David nosed his car out of the company parking lot, still riding a sense of euphoria. A coworker honked at him, and he lifted a hand in acknowledgment. A group of colleagues was heading to a nearby pub for celebratory drinks. They’d allowed him to beg off when he’d cited parent-teacher conferences that evening, only on the condition that he’d join them the following night. With the news they’d just gotten, David had no doubt that spirits would still be high the next day.
It was rare to leave one of Kurt’s meetings with a glow, but learning that David and his team were up for no fewer than three awards on two different ad campaigns was enough to send his spirits skyrocketing. And not just any awards—one was for an EIA, the first such nomination in the history of the company. The showing was unprecedented.
It was a career-making achievement for him as creative director for each of the ads.
He stopped at a light, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Even a very subdued Steve Grayson had congratulated him. The man knew as well as David did what the nominations would do for his clout with the agency and for his résumé. With Janie off to college next year, there was nothing stopping him from looking for a job with a bigger agency. Higher-profile clients. A more attractive salary package.
The light switched to green, and he pressed on the accelerator. A nomination wasn’t a win, but a man in his position could daydream, couldn’t he? He let himself do exactly that for the entire drive across town. Pulling into his drive, he parked in the garage and, grabbing his suitcase from the back seat, headed for the house, a spring in his step.
It was about damn time something in his life started going right.
“Claire.” He stopped dead in the doorway of their bedroom, his bag in hand. Irritation flickered. The room was dark. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, unnaturally still. “I thought you’d be ready. We have conferences tonight.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d spoken to Agent Foster.”
Foster. His stomach plummeted. Shit. “I’d planned to tonight. Why, did he call?”
“He was here. When Barbara and I returned from setting up for the church rummage sale.”
Son of a bitch. David strode to the bed, lifted the suitcase on it, and unzipped it. He’d told the man he hadn’t wanted him at the house, hadn’t he? Had informed him of Claire’s fragile state. Apparently, that hadn’t been direct enough. His earlier elation fading, he lifted two suits from the suitcase and carried them to the closet. “Did he ask about the church you used to go to in Saxon Falls?” When she didn’t answer, he turned toward her. “Claire?”
“He said he was looking for connections between the two cases. Kelsey’s and Whitney’s. I knew. I’ve always known. I told you that day in your office.”
She had. The same way she’d insisted that every news story in the nation about a missing teen was somehow linked to Kelsey. He supposed, given the law of averages, at some point she was bound to be right. “They might be,” he emphasized. “But at least they’ll be taking a look at Kelsey’s case again.” Although he couldn’t say he was any more impressed with Mark than he’d been with the cops and BCI agents seven years ago. “It doesn’t mean they’ll find anything new. Or that they’ll keep us abreast of developments as they arise.” That observation was tinged with bitterness, honed by experience.
“You think they’ll keep things from us.” Her voice sounded faraway, despite her proximity. “The way you and Barbara kept something from me.”
He paused in his task. “What are you talking about?” She sounded off. Looked . . . vacant, somehow. As if she were here but not. He walked over to peer at her more closely. Was she on something? For a while, she’d had an issue with sedatives and God knows what else the doctors had been giving her. But there had been no new prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet for years. David knew; he checked regularly.
“Barbara was the last one to report seeing Kelsey alive.” Her voice hitched once, then steadied. “She saw her on Baltimore on her bike. Looking anguished. She told you. Neither of you shared that with me.”
The accusation that sounded in her words was familiar. But she wasn’t teetering on her usual hysteria. At least, not yet. He dropped heavily down on the bed beside her. “Because it would upset you, and for what? It wasn’t news. It didn’t change anything.”
“I used to have this dream.” Her utter motionlessness was almost eerie. As if he were conversing with a statue. “Still do sometimes. It’s the day Kelsey disappeared. I know that somehow, although all I see is a huge, poster-size picture of her. And suddenly it rips down the middle. I run to it and try to patch it, but I can’t find any tape. And it tears again. Then again. Over and over until all that’s left are tiny little bits swirling around in a wind that’s come up. I chase the pieces, because I know if I can patch them all back together, Kelsey will be whole again. She’ll be back. And I do somehow. But even with the repair, there are pieces gone. They blew away and were lost. Now she’ll never return because some of the parts are missing forever.” For the first time, she looked at him. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” God help him, he did. “I think it’s the same way I felt when we thought the police were withholding details from us. Like if we had a complete picture of the case, we’d somehow see something they hadn’t. But it’s a feeling, Claire. It’s not true. Us knowing every fact wouldn’t change anything. Just like you having completed the image in your dream wouldn’t bring Kelsey back.” His excitement on the drive home had been replaced by melancholy. Conversations with his wife too often had that effect on him. “I couldn’t protect my daughter when she needed me the most. I couldn’t shield you from the hell we were plunged into. Janie started having more problems, and I couldn’t change that, either. But I could shelter you from some things that I knew only would hurt you. So yeah, I told Barbara to keep the information to herself.”
He braced himself for the outburst he was certain was coming. But she remained unnaturally still. “It does,” she whispered. “Hurt. Six miles she rode. She was last seen thirty minutes after she left the house. And she still appeared every bit as upset as she was when she’d slammed out. My last conversation with her was an argument. How do I forgive myself for that?”
The words were like a knife slipped cleanly between his ribs, then twisted. “We can’t change what happened,” he said bleakly. “We only can go on. I’m attending Janie’s conference. Why don’t you stay home and lie down for a while? I’ll fill you in when I get back.”
She didn’t answer. But after a moment, she rose and went to the adjoining bathroom. Closed the door. He shot from the bed as if launched. Strode out of the room. But try as he might, he couldn’t leave her words behind.