“What are you saying, Ryan? I’m not following you.”
“We don’t always know people the way we think we know them, do we? People change. Our lives change.”
“Therefore . . . ?”
“You believe this was your daughter who was seen in this club, right?”
“I do.”
He nodded. “Did the behavior described match what you think you know of Caitlin?”
“She was twelve when she disappeared. Twelve. And that man”—I tapped the paper—“this man has her. He has her against her will. Which is it, Ryan? Either you believe Tracy’s story and you think this is Caitlin, or you don’t. And if you don’t, why are we having this conversation?”
Ryan took a deep breath. “Four years have passed, Tom.”
“I know that.”
“Leaving aside the very remote chance that this is going to lead to anything positive—”
“Ryan—”
“Now, hold on,” he said. “Let’s play a little of the believing game here. Say this sketch does lead to something good. Let’s say this story is true and somehow, someway, we do find Caitlin and bring her home to you. Those four years, the time you lost with her—would you be prepared for what that would be like, Tom?”
“Will this be in the news tomorrow?” I asked, holding out the sketch.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
“Ryan, will this run tomorrow?”
He looked around at the boxes again. “Tom, have you and Abby been seeking counseling of some kind? Help? It’s none of my business, of course, but this sort of thing places an enormous strain on a marriage. And on an individual. If you wanted, I could refer you to some of the resources we have available through the department.”
“You offered me that four years ago,” I said. “And every year since. And I appreciate it greatly, but I’m not interested.”
“We have a program—it’s funded by the state—where volunteers, private citizens, meet with and assist families affected by tragedy. Did I mention this to you? It’s relatively new, and it’s called Volunteer Victim Services. These people are trained, of course, but some feel it’s less pressurized than conventional therapy. It’s not as structured and it’s even more comforting in a way. Professionals sometimes get constricted by their roles.”
“Ryan—”
“You could certainly choose to seek help through more conventional channels,” he said. “There are a number of good therapists and counselors in New Cambridge. Even at the university—”
“There’s only one thing I want and need. And you know what it is.” I held the paper out in front of me. “Will this be in the paper tomorrow?”
“It will,” he said. “We’ll go public with it tomorrow. I’ll call you and let you know the details.”
Chapter Eleven
Something woke me that night, thumping. I fell asleep in the guest room earlier than usual, after flipping on the porch light and making sure the house key still remained in its hiding spot. After hearing Tracy’s story and seeing the sketch, the ritual seemed more urgent, more essential.
But Abby’s words had struck a nerve: If Caitlin were living so close to us . . . ? I knew what she meant, what completed the thought: Why didn’t she just come home?
Abby was gone already, sleeping at the church. Whenever she came to the house to collect more belongings, we were cordially, distantly polite to each other, and I didn’t allow the sight of her to make me think she might have reconsidered her decision to leave.
I came awake disoriented. I checked the clock on the bedside table: 10:01. Not that late. My heart rate was up, my shirt a little damp. I’d been dreaming. Not a coherent narrative, but a series of disjointed and haunting images, a parade of all my fears. Caitlin calling my name in the park . . . The man from the sketch reaching for her, taking her away . . .
I heard the thumping again.
I lowered my feet to the cold floor. My mind started to catch up, shaking off the dream images and focusing on the real. Someone was in the house. Downstairs.
Caitlin?
I jumped up, started out of the room. I made no effort to soften my steps. Whoever—whatever—was downstairs would hear me coming and know I knew they were there. I didn’t care. I bounded down the stairs, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts. At the bottom I called out into the house:
“Caitlin? Is that you?”
Light came from both the kitchen and the living room. I turned left, toward the front of the house.
“Caitlin?”
I entered the room. Someone was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look up when I came in, but kept her eyes fixed on the paper in her hand.
Abby.
Some of the boxes were moved. More were packed.
And she held the sketch.