The teams had come the moment they got the call. Foley’s apartment was found in Damariscotta, about ten miles from South Bristol. It had also been rented under the name Conroy. A forensic team was searching the place. So far, they’d found nothing of interest. No papers, no files. Richard Foley had stayed off the grid just like the Pratts, using a different name, paying cash for everything.
And in several hours of questioning Lisa Jennings, all they’d gotten were more shocking depictions of Jonathan Martin’s diminished morality, and his obsession with furthering the interests of his son. They had found no connection between either of them and the Pratts, no evidence suggesting they knew about Emma’s pregnancy and had tried to help her leave. Their affair, however inappropriate, seemed to have had nothing at all to do with the girls’ disappearance. But Abby already suspected this.
Lisa Jennings went back to work that morning. And Judy Martin had refused to be interviewed.
From the cutter, Abby could see the team descend on the shore and disperse into the wooded area that led up to the house. They were live on the coast guard feed and she could hear the reports as they cleared every structure. “The house—clear. The shed—clear. The greenhouse—clear.”
Two of the CIRG team stayed at the house with Leo. The others spread out deeper into the woods. And the coast guard was given the green light to dock and escort Abby and the others on shore.
Cass’s stories were playing out in Abby’s head as she approached the island. The house, perched on a hill and looking out at the open ocean. The wood dock, the stairs on one side and the place where Bill Pratt had nearly drowned the baby on the other side. As the cutter landed, Abby pictured them there, terrified as Bill kicked Emma’s hands off the side, making her fingers bleed while she shivered in the frigid water.
Abby disembarked with one of the coast guard. He walked her up the long path, through sparse woods, to the entrance of the house. Leo met her there.
“It’s real,” she said.
Leo nodded. “I know. Wait until you see inside.”
They walked through the front door, which opened into a small foyer. The stairs were directly across, and Abby could see the hallway above on the second floor. There was a large picture window at the top of the landing, the hallway then turning to the right or left. The windows were closed up tight, making the air stale. Flies buzzed against the glass panes, trying to escape.
The forensic team spread out, with two agents bounding up the stairs and the third already at work in the first-floor bedroom.
“Don’t touch anything,” they said to Abby, as if she didn’t already know. But it was her first time at a crime scene, or a potential crime scene. All her work with the Bureau until now had involved an analysis of people—their sanity, their emotions, their motivations. Now she was in a Tyvek suit, her shoes carefully covered, her hands double-gloved. She could not ignore the nervous energy surging through her.
Leo called out to them from the bottom of the stairs. “We need to know where the hell they’ve gone—anything, papers, documents, computers…”
“The rowboat,” Abby said, standing beside him. “It wasn’t at the dock.”
Leo nodded. “Yeah, I know. You think they could have rowed with four people? And then what—did they have a gun to Emma’s head? Once she got to the mainland, I don’t see how they keep her and a toddler against their will once they get off this island.”
“I don’t know. But I want to see every room of this house.”
They started downstairs, first in the living room with the ballet barre and the television. Then the dining room, with the long, rectangular table, eight chairs with red corduroy cushions tied to the seats. A painting of a farmhouse hung over a breakfront. Salt and pepper shakers sat on top of the breakfront, askew as if they had been placed there in haste after cleaning up from a meal. The kitchen, too, was exactly as Cass described. The gas stove. The white china with small blue flowers along the rim. Four of them were neatly stacked in a drying rack next to the sink, along with a frying pan, spatula, glasses. More flies buzzed around a small metal garbage can.
“Looks like they left in the morning,” Abby said. “They had dinner, washed the dishes, went to bed. They woke up to find Cass gone.”
They went next to the first-floor bedroom, which was off the kitchen. It was large but informal, and the placement of it in the house indicated it was originally intended for servants and not owners. Three single beds were lined in a row, sheets and blankets sprawled on top, unmade.
“Shit,” Leo said. He was looking at the bed closest to the far wall. It was stripped bare. “Why would they take the things from this bed and not the others?”
“Emma’s daughter. The third bed. Everything is like she said.”
They touched nothing and stepped aside as the forensic team did its work. Drawers were opened, revealing the clothing of a large man, a short but plump woman with a DD breast size. The clothes of a little girl were in the bottom drawer of a dresser—one pair of pink leggings, some flowered shirts and dresses. Several pairs of small white socks with ruffles. They were washed and neatly folded. Long gray hair came from a brush in the bathroom. Grecian Formula boxes were found there as well, below the sink in a small wooden cupboard. Baby shampoo was on the rim of the bathtub.
“I want to see their rooms upstairs,” Abby said.
To the right of the landing on the second floor were two small bedrooms and a bath. One of the bedrooms faced the front of the house, into the woods looking west. The second bedroom faced the courtyard, north. The bathroom looked out due east into the Atlantic.
The drawers in the bedrooms, and behind the mirror and under the sink—all of them were empty, some left open as if the rooms had been cleared in haste.
Thoughts rushed in as Abby walked through each space where Cass had lived for three years. This is where she watched the lobster boats.… This is where she lay in bed, aching to come home.… This is where she showered, washing the boatman, and her guilt and her pain from her skin.
From there, they crossed over to the two rooms on the other side of the courtyard, a large bedroom and adjoining bath. It was, or should have been, the master suite. Here, too, the drawers had all been emptied. Not even a bar of soap or a razor or a toothbrush.
Leo stood in the center, turning slowly in a circle. “Anything?” he asked one of the forensics.
The woman shook her head. “Not a lot of prints. They tried to wipe it clean. But we’ll find them. Just need to keep looking.”
Abby sighed, hands on hips, perplexed. “So, they wake up, find Cass gone. Can’t reach Richard Foley. They pack up all of the girls’ belongings, try to wipe down the entire house, then leave in the rowboat? Now we have four people and how many bags of things?”
“Dumped the bags in the ocean. Put rocks in the bags, sealed them up tight, let them sink,” Leo said.
Abby walked to the bedroom window and looked out at the ocean.
“Hey!” the forensic called out. She was kneeling beside the bed. “I found something. It was taped to the frame. Someone was trying to hide it.”