And not for the first time, she wondered what she would do if something ever happened to her son. Twelve years from now, a phone ringing in the middle of the night, announcing her teenage son had disappeared. D.D. honestly didn’t know where mothers like Rosa Dane, fathers like Colin Summers, found the strength to carry on.
Of course, family life wasn’t all fairy tales. D.D.’s job was demanding, and Jack had officially reached the age where he had his opinions on the subject. She’d been gone most of the weekend. Home just in time for a story.
So of course, the moment she closed the book, climbed—cumbersomely—off the low-slung toddler bed, the theatrics began.
Sticking out his bottom lip. Staring at her with liquid-blue eyes so much like her own. Alex had given him a bath before bedtime, and now Jack’s light brown hair stood up on the top of his head, world’s cutest mohawk.
“Good night,” D.D. repeated firmly.
Quivering. The bottom lip. The whole chin. And then . . .
Full-frontal assault. Launching his little body across the toddler bed and slapping arms and legs around D.D.’s body. She staggered back, hands dropping down belatedly to strong little arms that had already attached themselves with the strength of octopus tentacles. Serial killers she could handle. But God save her from the strength of a little boy who didn’t want to go to bed.
She could hear laughter behind her. Alex, enjoying the show. And, of course, making no moves to intervene. He’d already spent the weekend battling the kid. This was all on her.
Toddlers, D.D. had learned, were a lot like criminals. You basically had two options for management: promise a reward or threaten with punishment.
She couldn’t punish her son for missing her as much as she missed him, so she went with the promise of a second story if he’d get back into bed. Which led to a third, then a fourth, before his heavy-lidded eyes finally sagged closed, and she staggered out of the race car bed, feeling Jack had probably won that war but officially too tired to care.
Alex was waiting for her in the family room. He had poured two glasses of red wine, and had an ice pack at the ready.
“I’m not sure which of these I’m looking forward to more,” she said, gaze bouncing between the wine, the ice, the wine again. “How sad is that?”
He smiled, helped her shrug out of her leather jacket. Ice pack on the shoulder, wineglass in hand, life was good again. She sat back on the sofa, put her feet up on the coffee table, and sighed.
“How is your vigilante?” he asked.
“Missing.”
“Fled from the new sheriff in town?”
“No.” She turned her head against the sofa cushion to regard him seriously. “We think she might’ve been kidnapped. Maybe even by the same person who abducted Stacey Summers.”
He made her start at the beginning. Which, given how many hours she’d logged in the past forty-eight, should’ve been draining. But the crazy part of marriage, D.D. had discovered, was that no matter what her day had been like, it didn’t feel completely true or real or meaningful until she’d come home and shared it with Alex. Of course, him being a crime scene specialist—blood spatter, more specifically—didn’t hurt. He often saw or thought of things she’d overlooked.
“Any video?” he asked now, referring to footage collected from local security and traffic cams.
“When I left, the first batch of videos was just arriving. The new detective, Carol, promised to stay to sort through them.”
“Just the way you say her name makes it sound like you’re biting into a pickle.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
She glared at him. “In the morning, we’ll see how she did.”
“But you’re not releasing anything to the press?”
She sighed, took a sip of wine. “Tougher call. It’s going to be a media sensation, no doubt about it. Semifamous former kidnapping victim abducted again? We want to get our ducks in a row. Confirm she absolutely, positively has been abducted before we lead with a story that’s going to bring all the crazies out of the woodwork.”
“What kind of confirmation?”
“A clip from the video feeds? Say, an actual shot of Flora being dragged from her apartment? Or, now that we have the pass code to her phone, maybe some kind of proof she was definitely investigating Stacey’s disappearance or, even better, had a solid lead that may have gotten her in trouble? Let’s face it, second we announce this kind of news it’s going to be a media circus. Which, unfortunately, will take time, energy, and manpower away from the actual search for Flora and Stacey. The mom doesn’t mind keeping quiet for now. My impression is that she has no love for the press.”
“But if Flora really is missing . . . ,” Alex countered.
“Then we need to find more witnesses and engage the public in the hunt, which calls for a press conference.”
“Gotta love the job,” Alex said.
She made a face at him.
“Anything found at the apartment?” he asked.
“No. Except for her unmade bed, it’s pristine. Mom apparently is a neat freak, and had tidied up hours before. Given Flora’s training, we suspect it had to be an ambush. Maybe he even drugged her. Otherwise there should be signs of a struggle.”
“I could take a look at it,” Alex offered. “I have some time before I have to head to the academy tomorrow, if you want a second set of eyes.”
“Given how much we don’t know at this time, I’d welcome a second set of eyes, or a third, or a fourth.” She shifted restlessly, adjusting the ice on her shoulder. “Strangest aspect of the scene: The front door as well as all the windows were unlocked. I mean, I get the front door. Guy thoughtfully prepared himself a master key ahead of time, then used it to access Flora’s apartment. But why unlock all the windows? Why even take the time for such a subtle piece of theatrics?”
“To prove he could? To emphasize no one is safe?”
“Arrogant,” D.D. muttered.
Alex shrugged, topped off his wine. “Not the first time. But sounds like your missing girl, Flora, has some skills as well. She might have been abducted, but she’s hardly a helpless victim.”
“True. I think I’m gonna make a call in the morning. Talk to an FBI agent out of Atlanta, Kimberly Quincy.”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“I spoke with her once before, couple of years ago for the Charlene Grant case. Quincy was apparently the agent who finally located Jacob Ness. She led the raid to rescue Flora.”
Alex gave her a look. “And you want to talk to Quincy why?”
“I don’t know,” D.D. said honestly. “But somehow . . . Whatever happened five years ago, Flora’s never gotten over it.”
“How could she?”
“Sure. But most victims of these long-term kidnappings, they retreat. They work on their recovery, focus on appreciating everyday life, write a book, sell movie rights, whatever. According to Flora’s mother, however, Flora never talks about her time with Jacob Ness. And yet . . . the self-defense classes. The bedroom wall lined with missing persons cases. Her obsession with Stacey Summers. Flora’s absolutely, positively still driven by what happened to her. My guess: If I’m going to anticipate what she did leading up to Saturday afternoon and what she’s capable of doing next, I need to learn about her own experience. She survived the unthinkable once before. So what compels her back to that same set of circumstances? Is there some wound she’s trying to heal? Or a lesson she still hasn’t learned?”
“Survivor’s guilt.”
“Maybe.” D.D. adjusted the ice pack on her shoulder. “I’ll tell you what she should feel guilty about, though. Her mom. Her poor mother. Having to go through this all over again.”
*
D.D. DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. Not unusual when working a major case. Her mind swirled with investigative details, leading to dreams of faceless girls running down endless black corridors. Then D.D. was racing breathlessly through a shadowed house . . . basement . . . house again . . . heart thundering against her chest.
She rounded a corner and there she was: Flora Dane. Or Stacey Summers? No, definitely Flora Dane, holding a gun leveled at D.D.’s head.
“Bang,” dream Flora said. “You’re dead.”
D.D. woke up. D.D. got out of bed.
She crept into her son’s room. Soothed herself with the sight of him sleeping peacefully. Then, she headed to the kitchen and got serious about her day.