Henry Thompson sat in the living room, his hands tented in front of his face, tears soaking his unshaven cheeks. He had woken up to an empty house, Carolyn leaving a note on the counter stating that she had “gone to Becky’s.” Why she would be wasting time visiting family at this time was beside him. He had called the police station twice, both times learning nothing. They knew nothing; the cops were all idiots as far as he was concerned. He had never felt so useless, and cursed his legs and his inability to drive down to the station himself. The phone rang next to him, and he stared at the receiver. He had waited all night and all morning for the phone to ring. And now that it finally was, he was terrified of the news that it brought. He finally picked up the phone, his voice gravelly when it finally worked. “Hello.”
“Mr. Thompson?” It was a young girl’s voice, one he didn’t recognize.
“Yes.”
“I have Annie with me. She is safe.”
He sat up, gripping the phone tightly. “Who is this?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. I will bring her to you, but only if there is only you and your wife present. Is your wife there now?”
“No. She’s at her sister-in-law’s. May I speak to Annie?”
“Yes, but I need to arrange things with you first. Are you comfortable with meeting me alone, without police?”
“What do you want from us? We don’t have any money.” He spoke quickly, worried at the words he spoke and worried that they would affect Annie’s return.
“Mr. Thompson, I am not the one who took Annie. I am just the one returning her. I have no interest in anything other than bringing her back to you.”
He released a breath, fresh tears running down his face. “Yes, we will meet you alone. Where?”
“I have an address if you will write it down. We can meet you there in one hour. Will that give you time to get in touch with your wife?”
He nodded frantically, wiping at his eyes. “Yes. Please let me speak to Annie.”
There was a pause, and whispered words that he couldn’t catch. Then there was a breath into the phone and Annie spoke, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
CHAPTER 54: Carolyn Thompson
Carolyn stared into the woman’s face, sweet tea and wilted napkins between them on the dining room table. In the background a phone rang, and Becky’s eyes flickered.
“You’re not getting that phone Becky. You’re going to answer my damn question. This is my daughter we are talking about!” Carolyn stood, leaning over and looking into the woman’s watery blue eyes. “Do you think that Michael had anything to do with this?” The phone stopped ringing, and the sudden silence hung stagnant in the room.
“You’ve been asking me the same question for thirty minutes!” Becky’s voice broke. “I don’t know,” she finally said, beaten. “I just don’t know. Michael has always been very private.” The phone started up again, and she shoved to her feet, hurrying to the wall and snatching up the phone. “Hello?”
There was a pause, and then she turned, her eyes large. “It’s Henry. He says he has news about Annie.”
I have one final item to take care of and glance over at Annie, who is fiddling with the radio, flipping through pop stations. She grins at me, and I return her smile, seeing her eyes light up when she finds a song she likes. I quickly create a bogus email address and send an email to John Watkins, one of two deputies listed on the Brooklet Police Department’s online roster. It is a brief email, stating the address where Ralph lay, stating that he may or may not still be alive, and stating that he was the responsible party in the Annie disappearance. I press “Send” and then set the tablet down.
“Okay, sweetie. Let’s go get this kitten.”
CHAPTER 55
Annie’s reunion with her parents was held at a church parking lot ten miles outside of Brooklet. The marquee was faded, the building was poorly maintained, but Carolyn Thompson didn’t notice anything but the empty parking lot. She had quizzed Henry from the moment she had walked in the trailer door, asking questions she knew he didn’t have the answers to, speaking just to speak, nerves frying every receptor in her body. She didn’t trust it, this strange girl calling to return Annie, someone they didn’t know, her intentions unclear. It was too good to be true. And meeting here, without police, smelled like a trap. She wanted to call John, wanted to involve the police or the FBI—who had so far been utterly useless—but Henry had been adamant about following the stranger’s instructions to the tee. So here they waited, alone and exposed, their sanity as much at risk as their safety. She didn’t know if either one of them could handle disappointment at this stage.
She had unloaded Henry’s chair from their handicap-accessible van, and he sat in the sun, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He seemed utterly at ease, a condition that infuriated her. How he could be calm baffled her. If only she had been home, had spoken to Annie, heard the words that could have been her last. Henry had had that moment, and she felt cheated—an unfair sentiment, but present all the same.
“It’s late, Henry,” she said tightly, looking at her watch. “She said eight, right? You told me she said eight.”