“You’ll be raking it in when those advertisers get a look at these shots. I’ve seen girls that resemble you in Teen Vogue. Not as good-looking, even.” Who would have guessed that Herb Newman, with the smelly food-catcher beard, was capable of such lines? He and Alyvia continued to chat as he took several more shot sequences.
“How ’bout you, sweetheart?” It took a moment for Janie to realize he was directing the words at her. “You interested in pictures, too?”
“She probably will be when she sees mine.” Alyvia bent forward at the waist, her low-cut shirt showing off her cleavage. Blew him a kiss. He captured the shot. “You took pictures of her sister a long time ago. That’s how we knew about you.”
“Oh, yeah?” He threw an appraising look at Janie. “Who’s your sister?”
“Kelsey Willard.”
Alyvia glanced at her, clearly surprised that she hadn’t had to speak for Janie. But the words had burst from her throat as if propelled. Kelsey. The reason they were here. The reason Janie needed answers from this man.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember.” He studied her closely. “You don’t look much like her.”
“No.”
“But you got your own look, right? And for seventy-five bucks, the price I quoted to your friend here, you can get shots done, too. I’ll make you look real good.”
He turned his attention back to Alyvia, and they proceeded to take full-body shots. Her friend seemed comfortable in her role. She’d had to pretend to be someone else most of her life, just to adapt to all the crappy situations she found herself in because of her deadbeat mother. Janie actually thought she was enjoying this a little bit.
But Janie wasn’t. Especially since the man had admitted that he’d taken the pictures Kelsey had hidden in Janie’s room shortly before she disappeared. Now that she’d gotten what she came for, she still had to figure out a way to get the information to the cops. Pulling out her cell, she checked the time and saw they’d been there forty minutes already. She had to get Alyvia home soon.
“Okay.” Newman lowered his camera. “But you mentioned a tattoo. And if we’re going for the punk look, we need some shots of it. They’ll be tasteful,” he added. Janie’s brows rose. This from a man whose sweatshirt didn’t quite manage to cover his ample belly. Every time he brought up the camera, a ribbon of doughy flesh was revealed.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Alyvia played coy. “One’s on my shoulder, but the other is on my butt.”
“That’s fine. That’s perfect. Remember what I said about eye-catching pictures? I’ll turn around while you take your clothes off, and you can reveal as much as you’re comfortable with.” His smile revealed stained teeth. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I’ve seen it all. And I’m a master at making you look like a million bucks.”
The phone in her pocket vibrated. It took a moment for Janie to remember what that meant. When she did, a streak of urgency zipped up her spine. “We have to go.”
Alyvia was quicker on the uptake than Janie had been. She was already grabbing her coat.
“What? Hang on, I really need those pictures if you want to make it on the punk-modeling scene. I gotta have more than the hair and piercings to sell you to the agency I was telling you about. C’mon, I can give you something to loosen up. Then you can shed the clothes and let me get the shots.”
“I have to be home for dinner.” Swiftly, Alyvia grabbed her purse, took out the envelope of money Janie had given her yesterday, and thrust it at the man. “Maybe we can finish up next week. There’d be no extra charge, right?”
“Another trip out here, another setup.” Newman was clearly disgruntled. “I can’t do that for free.”
The girls headed through the doorway. Without the flashlight Newman had given her, Janie couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. “Should we look for a back door?” she whispered to her friend.
Her cell was vibrating again. Two calls? What did that mean? Two different police cars? She ran into Alyvia as the girl turned toward her.
“I think we should just hide until they leave,” Alyvia began.
But just as the words left her mouth, the front door swung open. A flashlight caught them in its beam. “Allama County sheriff. Don’t move,” a voice commanded.
Claire Willard
November 13
7:22 p.m.
Your daughter’s been arrested.
The words echoed in Claire’s head, but she couldn’t put aside her sense of disbelief. The phone call had been a mistake. The deputy had someone else confused with Janie.
Claire backed the car partway out of the garage before slamming on the brake. Janie’s medication. Surely she was going to need it. She’d be swamped with anxiety in a situation like this. Did the girl have meds with her? She knew her daughter hadn’t been taking them regularly. Claire had discussed the issue more than once with Dr. Drake. Mind racing, she recalled seeing a prescription bottle in the bottom of Janie’s purse a few weeks ago when Claire had been looking for her daughter’s car keys. But did she have her purse with her?
Driving back into the attached garage, she got out and unlocked the door to the house, racing upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom. Flipping on the light, she took a quick look around. Didn’t see a purse. But as long as she was there, she continued into the attached bath and opened the medicine cabinet. Maybe the deputy had taken Janie’s personal effects. That’s what happened when a person was in custody, wasn’t it? As long as Claire was here, she’d look for some unused . . .
The thought fragmented as she stared, shocked. Every month Claire dutifully refilled Janie’s prescription and set it on her daughter’s desk. And here most of them were, neatly lined up in a row. Still full, or nearly so. Six months’ worth. Her hand rose of its own volition to turn each bottle so she could read the dates on them. June’s was half-full. The October bottle looked to be missing only a few pills. The one she’d just refilled for November was missing.
Dazed, she reached for one of the bottles and hurried back to the garage. Her daughter’s therapist liked to say that taking meds was Janie’s choice. But how could the girl be expected to go to a strange town next year and acclimate to college life if she was refusing the most effective coping tool at her disposal?
Worry about Janie consumed her as she drove to the courthouse, where the sheriff’s office was housed. Throwing the car into park, she fumbled to turn it off and almost ran to the back entrance she’d been directed to by the deputy who’d called.
“I’m Claire Willard, Janie Willard’s mother.” Claire spoke into the intercom outside the doors of the Allama County courthouse. The thought of her daughter . . . her baby being inside these locked doors had the fear and confusion winding more tightly inside her. “I received a phone call . . . my daughter was brought here.”
“Just a moment.”
But it was long minutes before someone came to the door. Minutes in which she was very much aware that she was alone on a task that should have required the presence of both parents. Memory of the conversation she’d had with her husband immediately following the phone call still elicited anger.