“I’ve never worked with a family mentor,” D.D. confessed.
“The program has the best of intentions: Let parents who’ve already been through the worst offer support to families who’ve just entered the crisis. I’m sure the volunteer mentors receive some training for the role, but at the end the day . . . they’re laypeople, not experts. They’ve had one experience. Whereas someone like me”—Pam’s gaze flickered to Keynes—“like us . . . there is no such thing as one response to crisis. Our job is to appraise the family and identify the approach that is right for this one particular situation. Whereas the volunteer mentors . . . inevitably, they are operating from a place of their own trauma. Whatever advice they offer, suggestions they have, has more to do with who they are and what they went through than the family they are supposedly aiding. To me, they’re more inclined to try and fix whatever they perceive as having gone wrong in their case than help the new family through their own experiences. Now Rosa, on the other hand . . .” Pam frowned. “She’s the rare mentor who seems to be able to distinguish between her daughter’s disappearance and what the Summerses are now going through.”
“How often does she meet with them?”
“In person? Not often. Rosa lives three, four hours north, and given in the first four weeks, the media circus camped out on the Summerses’ sidewalk . . .”
“She speaks to them by phone.”
“Mostly. How often is hard for me to say. The Summers phone rings a lot.”
“But you’ve seen her, obviously.”
“Twice. First time she spent the day with mostly Pauline, quietly holding her hand.” Pam paused, regarded D.D. intently for a second. “That’s rare, you know. Just being with someone. I’m the supposed expert, and I’m not even that good at it.”
“You have a job to do,” D.D. countered. “That’s different.”
The victim advocate shrugged. “Second visit was at the five-week mark. Pauline was coming out of the worst of her funk. Rosa had more of a strategy meeting with both Summerses. Questions they should ask, rights they have, resources that are available to them. In particular, Colin wanted to know media strategies, how to make a personal appeal for his daughter’s safe return, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve seen a couple of those on the news,” D.D. agreed.
“Rosa’s advice was solid enough. Most of it was things we’d already told them, but I can understand it sounding better coming from someone who’s been there, done that. The biggest thing she repeated—which I appreciated—is that this is a marathon, not a sprint. If they really want to be there for their daughter, they need to come up with a way to stop living from minute to minute waiting for the phone to ring and settle in for the long haul. Come up with a system for family and friends to visit where it’s helpful but not overwhelming. Return to work, the everyday patterns of life. Ignore the press, unless it’s on their terms.”
“And her advice on managing the case detectives?” D.D. asked, because there had to be advice on investigator relations. Any family had issues with investigator relations.
“The detectives are not their friends or allies. They work for the state. If the Summerses really want to know what’s going on, they should hire their own private detective.”
D.D.’s eyes widened. “Did they?”
“Colin talked about interviewing candidates.”
“Lovely. More cooks in the kitchen. Bet the case agent will love that.”
Pam merely shrugged. “Do I think a private eye is magically going to make a difference in finding Stacey? No. Do I think it helps Colin feel more in control of the situation, and therefore ease some of his stress in the short term? Sure. Problem is, Rosa Dane had it right: This is a marathon, not a sprint, meaning eventually a PI’s lack of progress will be just as hard to take.”
“So when did they meet with Flora?” D.D. gambled.
“Rosa’s daughter? They haven’t, to my knowledge.”
“Did Rosa discuss her daughter’s experience?”
“Yes.”
“So they’re familiar with her case. Makes sense they might want to personally meet her, don’t you think? The walking proof that a young girl can disappear from a bar and still one day be found safe?”
“Maybe. But I’ve never seen Flora at the house.”
D.D. frowned. “She was following the Summers case. Closely.” She shot Keynes a look. He didn’t deny it.
Again, Pam shrugged.
“Could she have talked to them by phone?” D.D. asked.
“Possible. They never mentioned it, but Colin, especially, isn’t one to share. Why are you so sure she had contact with them?”
“Colin, when he called this morning. He asked directly if Flora had been the one to kill Devon Goulding, which was a pretty big conversational leap. Furthermore, when I pressed him about Flora, he immediately became evasive. I would swear he must know her, if only from what he wasn’t willing to say.”
“I never saw her at the house,” Pam considered out loud. “And Pauline never mentioned anything to me, but it’s possible Flora met with Colin at his office.”
“Why meet with him and not Pauline? Talk to the father but not the mother?” D.D. asked.
“I might know the answer to that,” Keynes spoke up abruptly. He was relaxed back in his own chair, fingers now clasped on the table.
“By all means,” D.D. indicated.
He turned his gaze to his fellow victim advocate. “According to your assessment of the family dynamics, Pauline, the mother, functions as the heart of the family—the emotional epicenter.”
“True.”
“While the father, Colin, he’s the brains and the brawn. He’s focused on tactics, strategies, anything to ensure his daughter’s safe return.”
“Alpha male,” Pam agreed.
“Flora isn’t interested in emotions. She’s not comfortable with them. Tactics, on the other hand, getting things done . . .”
At that moment, D.D. got it, knew exactly where Keynes was leading.
“Colin Summers didn’t hire a private investigator to find his daughter,” she said.
Keynes shook his head. “No. Chances are, he hired Flora instead.”
Chapter 21
ARE YOU IN PAIN RIGHT NOW? Do your joints ache, your fingers burn? Does your skull throb? No? Then you’re fine.
Are you thirsty right now? Doubled over with hunger pangs, licking at your own skin just to have something to taste? No? Then you’re okay.
Are you freezing right now? Or maybe overheated, with sweat streaming down your face? Feeling either stifling hot or bone-cracking cold? Not yet? Then you’ve got nothing to complain about.
Are you lonely right now? Terrified or frightened or overwhelmed by the dark? Are you thinking that if he left right now, never came back, there would be nothing you could do? You would be stuck here. You would die here, all alone. And your mother would never know, never even get to bury your body. Just as he has threatened, promised, time and time again.
No?
Then you’re fine.
Listen to me. Believe me. Trust in me. I know what I’m talking about.
I’m comfortable. I’m not in pain or hungry or cold or hot or frightened. I need nothing. I want nothing.
I am fine.
Locked alone in the dark, I’m perfectly all right.
*
WHEN I WAKE UP AGAIN, I’m immediately aware of a change to the room. Food. The smell of roasted chicken wafts toward me through the dense black. And the scent of something hot and savory. Gravy, dressing, mashed potatoes? Maybe all three? My stomach growls immediately, and despite my best intentions, I start to salivate.
I still can’t see. I remain alone in a sea of night. Not even a sliver of light to illuminate the frame of a doorway. But the smell is strong and fresh. Definitely, there’s food somewhere in the room.