you I didn’t have enough money here!"

  Elena held her hands up. "Fine, fine. I’ll leave."

  Frances slumped. "When your kidnapped daughter calls, you call your family. You don’t hole up with a prostitute."

  "You could hole up with her for one hour then call your family."

  Frances gave a little smile. A laugh. Some light appeared in her eyes, some color in her cheeks. "Do you regret what we did earlier?"

  "No." And Elena did not. She felt better, actually. Getting the agony out of her system. She was on an even keel again. That did not mean her feelings for Frances had gone away. The opposite. She had rushed to Frances's side, after all.

  But Elena did not feel like she was "hiding" anymore, per se. "No, I don't regret it, but it can’t happen again."

  "Oh, I know. I was just hoping you didn't regret it. I don't."

  "Want to get in bed?"

  *****

  Neither of them undressed before getting under the covers. Elena noticed that Frances took her right into her arms, protecting her, as if Elena was the one who called. Elena sank into the embrace, resting her head on Frances's breasts. This was exactly what she needed.

  "Where would you be now? Ideally?" Frances asked.

  With Isaiah. He would be alive.

  "I've always wanted to fly," Elena said. "Like Superman."

  "That would be nice."

  "I'd be flying over Washington. Or New York City. London. Paris. Rome. I would've gotten here a lot faster. Instead of fumbling with my keys and dropping them twice, finding an approved parking place here, and--"

  "Hope you're bundled up for flying."

  Elena laughed. "Maybe you're with me to keep me warm."

  Frances slipped her hands up Elena's shirt. She undid the hooks on Elena's bra and caressed her back. "You're a tease."

  So are you. Depending on what Frances did with her hands, Elena could very well envision a repeat of earlier.

  No. Won't happen. Make sure it doesn't.

  "We'd fly over the monument first," Elena said.

  "And then we'd see the octopus."

  "What?"

  "Don't you see it? It's glowing green, looks like a whale threw it up or something. It's scaling the monument."

  "Radiation got to it, huh? It's leaving green goo all over the place."

  They were silent a few moments, and Elena caught herself falling asleep. "Time for me to go. You call Nicholas."

  "No sense waking him up when it can wait a few more hours. I'll call him at six."

  "I should go anyway. Or I could stay. If you want."

  Frances tightened her grip around Elena. "I appreciate it. I'll pay you next time."

  "Whatever you like, Frances," Elena mumbled. If she protested, Frances would argue and pay her anyway. Or insist she leave right now.

  Chapter 23

  Elena had to escape, and it was not even noon. She had tried napping but was wide awake. The walls closed in on her, but then they would close in on her wherever she was. So--she would go outside. No walls, and she had a park in mind. She dressed in layers; the temperature barely topped thirty-five degrees. "I’m going out, Ma."

  Brenda did not look up. "Stay warm, dear." Brenda had been glued to the story all morning. Elena, not so much. She could not bear to watch the videos of little, pink-tutued Marissa playing and prancing with her father, Marissa playing horsie with Daniel, riding on his back, the pictures of a younger Frances grinning with her daughter and her husband. Elena could not bear to watch Frances during her press conference and on the morning shows, Frances pleading for her daughter’s return. The fear that radiated from Frances was not the fear that Marissa would never be found--but that she would be.

  Frances pleaded more along the lines of her first speech, not the second. She did not acknowledge that perhaps the child was better off with her father, and Elena wanted to reach through the screen and ask Why? Why? Because then Marissa was more likely to never return? Frances, you’re better than that. Come on! You love her. You will never forgive yourself if you had a chance to get her back but did not take full advantage of it.

  Frances admitting that perhaps she was not the best parent for the girl would blacken her name, for sure. It would apparently have to wait until she came out and confessed two so-called "evils" at once.

  Elena could not bear to listen when leading gay activists blasted Frances and urged Daniel to keep his child close to him. They urged Marissa to stay away from her mother, from her corrupted ways. Didn’t these people realize they were coming off as caricatures? Didn’t they realize the world was not black and white? That the world was fourteen-year-old gray, that a girl out there wanted her mother and did not care if her mother was Republican or Democrat, gay or straight?

  Elena told herself she would have let Isaiah live with his father. For a bit, anyway. Until Isaiah saw how unfit Kevin was.

  Nicholas had been on TV with Frances during her press conference and for most of the morning. Elena imagined herself on TV with them, too. Felt the heat of the lights and the cameras. Imagined herself holding Frances’s hand, imagined herself saying the words, too: "Marissa, please call again."

  Elena’s brain said it did not feel right, but her heart said something else.

  Thirty minutes ago, in Denver, Colorado, Daniel Dourne’s twin sister, Sally, had done her part. She beseeched the girl to contact the hotline again. "We are your family, Marissa. That means we are your father’s family too. Your mother is right. We’ll work together to keep your dad out of jail."

  The media lapped it up.

  Elena had scribbled her personal cell number on a business card of Frances’s before she left the penthouse. If there were updates on Marissa, she wanted to know. Once she was in her car, Elena had changed her voice mail greeting to delete her name. Frances had called at ten a.m. Elena had information Brenda and millions of other attentive viewers did not. Not yet, anyway. Technicians were isolating the tape for background noise, but so far nothing was coming out of that. The phone company said it had the phone number, the phone was a cell, and it had been disabled. The number had a San Diego area code, but the FBI said San Diego probably was not where the girl was. When people activated prepaid phones, they could request a number for any area code. However, the San Diego police and FBI office were doing some discreet checking around.

  Other people were working on the girl's voice, her speech patterns, hoping to narrow down a region where she spent most of her time. Even if she did not live in that region anymore, maybe people there remembered her.

  The girl’s words played again and again throughout the morning. If you recognize this voice, please call. The FBI had not released the entire tape, however. The agency wanted to keep secret the part about the girl’s so-called dream. During Frances’s press conference, FBI agent Jimmy Haller said the FBI was almost certain the girl was Marissa, based on information elsewhere in the recording. The part the FBI released was in what they believed was entirely her natural voice: She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much. I'm boring-looking. Well, until I got my hair--uh. I read in her book that she doesn’t like ketchup on hamburgers. I'm the same way. You'll tell her, won't you? No ketchup on hamburgers. Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup.