She looked toward the police chief, an imposing middle-aged man in full dress uniform. She watched him tap the microphone, then clear his throat as the assembled gathering fell silent. She wondered again where Michelle could be.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the police chief began, “it is my privilege to be here today delivering this extraordinary news. As you’re all aware, fifteen years ago a two-year-old girl named Samantha Shipley was stolen from her crib while the family was vacationing in Rosarito, Mexico.”
While her parents were downstairs, cavorting with friends, Caroline added silently, recalling past headlines and imagining fresh ones.
“It’s not every day such a case has the happy ending we’ve all been praying for, but today is one of those days. I’m thrilled to be able to report that Samantha Shipley has been found alive and well, and that she’s here with us today.”
A wave of excitement swept through the crowd. Cameras clicked wildly as reporters jumped to their feet, their eager voices rushing the stage, like teenagers at a rock concert.
The chief of police raised his hands, pleaded for cooperation. “If you’ll bear with me, please. Your questions will be answered shortly.” After a minute, a strained silence resumed. “DNA tests have confirmed that the young lady behind me is Samantha Shipley, the missing daughter of Caroline Shipley and Hunter Shipley.” He then introduced Greg Fisher, stiffly handsome in his navy blue suit and red-and-blue-striped tie, who supplied them with a quick overview of Samantha’s fifteen years as Lili Hollister. He relayed much of what Caroline had told him the day before, detailing Lili’s growing suspicions that she might, in fact, be Samantha Shipley, suspicions that brought her from Calgary, Alberta, to Southern California, culminating in her reunion with her birth parents. He admitted that the FBI knew very little at this time regarding the logistics of the kidnapping itself.
“Very little” being a euphemism for “nothing at all,” Caroline decided. Again she scanned the crowd for Michelle. Again she saw nothing but the rapt faces of strangers.
“Samantha and her parents, Caroline Shipley and Hunter Shipley,” Fisher continued, subtly acknowledging they were no longer part of the same unit even though they continued to share a last name, “have graciously agreed to come here today to answer your questions. I remind you that they are under no legal obligation to do so, and I would encourage you to be as polite and respectful in your questioning as possible.” He turned toward them. “Please,” he said, beckoning them forward.
Caroline, Hunter, and Samantha were greeted by thunderous applause as they rose from their seats and approached the microphone, tightly clutching one another’s hands.
“How does it feel to have your daughter back?” one reporter called out immediately.
“How does it feel to be home, Samantha?” another shouted at the same time.
The questions proceeded fast and furiously:
“When did you first become suspicious that you were Samantha?”
“How did you go about getting in touch with Caroline?”
“Caroline, what were your first thoughts when Samantha contacted you?”
“Was your reunion everything you hoped it would be?”
“Did you know instantly she was your daughter?”
“Do you prefer to be called Lili or Samantha?”
“What about your family back in Calgary?”
“Are you planning to stay in San Diego?”
“Caroline, have you spoken to Beth Hollister?”
“Do you have any plans to see her again?”
“What are your feelings toward her?”
“Would you like to see her go to jail?”
“Samantha, look this way.”
“Hunter, over here. Big smile.”
“Can we have a picture of the three of you embracing?”
“Samantha, do you remember anything about the night you were kidnapped?”
“Do you blame Caroline and Hunter for leaving you alone that night?”
“Do you think you’ll ever find out what happened?”
“Caroline, do you feel you’ve been treated unfairly by the press?”
“Samantha, can we have a picture of you kissing your mother?”
“How do you feel about your parents’ divorce?”
“Will you be living with your mother or your father?”
And then suddenly, a familiar baritone floating above the crowd. “I don’t see your other daughter anywhere. Is Michelle here?”
Caroline recognized the speaker immediately: Aidan Wainwright.
The word “bastard” was forming on her lips when Hunter squeezed her hand. “Michelle is a very private person,” Hunter answered calmly. “She chose not to be here.”
“Caroline, in the past you’ve described your older daughter as ‘difficult,’?” the reporter pressed. “Is she unhappy about her sister’s return? Is that why she isn’t here?”