*
Elizabeth spent another twenty minutes with Gideon, then drove home as the sun broke above the trees. She showered and dressed, thinking again of the desert. By nine o’clock she was deep into the historic district, twisting down shaded lanes until she reached the street where Channing lived in a centuries-old mansion that towered over gardens and hedgerows and wrought-iron fencing.
The girl’s father met Elizabeth at the door. “Detective Black. This is unexpected.” He was in his fifties and handsome, a fit man in jeans, a golf shirt, and loafers worn without socks. They’d met more than once, each encounter under difficult circumstances: the police station on the day Channing disappeared, the hospital after Elizabeth brought her out of the basement, the day state police opened an official investigation into the shooting of Brendon and Titus Monroe. A powerful man, he was unused to powerlessness and police and wounded daughters. Elizabeth understood that. It didn’t make him any easier to deal with.
“I’d like to speak with Channing.”
“I’m sorry, Detective. It’s early, still. She’s resting.”
“She asked me to call.”
“Yet, this appears to be a visit.”
Elizabeth peered past him. The house was full of dark rugs and heavy furniture. “She very much wanted to see me, Mr. Shore. I think it’s important we speak.”
“Look, Detective.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Let’s forget what’s in the news, okay. Let’s forget that you’re under investigation and that the state police are giving my lawyers hell trying to get to Channing, who for some reason doesn’t care to talk to them. Let’s put all that aside and cut to the chase. We appreciate what you did for our little girl, but your part in this is over. My daughter is safe at home. We’re taking care of her. Her mother and me. Her family. Surely, you understand that.”
“Of course. That’s beyond question.”
“She needs to forget the terrible things that happened. She can’t do that with you sitting next to her.”
“Forgetting is not the same as coping.”
“Listen.” For a moment, his face softened. “I’ve learned enough about you to know that you’re a fine person and a good cop. That comes from judges, other police officers, people who know your family. I don’t doubt your intentions, but there’s nothing good you can do for Channing.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
He retreated inside, but Elizabeth caught the door’s edge before it could close. “She needs more than strong walls, Mr. Shore. She needs people who understand. You’re six feet and change, a wealthy man with the world at his feet. Channing is none of those things. Do you have any idea what she’s feeling right now? Do you think you ever could?”
“No one knows Channing better than I.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Do you have children, Detective?” He towered above her, waiting.
“No. I don’t have children.”
“Let’s revisit this conversation when you do.”
He pushed the door shut and left Elizabeth on the wrong side of it. His feelings were understandable, but Channing needed a guide through the bitter landscape of after, and Elizabeth knew those trails better than most.
Looking up at high windows, she sighed deeply, then threaded between box bushes that rose like walls around her. The path twisted around giant oaks, and when it spit her out on the driveway, she found Channing seated on the hood of her car. Loose jeans and a sweatshirt swallowed the girl’s small body. A hood kept her eyes in shadow, but light touched the line of her jaw as she spoke. “I saw you pull up.”
“Channing, hi.” The girl slid off the car and pushed hands into her pockets. “How’d you get out of the house?”
“The window.” She shrugged. “I do it all the time.”
“Your parents…”
“My parents treat me like a child.”
“Sweetheart…”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“No,” Elizabeth said sadly. “No, you’re not.”
“They say everything’s okay, that I’m safe.” Channing clenched her jaw: ninety pounds of china. “I’m not okay.”
“You can be.”
“Are you okay?”
Channing let sunlight find her face, and Elizabeth saw bones that pressed too tightly against the skin, circles beneath the girl’s eyes that were as dark as her own. “No, sweetheart. I’m not. I barely sleep, and when I do, I have nightmares. I don’t eat or exercise or talk to people unless I need to. I’ve lost twelve pounds in under a week. It’s not fair, what happened in that house. I’m angry. I want to hurt people.”
Channing pulled her hands free from her pockets. “My father can barely look at me.”
“I doubt that.”
“He thinks I should have run faster, fought harder. He says I shouldn’t have been outside in the first place.”
“What does your mother say?”