Chapter 5: The Mistress

Thursday, July 24 — 4:08 PM

County Line Police Station, New York

“Are you sure?”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, listening to him work through the report on the other end—papers shifting, a pause here and there like he was double-checking something he didn’t quite believe himself.

“June?” I repeated. Then I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“And you’re certain they’re from the prison?”

Another pause—longer this time. Long enough to make my grip the steering wheel tightly with one hand.

“Only the stop? No arrest?”

I closed my eyes for a second. Just too much going on.

“ ... Right,” I said, not sure exactly what he said.

I sighed as I glanced up through the windshield at the squat brick police station across the lot. One of the overhead lights flickered, buzzing faintly even though it was a sunny day.

“Okay. I can do that.”

The word came out quieter than I meant it to.

“Text me the address. Send me the screengrab from the video.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of the girl.”

I pulled the phone away before he could add anything else and ended the call.

For a moment, I just sat there, the engine idling low beneath me. Then I turned the key, shifted into reverse, and eased out of the parking lot—eyes still fixed on the station in the rearview mirror, like it might follow me.

Thursday, July 24 — 4:40 PM

The Wiesner Residence, New York

Twenty minutes later, the GPS guided me off the main road and into a quiet, tree-lined street.

I didn’t need it anymore. I knew where I was.

The houses, evenly spaced. Deep lawns. Old grown trees casting long shadows across the pavement. I passed the Prescott place, slowed, and parked a few houses down—close enough to walk, far enough not to announce myself.

I checked the address Cross had texted me again.

Then killed the engine and stepped out.

A woman was coming down the front steps as I approached the walkway. She glanced at me, offered a polite, practiced smile—neighborly, but distant—then crossed the street and slipped into the house directly opposite.

I watched her go for a second before turning back toward the porch.

As I stepped up, something shifted in my peripheral.

Across the street—the same house. A curtain moved. Just slightly. Not enough to draw attention unless you were already looking.

I slowed.

The fabric pulled back a fraction more.

Someone watching.

Her, most likely.

I held there a moment, then turned away like I hadn’t noticed and continued to the door.

I watched her go for a second, then turned back and cut across the porch.

I rang the bell.

A pause. Then I heard movement inside.

Clunky.

Metal. Loose. Not a single piece—several. The uneven drag of it, maybe, followed by a short, careful step. Then another. Not walking—managing.

It got louder. Right behind the door.

I could see the silhouette of a person through the covered glass. Faint. Distorted. The outline didn’t move cleanly—there was a hitch to it, a lag between upper and lower body, like something was restricting the motion.

But no answer.

I rang the doorbell again.

Again, the sound of metal came through—but quieter this time. Or at least it sounded like metal. But controlled. As if whoever was inside was trying to still it.

Then there was a shift in the shadow. Female, I think. Hands not at her sides—held forward it seemed. Close together. The shape broken by something between them.

It was difficult to make out.

“Jennifer Wiesner?” I said loudly. “It’s important I speak to you. My name is Special Agent Myers. I’m with the FBI.”

I paused a moment.

“It’s important I speak to you.”

The door opened, but only a few inches—just enough to reveal her face.

“Jennifer Wiesner?” I asked.

She nodded once. “Yes.”

Something about the angle felt off. The way she held herself—too still, shoulders tight, like she was bracing against something out of sight.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Special Agent Myers,” I repeated, slower this time. I held up my badge, though my attention wasn’t on whether she read it.

Because this time, I’d really heard it—the jingle of metal.

There was no confusion.

A faint glint caught the edge of the door, low and out of place.

I looked back up. She hadn’t moved, but her grip on the door seemed to have tightened.

She angled her body slightly, like she knew exactly what I might see if given another inch.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

My gaze flicked down again. A length of chain swung out briefly before disappearing back behind the door.

“Mrs. Wiesner,” I said, keeping my voice even, like I hadn’t noticed anything at all, “I’m here about your daughter.”

Her expression didn’t change—but something underneath it did.

It tightened.

The chain shifted again. There—I saw it clearly this time.

She didn’t open the door any wider.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are you?” she asked once more.

I held up my badge again. “Special Agent Meyers. Federal Bureau of Investigation.” I said calmly. Slowly.

She looked at it—briefly, but long enough. When she looked back up, something had shifted. Not surprise. Not fear.

Annoyance.

“Look,” she said, already shaking her head, “I have nothing to say to you people.”

She shuffled forward, and her hands moved to close the door.

“Mrs. Wiesner,” I said, steady, “I’m here about your daughter.”

That slowed her—just enough. Maybe this time she finally heard me.

I flipped open my notebook, scanning my own messy handwriting.

“Trinity.”

Again,” she said, sharper now, “my family has nothing to say.”

Her voice was tight, controlled—like she was holding back something bigger.

“And if you continue to come here—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening. Recalibrating. “I’ll be speaking with our attorney about this visit.”

“You’re not supposed to be contacting us about the ongoing investigation,” she added, eyes hardening.

I blinked. “Ongoing investigation?”

She said nothing, just stared—cold, unreadable.

“Mrs. Wiesner,” I said, straightening slightly, “what investigation are you referring to?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

The door began to close.

I stepped forward—not aggressive, just enough to hold the line.

“Ma’am. I’m here regarding a traffic stop last month. Your daughter was found in prison-issued restraints.”

That stopped the door, and it opened wider.

“She was in a vehicle with another student—and that student’s sister. Owner of a bar. Prior conviction.”

I held her eyes.

“Armed robbery.”

She shook her head immediately. “No. That’s not—no.”

“There were no arrests,” I continued, steady. “No citation. But the stop was recorded. Dashcam.”

I continued to hear the sound of metal behind the door—chains, maybe as she moved.

“Your daughter is clearly visible. Wearing the restraints.”

Silence stretched between us as I realized I’d left my tablet in the rental.

I also realized she could hear the metal too, as we both heard what sounded like a chain scraping against the back of the door.

She immediately reached down, as if she were trying to grab something, but it was awkward—like she was struggling to do it.

“I’m working a case involving a homicide and an attempted homicide,” I said, continuing. “The restraints your daughter was in are the same kind used in that case.”

I let that sit.

“I’m not here to accuse your daughter of anything,” I added. “I just need to know where she got them. Those restraints can’t be purchased, and they can’t be acquired legally from the prison system. I just need to know who she got them from.”

Her expression shifted again—but not the way I expected. Not fear.

Frustration.

“My daughter doesn’t own anything like that,” she said flatly. “Obviously they belong to the other girl.”

“My partner is currently reaching out to her and her—”

“You should be talking to her roommate,” she cut in, not letting me finish. “Or her sister, since you seem so interested in her past.”

She pushed the door closed a few more inches.

As she did, she stepped forward slightly, her foot slipping into view. She wore a heel. I could only see the front, but it was enough—the bare curve of her ankle, circled in metal. A shackle.

I pulled out my notebook, scribbled quickly, and held it up to her.

Are you okay?

Are you in trouble?

Nod if you are.

She stared at it, startled.

I pointed downward. She followed the gesture, realizing her foot was visible behind the door, and quickly pulled it back. The sharp jingle of metal filled the space.

I looked at her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Are you ... are you in restraints?” I asked plainly. “Is someone holding you against your will?”

I stepped forward and gently nudged the door, but she tried to close it.

“Mrs. Wiesner, I understand if you want me to leave. But be aware that I will call the local authorities to ensure you’re okay.”

“This isn’t what you think it is,” she said with a sigh, opening the door just enough for me to see her. She still sounded upset from before—but now there was something else, too. Embarrassment, maybe.

She was in a full restraint kit—waist chain, leg irons, cuffs. All of it.

“Mrs. Wiesner,” I said again, keeping my voice calm, “why are you in those?”

“I’m fine. That’s all you need to know,” she replied.

“So, you’re not in any kind of danger?”

“No,” she replied immediately. “Am I breaking any laws right now?”

I sighed. “No, Mrs. Wiesner. You’re not.”

“Then I need you to leave.”

I nodded and stepped back.

“Thank you for your—”

The door shut before I could finish.

“Time,” I muttered.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the wood grain like it might offer something back.

“Okay,” I said under my breath.

I turned, walked down the steps, and headed back to the car.

Something wasn’t lining up. Not even close. A daughter picked up in restraints last month—restraints tied to a prison—and now the mother was wearing a full set herself.

But then again, the Prescotts were just a few houses down.

“When in Rome,” I said.

I sat behind the wheel, hands resting there, unmoving.

Thinking.

“She was talking about something else,” I murmured. “Not my case. Some other case, maybe.”

I exhaled, long and slow.

“I’ll loop Cross in later,” I said starting the car. “Not dealing with this right now. Maybe he’ll have already spoken to the college roommate by then.”

I pulled out my phone, sent a quick text, and dropped it onto the passenger seat.

Gravel crunched softly under the tires as I made a U-turn and eased back onto the road and out of the neighborhood.

That’s when I saw that woman. The one earlier. She was running back across the street. Back to the Wiesner house.

As I watched her, my phone buzzed.

I glanced at the screen.

Tomorrow.

“Great,” I muttered. “Guess I’m staying.”

I let the phone fall back onto the seat and kept driving.

Thursday, July 24 — 6:24 PM

The Cedarview House and Convention Center, New York

The hotel wasn’t far. It rarely filled unless something was happening in town—and nothing ever seemed to be. At least, not the few times I’d had to come here.

I grabbed takeout on the way. Cheap. Easy. The kind of place that kept things simple.

A bottle of wine, too, from the liquor store right across. Not something I usually went for, but tonight felt like an exception. Tomorrow was likely going to take something from of me—I could feel it already.

Back in the room, I picked at the food, barely tasting it. Just going through the motions, I guess. My mind was still at the house, replaying the door, the metal, the look on her face.

I let the tub fill until steam curled up into the stale air, then sank into the water. The heat settled into my muscles, but not much else. The bottle and plastic cup rested on the edge within reach.

And I lay there until the bottle was half gone. Then went to bed.

Friday, July 25 — 10:31 AM

Murrie’s, New York

I sat in the diner and took a sip of coffee. My head throbbed—the wine. I knew better than to touch that stuff. Too easy to overdo it.

I took another sip and glanced at the TV in the corner.

” ... a fire broke out downtown last night, displacing one of our historic businesses. Officials say the cause remains under—”

“Nobody wants to eat while staring at smoke and flames,” the waitress called from behind the counter. She pointed the remote and clicked it over. “There. Bingo night at the community center. Now that’s something I can serve with pancakes.”

I gave her a small smile and looked back down at my cup.

“Hello, Erin.”

I froze for half a second.

“Hi, Maggie,” I said, looking up.

I stood. We hugged—brief, light, more obligation than anything—and sat back down.

“Do you want some coffee?” I asked. “I hear they serve pancakes here.”

“How’ve you been?” she asked, watching me closely.

“Good,” I said, exhaling. “I’ve been good.”

She smiled, small and controlled.

“You can call me Mom, you know.”

I nodded once. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying me like I’d said something abstract instead of obvious.

“How’d you know I was here?” she asked, leaning forward. “All that CIA spy stuff?”

“I work for the FBI,” I said evenly. “And I saw your name on a banner outside the museum yesterday. I was in the area.”

“Oh.” She sat back. “Yes. That would explain it.”

“Yeah.” I took another sip.

“Nice to see you’re still working,” I added. “Still ... showing.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t plan it. An old friend called. Veronica. Remember her?”

“No,” she said immediately not letting me reply. “You were too young.”

“I remember Veronica,” I said sighing. “She used to sneak up on me all the time—scared the shit out of me.”