A tap comes over my shoulder and I quickly bury my phone in my pocket before spinning around. McCafferty stands there with her lips pulled tight, her hands behind her back as she rocks on her heels. “What is that you’re hiding from the world, Mr. Price? And who was that gorgeous woman who offered such a generous embrace?”
A dull smile comes and goes on my lips. There are some things McCafferty doesn’t need to know.
Allison is welcome to keep secrets from her.
And so am I.
3
Allison
Rich Olsen helped conduct what he called a thorough sweep of all Concordia County. Mothers and fathers, electricians, plumbers, teachers, jacks-of-all-trades came out in full force to look for Reagan and Ota in the woods, in the nooks and crannies between houses, in the ass cracks of life where you would never want your child to be in the first place. The lake shed its black smile as if mocking us. The evergreens glowered at us, their branches spread like dark wings.
“I call bullshit,” I say, trying to hold back my rage as Rich stands in our living room three days later delivering the sorry news that there was not much more they could do.
His eyes drag down like perfect ovals. “Allison, if those girls were out there, we would have found them.”
“What?” The word jackknifes up my throat like a razored claw and I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I proceed to pound the shit out of his chest.
“Easy! Easy!” Charles plucks me off and I take the opportunity to backhand him while making it look like an accident. Damn asshole. Walking around my house whistling some hippy-dippy tune while my kid is out there with who knows who, having who knows what done to her!
“Come here.” James pulls me in, his eyes just as rage filled as mine, glaring from his father to Rich. “I’m about to go wild myself. Don’t ever say those words again. She is out there, and we are not doing enough.”
Marilyn McCafferty, a short brunette with a severe bun, eyes that say I’m watching you, I don’t believe you, I’m out to get you, readjusts her notepad. Of all the bullshit I’ve seen during this investigation, she and her prehistoric note taking methods top the list. She claims to have notified the entire state school system and yet has come up empty. Really? I’d like to know how the hell she notified them. Smoke signals? Sanskrit?
“I’ve set up a press conference for tomorrow afternoon.” Her thin-lipped smile expands and retracts like a rubber band. “The national media will be present and accounted for. You’ll both dress the part of responsible parents.” She dips her chin as if admonishing us. Something in the pit of my stomach pinched when she said it. “You’ll look your best. The media, though helpful at times—well, it could turn on you. People turn on you.” She looks to James. “On each other.”
A throbbing moment stumps by, and I can’t help but think they’re having a private conversation all their own. Does she know something that I’m not aware of? Has she really dug deep enough to find that closet filled with dumb blonde bimbo corpses? Yes, James is no saint. I think just about everyone in this room can agree on that. But I’m certain he has nothing to do with Reagan’s disappearance outside of the fact he’s the stupid shit that let her out of his sight to begin with. As soon as my baby is back in my arms, divorce proceedings will begin the next day. It’s something I probably should have done eons ago but was too stupid, too na?ve, too blindsided by his dark wavy hair, those white picket fence teeth. Over and over again my sister tried to warn me, and over and over again I was insistent that he would love only me.
James clears his throat, his cheeks slap red. There might as well be a neon sign that reads guilty branded across his forehead. “We will most certainly dress the part. Where do you want us?”
“Right here,” McCafferty pipes up. “I’ll have everyone arrive at noon, and we’ll hold the event in front of your home. I have the composite artist scheduled for this afternoon, and that way we’ll have pictures of both girls.”
Another moment of silence ebbs by.
“So no one’s called in about a lost little girl?” This shocks me, and I can’t help but feel betrayed.
Both Rich and McCafferty shake their heads. Their somber faces say it all.
“So Ota was part of it.” A breath hitches in my throat, and I can’t seem to catch it. James wraps his arm around me in an effort to keep me on my feet.
“Let’s sit down.” He helps me to the sofa and I don’t protest.
“Yes”—Rich pulls his pants up by the belt loops—“it’s looking like maybe she was somehow connected. But we’re going to treat her as a missing child nonetheless. If they are together, it might be best people are on the lookout for her, too.”
“Yes, of course.” My heart thumps so loud my entire body throbs in rhythm to it. Damn little bitch. She knew. She knew they—whoever the hell they are—were going to steal my precious baby. Yes, she’s young, but so help me God, I would drown her in the bathtub if given half a chance.
“They probably threatened her into playing along with it,” Rich tosses it out there as if he understood my desire to murder the girl. “Could have been gypsies. Irish travelers. Immigrants. You never know.”
“What about a biker gang?” I’m not sure why that flew out of my mouth. “I remember hearing rumors of abductions of young girls.” My mind reels for something to quantify this with but comes up empty.
“I don’t think so.” McCafferty helps herself to a water bottle James set out once they arrived. “Bikers get all the girls they want just clamoring to be a part of their world. And I’m pretty sure when they said young girls they meant of a sexual age. Reagan is a child. It’s most likely a vagrant band, pedophiles and the like.” She brings her lips to the bottle and I leap over the coffee table and tip both her and the Barcalounger onto their backs.
Pedophiles. A primal scream comes from me as she baptizes herself with the water bottle, coughing and twisting as she struggles for air.
“Allison!” James barks as he pulls me off her. We roll over the carpet, grinding our noses in its fresh from the factory scent while Rich helps bring McCafferty to her feet.
“I’ll send a doctor over and see if we can’t get some sedatives to settle your nerves,” she huffs, staggering her way to the door. I watch from the floor, from this upside down world as Charles escorts her out, rife with apologies.
“I’m taking off, too,” Rich announces. “Deanna wants to bring dinner—says fast food isn’t good for you. I think she’s got a meal train organized so you won’t have to worry about a hot meal for a while. Call me if you need anything.”
“We need our damn daughter!” My voice jags through the air like a cat on fire and I watch as the door closes behind him. “Who the hell is Deanna?” I sob into the carpet and James picks me up and pulls me onto his lap.
“His wife.” He cradles me like a child as Charles excuses himself and takes off as well.
“And then there were two,” I mumble. The room turns bleary through my tears and I don’t stop the deluge from coming. James and I hold one another, crying rivers, crying out to God, screaming, shaking, trembling, burning with heat and fury.
How could this have happened?
Who the hell has our child?
* * *
In the shadow of the day, the cursed hours between three and five is when the composite artist is set to arrive. Cursed because the darkest moments of Reagan’s life occurred within that interval. I force myself to splash some water on my face and sit next to James on the corner of our mattress while he calls my parents and relays the horrible news to them.
“I know,” James sobs silently as my mother’s voice pitches through the receiver. With every panicked cry my stomach pinches with dread, tightening the already impossible coil twisting inside me. I told James I couldn’t do it—too emotional. In truth, I was too much of a coward to face my mother’s wrath. My mother worked her whole life as a part-time bank teller, my father a high school English teacher. I came from a good family with a good standing, but behind closed doors my mother’s wrath was something delivered straight from the devil himself. She had an in with Satan because she was him.