Page 19 of I Will Find You

“That was what Florio said on cross-examination.”

Tom Florio was my attorney.

“Right,” I say. “But he didn’t make much headway.”

“Mrs. Winslow was a strong witness,” Rachel confesses.

I nod, feeling the emotions start to rise up and overwhelm me again. “She seemed to be just a sweet little old lady with a steel-trap mind. She had no reason to lie. Her testimony sunk me. That was when those closest to me started having serious doubts.” I look up. “Even you, Rachel.”

“And even you, David.”

She meets my glare without the slightest flinch. I’m the one who turns away.

“We need to find her.”

“Why? If she was mistaken—”

“She wasn’t mistaken,” I say.

“I’m not following.”

“Hilde Winslow lied. It’s the only explanation. She lied on the stand, and we need to know why.”

Rachel says nothing. A young woman, still a teen, I would bet, walks behind Rachel and takes a seat on the stool next to her. A beefy inmate I don’t recognize, blanketed in razor-scratch tattoos, comes in and sits across from her. Without preamble he starts cursing at her in a language I can’t make out, gesturing wildly. The girl hangs her head and says nothing.

“Okay,” Rachel says. “What else?”

“Prepare.”

“Meaning?”

“If you have any affairs to get in order, do it now. Max out your ATM card every day. Same with your bank. Get out as much cash as you can, keeping it below ten grand a day so it doesn’t signal anything to the government. Start today. We need as much cash as possible, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“I find a way out of here.” I lean forward. I know that my eyes are bloodshot, and judging by the look on her face, I look…off. Scary even. “Look,” I whisper, “I know I should give you the big speech now—about how if I manage to escape—I know, I know, but just hear me out—if I manage to escape, you’ll be aiding and abetting a federal inmate, which is a felony. If I were a better man, I would hand you a line about how this is my fight, not yours, but the truth is, I can’t do that. I have zero chance without you.”

“He’s my nephew,” she replies, sitting up a little straighter.

He’s. She said “he’s.” Present tense. Not “he was.” She believes it. God help us both, we really believe that Matthew is still alive.

“So what else, David?”

I don’t reply. I’ve gone quiet. My eyes wander off, my thumb and forefinger plucking at my lower lip.

“David.”

“Matthew is out there,” I say. “He’s been out there all this time.”

My words linger in the still, stilted, prison air.

“The last five years have been hell for me, but I’m his father. I can take it.” My gaze locks on to her. “What have they been like for my son?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. “But we have to find him.”

***

Ted Weston liked using the nickname Curly at work.

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