“Of course.” The agent nodded, then looked up expectantly. “Mr. Willard, I’m dotting all my i’s here. That’s why I’m going to ask where you were last week on the night of October 30.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, as if coming from a distance. Then they hurtled closer to slam into him with the force of an oncoming locomotive. “Where was I? I can tell you where I wasn’t. I wasn’t in Saxon Falls. I wasn’t ripping another family’s daughter away from them. I wasn’t condemning the DeVrieses to the same hell my wife and I have been in for seven fucking years.” His voice cracked, and he stopped, aware that he’d been shouting. “God almighty, you people never let up.”
The agent was watching him with a calm, gray gaze that seemed to miss nothing. “I don’t blame you for your reaction, but I want you to think about something. If this girl’s disappearance is related to Kelsey’s, we’ve got fresh leads. New sets of eyes. Solving Whitney DeVries’s case might mean solving your daughter’s. We’ll be talking to every single person mentioned in Kelsey’s investigation, as well as in the new case.” He paused for a moment before going on. “And I’ll be putting that same question to dozens more before it’s over.”
David turned half-away, tried to bring himself under control. No doubt the agent considered his response damning, but good God, how much would ever be enough?
What do you mean you can’t recall what your last conversation with your daughter was about? Seems like at a time like this, Mr. Willard, a father would be playing those words over and over in his mind.
Forty minutes? You waited forty minutes after your wife called you to go look for your daughter? Pretty concerned, were you?
Funny, you say you drove around looking for Kelsey for hours, but no one recalls seeing your vehicle . . .
“I was in Columbus.” He forced the words out, aware the other man was staring at him. “I’m there for a long weekend every other week with either the CEO or accounts director, meeting with clients. Socializing. The firm uses the Fairview on North Sixteenth.” He strode to the file cabinet tucked next to his desk. Pulled open a drawer and rummaged through it, bringing out a folder. Flipping through the papers inside, he drew some out. Walked back to the agent and thrust them at him. “Here are copies of the receipts we turned in to accounting for the hotel and meals. We hosted six guests at Morton’s Steakhouse Saturday night. I can make duplicates if you need them.”
“No need.” The man closed his notebook and tucked it away, drawing his phone out of his pocket. He took the sheets and snapped pictures of each before peering more closely at the signature on the receipts. “Kurt Schriever. Is he the CEO or the accounts director?”
“Schriever owns the company,” David said shortly. “He’s the CEO.” He took the receipts that Mark handed back to him. Barely managed not to wad them into a tight ball and hurl them at the man.
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Willard. If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll send you the lists of acquaintances your family filled out so you can update them and e-mail them back.”
He turned and walked to his desk, setting the receipts on top of it, and grabbed a business card and pen. At the moment, he would have promised the man anything to get rid of him. He scrawled his home e-mail address on the card and went back to hand it to the agent.
“Thank you.” Mark slipped it into the pocket of his coat as he rose. “And I apologize for dredging up memories of your family’s tragedy.” He headed for the door. “I can show myself out.”
The company’s security protocol dictated that David should have seen him downstairs and out the rear entrance. But he was frozen in place, buried under an avalanche of the past. Mark was full of shit. Like he could summon memories that never really were gone to begin with, no matter how hard David tried to lock them away.
Finally able to move, he strode to the mini bar, poured three fingers of Scotch into one of the heavy, leaded glasses. The first scorch of liquor burned all the way down. He drained the glass, welcoming the hot pool it made in his stomach.
God, how he hated that this time Claire was actually right, or close to it. The cops were considering whether the two cases were related. And it would start over again, had started over again, and this time, it might completely consume them both.
He considered the empty glass in his hand. Claire. He couldn’t face her now, not after what just happened. He needed time to consider just how he was going to prepare her for the visit she would undoubtedly receive from Agent Foster. Despite the man’s attempts at sympathy, David knew there was no chance Mark wouldn’t follow up with her.
A familiar need was flooding through him, for escape, for distance. He needed time. Time to tuck the guilt away, to feel normal again. To distract himself from the stark and gray world that his life here had become. Claire inhabited that world every day. Sometimes David thought she didn’t want to leave it.
But he did. And he had.
As if propelled, he went to the closet and took out the bag of extra clothes he kept here. Slipping into his wool overcoat, he went back to his desk, picked up his cell, and shut off the lamps. He was dialing a familiar number as he walked out of his office, pausing to lock the door with his free hand.
“Yes, Claire. Something’s come up. No, it’s work.” He secured the door leading into the outer office and strode to the elevator. “A major wrinkle with one of the Columbus accounts. I’m on my way there now. Probably all weekend, I’m afraid. Yes. I know. Tell Janie I’ll call her later.”
The elevator pinged, and he walked into it as he slipped the cell into his pocket, relief filling him. Turning, he fixed his gaze on the panel, willing the lift to move faster.
And tried not to think about what a son of a bitch he was.
Special Agent Mark Foster
November 6
7:30 p.m.
At Mark’s entrance, Ben Craw looked up from the long table he’d had brought into his motel room and grunted. “I gave up on you hours ago and went out for a bite.”
Setting the pizza box down on the desk tucked in the corner of the room, Mark unzipped his coat and slipped out of it, hanging it on the back of the desk chair. “It took longer than I thought it would to get David Willard to make time for an interview today. But no worries. I’m hungry enough to eat the whole pie myself.” He flipped open the lid of the box and placed a wedge of pizza onto one of the paper plates the restaurant had included. Turning, he strolled back to the table, studying the papers strewn across it as he lifted the piece of pizza to his mouth and bit into it. “Oh, my God.” The explosion of taste had his eyes closing in ecstasy. He took another greedy bite. “This is amazing.”