I give in to that weakness for a few minutes and cry into his shoulder. He smooths my still-damp hair and whispers, “It’s okay . . . shh . . . it’s okay.”
When I pull myself together, I give him what I hope is a convincing smile. “I’m sorry for being difficult. I know you’re right—this isn’t something I should do alone.”
And he probably is right.
But I also know that as soon as I hear from Dacia or any of Cregg’s people, I’ll be walking out that door without hesitation. And if they say come alone, I’ll be coming alone. As long as they have Deo, they call the shots.
For the next six hours, I alternate between the living room and my room upstairs, peeking out the windows and nervously checking my phone. I called Kelsey again and brought her up to speed. The fact that I hadn’t told her about Deo last night made me feel bad, but I’m pretty sure she understood when I explained why.
I also called Joe. Told him I had to leave town. That family issues came up. He immediately asked if Deo was okay—I’ve worked there long enough for him to know Deo’s the only “family” I have. And then I lied to Joe, too. Said Deo was fine, that I was sorry for leaving him shorthanded, and hung up before I started bawling like a baby again.
Aaron apparently got zero sleep last night between camping out in front of Bartholomew House waiting for his spidey sense to go off, and then trying to find me. He’s crashed on the couch in the living room, his sock-clad feet hanging off the edge. I told him to take one of the rooms upstairs, but I think he’s worried that he’ll sleep too soundly. That I might grab my backpack and sneak out without him hearing if he lets himself get too comfortable.
Smart boy. I’ve considered it twice already, and talked myself out of it both times.
Sam called a little after nine a.m. and gave us more detail on the security footage from the gas station. Deo was walking back to the Volvo when a late-model BMW sedan, metallic blue or black, zipped in from Chesapeake Beach Road. It screeched to a halt directly in front of him. That’s when he dropped his drink. Given the glare from the lights overhead and the tint of the windows, neither of the cameras got a clear shot of the passengers or the tags. But a second after the car appeared, the back door swung open. Deo hesitated briefly, then got in, glancing over his shoulder toward the entrance.
The local police think the fact that Deo didn’t resist means that he was friends with someone in the car. But Sam said Deo looked frightened. He believes someone was pointing a gun at him. And he’s right. Otherwise, there’s no way in hell Deo would have gotten into that car.
They did discover that the car took a right at Old Solomons Island Road. So, aside from an approximate make and color on the car and which way they turned, the tape showed nothing I didn’t know already.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and go back up to my room. The air is wet and salty, and I pull my sweatshirt around my body to ward off the chill as I step onto the deck to get a better view of the street. Nothing suspicious looking. Aside from a few passing cars and delivery trucks, the street has been empty all morning. It’s a gray, rainy day, too late in the season for beachgoers. I doubt they’d be attracted to this particular shore anyway. There’s no sand, just waves lapping against black and gray rocks. A few blocks down, there’s a pier jutting out over the ocean. The handful of hardy souls who ventured onto the pier earlier this morning, dressed in rain ponchos and, in one case, holding an umbrella as he cast his line from the very end of the pier, have all given up now.
Right after her sister died, Kelsey mentioned how much Barbara had enjoyed fishing on that pier before she got sick, so I won’t be going out there. If Kelsey’s sister hasn’t moved on to wherever, that’s probably where she’s hanging out. And while I’d be happy to help her pass on a final message, or catch that final fish, I can’t take on any distractions until Deo is safe.
I’m about to go back inside when a car turns onto Atlantic Avenue. Not a blue or black BMW. Not a police cruiser. An unmistakable pale-purple Jeep.
The ghost of Emily MacAlister shudders at the string of words running through my head. What in God’s name is Taylor doing here?
She pulls in behind Aaron’s car, and a few moments later, the doorbell rings. Then the garage door goes up, and I watch through the blinds as they play musical parking spaces so that Taylor can get the Lavender Disaster into the garage next to Kelsey’s car.
I’m in no mood for Taylor’s angst. For the first couple of minutes, I stay in my room, but it’s clear that’s not going to work as soon as I hear them talking downstairs. I have to know what they’re saying, on the off chance that Sam told Taylor some bit of info rather than phoning us again.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Taylor is sitting on the couch next to Aaron. Two sketch pads are on the coffee table in front of her. Her right hand is rummaging around in the front zip pocket of Deo’s backpack.