Caroline understood that he was referring to the press conference, but she wasn’t sure what he meant by “getting ready.”
“Maybe brush your hair, put on a bit of makeup,” he explained, answering the question in her eyes.
Caroline ran a disinterested comb through her hair and applied a bit of waterproof mascara to her swollen eyes. She changed out of her shorts and oversized shirt into a modest beige sundress. Her skin was tanned, effectively hiding the blotches caused by days of constant crying, and she’d lost at least five pounds, unable to eat much or keep anything down. Still, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she was surprised to see a seemingly calm and controlled, albeit haunted-looking, woman staring back.
“Mommy!” Michelle shouted as the door to their suite opened. The child rushed into the room, throwing herself at her mother’s knees and almost knocking her down.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Caroline said, staring down at the deep purple fingerprints now spread across the bottom half of her dress.
“I had blueberry pie for dessert,” Michelle announced.
“You’d better change,” Hunter said.
Caroline returned to her bedroom and riffled through the closet. The beige sundress was pretty much the last clean article of clothing she had with her. The only other thing she could wear, besides shorts, bathing suits, or evening wear, was a blue-and-white-striped miniskirt and a sleeveless blue T-shirt.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” her mother asked when Caroline returned to the living room.
Caroline brushed aside her mother’s words with a wave of her hand. What possible difference did it make what she wore?
Hunter scooped Michelle into his arms. Caroline noticed the child’s hands had been washed clean. “Ready?” he asked, heading for the door.
As ready as I’ll ever be, Caroline thought.
—
She spent the next two days in bed, poring over the papers and watching the news on TV.
“Haven’t you had enough of that crap?” Hunter asked, throwing the last of his shirts into his suitcase and zipping it up, then depositing it by the bedroom door.
“Did you see this?” Caroline held out the latest edition of the Los Angeles Times, which her mother had brought back to the room earlier in the day. “We made the front page.”
“Ignore it.”
“Easy for you to say. You come off rather well, all things considered.”
“Sweetheart, please…”
“You’re the handsome man barely holding himself together,” she read. “You’re the one clinging tight to his daughter while I’m the one who’s aloof and standing ramrod straight.” She scoffed. “Who knew good posture was such a bad thing?”
“Don’t do this to yourself…”
“They even comment on the shine in my hair, as if she’d just come from the hairdresser,” Caroline read, almost choking on the words. “I haven’t washed my hair in a week, for God’s sake. The stupid reporter doesn’t know shine from grease.”
“You can’t let it get to you. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Oh, and of course, we were out cavorting with friends at a nearby restaurant when it happened. God forbid they leave that part out.” Or mention that it was at your insistence, she thought, her attention temporarily diverted by something on television. Their ill-fated press conference was once again being broadcast around the globe. “Oh, there I am again, still ramrod straight.” I do look aloof, she thought. My hair does look shiny. My skirt is very short, as another paper had pointed out the day before.
We’re asking for your help, Hunter said from the TV, his voice cracking.
If anybody out there knows anything, anything at all, Caroline continued, taking up the reins, her own voice surprisingly steady and clear, if you think you might have seen Samantha, or have any clues as to her whereabouts, please contact the police immediately.
We just want our daughter back, Hunter said, his obvious emotion in direct contrast to his wife’s eerily cool demeanor.
In fact, Caroline had been dangerously close to fainting. Her deliberately calm exterior masked an interior that was collapsing in on itself, like an imploding building. The steeliness of her voice had been the only thing keeping her upright.
Why did you leave your children alone? a reporter shouted out.
Is it true the police consider you a suspect?
Have you hired an attorney?
Is it true you’re planning to leave Mexico?
“So,” Caroline said, glancing at his suitcase, “you’re all packed?”
He nodded. “It’s not too late to change your mind and come with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”