Diana went home and showered. She brought a radio with her into the bathroom and turned the volume up high, hoping to catch any of the news about the disappearance. But there was nothing new to report. The newscaster repeated the same facts over and over again, little more than what she had heard from Jason upon awakening earlier that morning.
While she toweled off and pulled clean clothes out of her closet and drawers, she thought about calling Jason on his cell phone, even going so far as to take her own phone out and scroll down to his number. But she couldn't bring herself to press her thumb down and call. He was busy, completely wrapped up in searching the county for any sign of the Foley girl, and he didn't need an overly curious friend—and occasional one-night stand—calling him on the job.
Once she was dressed, Diana considered the long day stretching out before her. It might be hours before she heard from Jason, and it might be days—or even never—before there was any significant news about the Foley girl. She didn't want to sit around and wait. She had waited long enough.
She took out the phone book and looked up an address, then headed out to start her day.
*
John Bolton lived on Ohio Avenue in what had once been one of New Cambridge's most prominent neighborhoods. Back in the days of the town's founding, Ohio Avenue housed New Cambridge's wealthiest citizens, the mayors and the town councilmen, the business owners and bankers, the educators who put their mark on generations of young people. Some of the houses there retained their grandeur, including the Boltons', and Diana felt out of place parking in front of the three-story Victorian in her dinged-up Honda. But many of the other houses had lost their luster. Most had been purchased by real estate developers who then subdivided the homes into multiple apartments for the Fields' student population to rent. The house next door to the Boltons', another Victorian that clearly had once matched its neighbor in terms of stature and elegance, now had a tattered couch on the porch and beer bottles strewn across the uncut lawn. Diana had to admit she wouldn't have felt at home there either.
She climbed the steps to the front porch and rang the bell. She wasn't sure how this was going to go and wished she still had a police uniform to hide behind rather than the jeans and turtleneck she was wearing. She was trying to check her make-up in the door glass when it swung open, revealing a face not much younger than her own, the face of a female college student.
"Yes?" the woman said.
"I'm looking for Mr. John Bolton. Is he home?"
The woman paused, glanced toward the back into the house, then turned to Diana. "Um...who's asking?"
She had brown, shoulder-length hair, and while she waited for Diana to respond, she worked on a piece of gum that looked to be too big for her mouth. She wore sweat pants, a faded T-shirt and flip-flops, and since she was dwarfed by the impressive size of the house, Diana thought she looked even younger than she probably was.
"Are you Mr. Bolton's daughter?" Diana said.
"No, I work here." She popped the gum. "Who are you again?"
"My name's Diana Greene. I work for...I used to work for the police department, and I wanted to talk to Mr. Bolton about something. Is he in?"
The young woman again looked behind her before speaking to Diana. "He's in, but he's not doing well today."
"Is he sick?"
"No, he's upset. He gets this way sometimes. You should probably come back another day, when he's doing better."
Diana was about to leave when she heard a voice coming from behind the woman, a male voice, but she couldn't make out what it was saying.
"It's the police," the woman yelled back, and before Diana could correct her, she was stepping aside, swinging the door open for Diana and inviting her in. "Come on in," she said, shrugging. "He might be feeling a little better." Diana stepped into a high-ceilinged foyer and followed the woman down a long hallway toward the back of the house. "He's been listening to the news all morning," the woman said. "I think this kidnapping thing has him all freaked out."
They stopped walking. Diana could see a large, sunlit kitchen at the end of the hall.
"Why is he so bothered by it?"
The woman shrugged. "He likes helping Fields' students. He gives them jobs and things."
"Did he know the Foley girl?"
"I don't think so," she said.
"Do you know her?"
"I know of her," she said. "She's a freshman. I'm a sophomore. We traveled in different circles, I guess." She shrugged again. "What year are you?"
"Zero," Diana said.
The young woman nodded. "Cool." She went ahead of Diana into the kitchen. "John? This is...I'm sorry, what's your name again?"