A familiar feeling of helplessness swept over him, tinged with guilt. “No, of course not. God, how can you even ask me that? All I do is work and spend time with you guys. At least I did, before you hauled my son five hours away and refused to come home.”
“Nicky’s calling me. I have to go.” His cell screen went dark when she disconnected.
“Fuck,” he whispered viciously and whirled to kick at the bed. “God damn it.” Kelli’s accusation was a punch in the gut. But she was right about the distance between them. There’d been a time when they’d told each other everything, but somehow over the last year and a half, the words had dried up. There was a chasm between them, one he was helpless to breach. Every time he tried, he said the wrong thing, and the conversation ended before it really began. Their marriage was in trouble and had been for a while. The admission had his chest going tight. Maybe he’d handled it all wrong from the beginning. Hell, yes, he had. Things had gotten so uncomfortable that he’d delayed going home as soon as he could have some nights. They had to find a way to communicate, or Mark could predict exactly where his marriage was heading.
He stared at the phone clutched in his hand without really seeing it. Nothing brilliant occurred to him. Maybe when things wrapped up here, they should see a counselor. A professional might be able to steer them back to each other.
But first, there was a case awaiting him in the next room where he could make some forward progress. Slipping the phone into his trouser pocket, he turned on his heel, striding to the adjoining door, and reentered Craw’s room. “Sorry, that took—” He stopped short, eyes widening. “Was it something I said?” Craw was dumping the contents of the dresser drawers into a suitcase open on his bed.
“Just got a call from Special Agent in Charge Bennett. An interagency task force has been formed to investigate the deaths of those Cincinnati police officers killed last week. I’m being reassigned.”
“Now?” The gang-related shooting of three law-enforcement officers was big news in the state. Bigger, apparently than that of another missing girl.
Ben crossed to the closet and took out his shirts and suits. “Don’t worry, another agent will take my place here soon. Until then, you’ll have to juggle all the details yourself.” The man winked at him as he folded the garments into the bag. “Consider this a learning opportunity.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, as long as they get the new agent . . .” Comprehension dawned. “Aw, shit.” Mark jammed a hand through his hair. “This means I have to handle the press.” The older man’s laughter did nothing to dissipate Mark’s dismay.
“You’ve heard of the old public-speaking trick, haven’t you?” The older man’s tone was amused. “Just picture them all naked.”
Whitney DeVries
November 8
5:53 p.m.
The music was all that saved her. When Whitney followed the films, she didn’t have to think; didn’t have to feel. There was only muscle movement. And by putting every ounce of effort into the activity, maybe later tonight she’d be exhausted enough to sleep.
Hands graceful in the air, she completed the double en dehor pirouettes and added her own twist at the end with a double piqué turn and came to a stop, chest heaving.
“Very nicely done. But that last bit wasn’t part of the routine, was it?”
She barely started at the voice coming from the shadows. No longer wondered why she never heard him come in. A tiny frisson of fear started at her nape. She hadn’t followed the film exactly. Would he punish her for that?
It seemed selfish to worry about herself when her mom, dad, and Ryan might be . . . Don’t think about that. Don’t think don’t think don’t think!
“I’ve been practicing my double piqués.” It was a lie. The addition had been spontaneous, but talking was another form of distraction. “For some reason, they’ve always been harder for me than the en dedans or en dehors.” Some of the movements were particularly awkward with one of her wrists shackled to the barre. She had to move closer to it to effect enough slack in the chain to move more freely.
“Remember, the piqué is a turn, not a spin. And spot where you want to end. You must spot the front to finish en face.”
It could have been Tami Jae lecturing her. Whitney peered out into the shadows, but as usual, the glare from the projector and computer screen prevented her from seeing anything. For the first time, the curtain of fear and misery parted enough to allow a sliver of curiosity. “Did you dance?” There had been a couple of boys in her classes over the years. Dweebs, both of them. Tami had shown them articles of football players taking ballet to help with their footwork, but those were definitely not the type Whitney had ever noticed around the dance studio.
“My mother was a ballerina with the New York City Ballet. That’s her in the films. She was a rising star. When she had her family, she took up teaching.”
“Did she teach you?”
“No.” He sounded sort of mad now, and Whitney’s newfound curiosity shriveled. Her body was healing from the beating, but only on the outside. Inside, she found herself reacting to every inflection in that hated voice. “She did instruct my sister, though. She was a quick learner, like you. Perhaps you’ll end up being better than both of them.”
Who the fuck cares! The words were a mental scream, stifled inside her. While the dancing had served as diversion, now, standing motionless, the seething knot of emotions were tangling and tightening inside her again. Ever since he’d shown her those news stories, she’d been on an emotional roller coaster, whipping from the pit of despair to climb the peak of hope once more. The stories had looked so real . . . was it even possible to fake something like that? Logically, Whitney knew that if it were, the freak had every reason to do it. He’d want her to feel alone, wouldn’t he? She’d be easier to manipulate if she believed she had only him. That was why he made her call him Daddy. Out of some sick and twisted game he was playing where she was the pawn.
The thought had her fear solidifying into anger. She could beat him only if she stayed strong. Smart. If she kept him out of her head, where his words had taken up residence ever since he’d told her that her family was dead.
Her pulse jittered. He was lying about that. She had to believe that he was. Had to, or there would be no point in continuing to live.
“I’ve told you something personal.” His words jerked her attention back to him. “I want to know you better. Tell me something about yourself.”
Whitney stood paralyzed, her mind going blank for a moment.
“I . . . I broke my arm once. Fell off my bike.”
“A broken arm? How unfortunate. That’s a common childhood injury. I suffered one myself, although not from bike riding.”