Aftermath (11 page)

A chill swarmed over her body. Even the warmth of early May couldn’t warm her up. The thought of how close Ariana had come to disappearing, or worse, settled in her gut.

The way she’d described defending herself. Other sentences she’d used when admitting she’d skipped school. The fact that she wouldn’t discuss the reason why.

The barely concealed rage in Robinson’s eyes piled on top, in a heavy mess of dilapidated stickiness.

Lilly’s words were merely a non-fatal GSW. The backlash from a woman in severe pain, with no outlet. There’d be a scar, but Amanda would survive. And soon she wouldn’t notice it anymore.

“Does Jonas have a place in town?”

“I’ve got CSU over there now. And McKenna working on getting surveillance tapes from around the area we found Ariana and Jonas. She questioned all the business owners as well. Since that’s a storage area for a local meat market, they only had one employee on hand, who was on lunch during the event.” One masculine hand reached for the hair the wind blew around.

She stepped out of reach. If he touched her like that, right this second, she’d become the biggest blubbering mess he’d ever seen. Ariana and those missing girls depended on her level head. He depended on that. And if anyone deserved to fall apart, it was him.

Hurt rushed over his face. And sliced through her body.

A bowling ball-sized lump lodged in her throat. It was the last emotion she wanted to cause.

“A.J., talk to me.”

She wanted that and more, but talking about anything intimate would only complicate things, here. “Once I’ve done some research, I’ll talk to Captain Dentzen about a joint task force.”

Disappointment settled over his stance. “I’m not asking you to stick your neck out. Another set of hands. Another angle. That’s all I need. Even before this thing with Jonas.”

The forlorn look on his face hadn’t disappeared. Likely wouldn’t anytime soon. His eyes held concern, anger and fear. Ariana was as much his daughter as she was his niece.

Her heart gave a harsh twist. This man had been her rock when she’d needed him. And she’d never gotten the chance to repay him. Might not ever be able to.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she found herself stepping closer. Wrapping him in a hug. And reveling in the feel of his body against hers. The solid heartbeat thumping into her. Strong arms that pulled her closer as if this was all he’d ever need.

She could only hope the moment was as comforting for him as it was for her.

“It’s going to be okay.” The words came out on a husky rasp that irritated her throat. “Just take care of them. I’ve got the rest.”

___

Journal Entry #101

Age: 14

DANA MOVED TO town last week.

We hit it off in the middle of Mr. Johnson’s social studies class, when we made the same smart-mouthed comment about civic rights. It also got us both detention, but not before we were threatened with losing our field trip to the Mountain Creek Nature Center.

The look on Dana’s face probably mirrored mine. A little bit of horror mixed in with disbelief. I’d been looking forward to it all year. And with spring on the horizon, I was about to go stir-crazy stuck in stuffy classrooms all day.

Mr. Johnson must have realized he’d gone a little overboard in his punishment and scaled it back to a simple detention. After which, Dana’s parents picked us up from.

It wasn’t planned. They offered a ride. I doubted my mom would be along anytime soon. Or at all. Not with neurology patients to tend to. And I get it. If my head were split open, I’d want her patching me up, too. Doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes wish for a mother who was around to notice if something important happened. Or when something bad did.

Mr. and Mrs. Carter are the oldest parents I’ve ever met—maybe the strangest too, but not in a bad way. They live in a small house a mile from mother’s mega-monstrosity. Far enough away from the family money to not care about the ramifications an unhappy parent might bring.

Just offered their house phone so I could let my mother know where I was. And then served us beef roast and potatoes. Asked if we’d like more before we got two bites in. Dana gave eye rolls and exaggerated groans.

Mr. Carter is a businessman—still not sure that means anything specific, but he said it as if I should get the implication. Dana gave me the don’t-go-there face. I didn’t want to disappoint the one friend I’d had in forever, so I left it be, even though curiosity had me forming the questions in my mind.

Once mother finds out I’m not hanging with the Stacey Zumbero’s of this world, she’ll probably flip her lid.

So I lied about where I was. It wasn’t like I actually got to speak with her. Only her voicemail, at the hospital. Said I was staying over at Stacey’s house for a slumber party with half of our class. Only part lie.

Stacey was having a party. Only, I wasn’t invited. Hadn’t been since third grade when I’d accidentally knocked her down the slide, in front of everyone.

Mother gave me a tongue lashing over that. The memory doesn’t stick with me because of that, however. It was the perfunctory sound to her words. The realization she might only be speaking to me now, because I had done something—not wrong or accidental—something to embarrass her. The look on her face, in our rear-view mirror wasn’t one of exasperation filled with love. It was revulsion surrounded by wit-ending frustration.

I was not a problem she could fix. A brain she could repair with intricate tools. My nine-year old mind understood she thought I was a nuisance. Period.

Unlike the older, more mature specimen I am now, my reasoning pushed me to try harder. To be better. So, I wrote Stacey an apology note. It detailed how the whole escapade had been an accident. Begged her to find it in her heart to forgive me.

I remember being hopeful. Sure, even, that everything would be righted. My mother would recognize my brilliance. My sincerity.

She’d hug me and tell me how proud she was that I’d thought of it on my own, no matter the outcome. And Stacey would accept my heartfelt plea for remaining friendship.

The next day at school, Stacey had one doozy of a bruise on her forehead. A few kids made fun of it. I remember my stomach getting tighter with every step I took toward her, folded letter in hand. I wanted her to know we could still be friends. Still talk about hopscotch and four square. Chase boys around the playground. And that her bruise would go away and no one would remember it.

I handed her the note. She opened it and scanned my block-style lettering. And then she read it out loud, in a voice dripping with the same tone I received from my mother. The type that let me know I would never do anything right. I was the worst kind of screw up and she didn’t know why I tried.

I know I must have cried. I remember feeling tears run down my face, but not if I wiped them away. Or simply let them dry on my skin.

Stacey finished the letter and looked at me, her stricken expression turning darker. A slight smile pulled the corner of her lips, right before tearing my heartfelt work into millions of pieces that blew across the asphalt, on the capricious wind.

And then the kids weren’t laughing at her anymore.

They were laughing at me. The sound crashed into my skull like harsh waves on a beach. Intense. Dragging away the sands of confidence I’d had moments earlier.

A laugh came from Stacey, louder than all the rest.

That’s when I discovered I could use my fists—technically I only used one. Gave her a matching shiner I later regretted. Or maybe I didn’t. I’m not sure, anymore.

I know vindication filled my body, maybe for the first time ever. And I’d completed it. No one had championed me. I’d done it, myself.

Accidents happen. That’s all anyone would have had to say. Dust yourself off and apologize. You’ll be fine.

I didn’t get that. At thirteen, I know I never will.

I know if I could go back in time and be the perfect little girl she always wanted, my mother still wouldn’t hug me that day. When she picked me up from school, she still wouldn’t say anything at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IF HER BEST friend hadn’t guilt her into this venture, Amanda would’ve been anywhere other than Gemma’s Bar and Grill. Would probably still be pouring over Robinson’s detailed and concise notes. Debating if she shouldn’t pick up and go to each locale for direct answers from family and friends of their girls.

The smiling face of each young woman called to her. Deeper than the average case. Maybe it was their age—all of them fourteen—and the naivety she glimpsed in the photos.

Ariana wasn’t much younger. Just as innocent.

And some would surmise Amanda was finally losing her last grasp with what it took to be a great detective. Was too close to this situation, yet enough of a control freak to know she couldn’t let anyone else handle it. Even if she had to turn their pictures over and concentrate on the facts.

Kimberly Rose had red hair, green eyes, freckles across her nose and cheeks. And an athletic build. Denise Carruth was a brunette without an ounce of baby fat left on her skinny frame. Brown eyes smiled from the picture her parents had given authorities. And Nancy Johnson had thick blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes that shone with mischief.

Various cities. Boone, Lenoir and Statesville.

There were more. A search would have them cropping up like little flags across the map.

No one had heard from Kimberly in over twenty-eight days. Denise, twenty-one. And Nancy, fourteen. No text messages or phone conversations had taken place in the twenty-four hours leading up to the disappearances. All three had gone missing in broad daylight. From their homes. With other people around. Exactly seven days apart.

It made no sense.

There should be forced entries, blood stains, signs of a struggle. Noises parents and siblings had heard. A suspicious vehicle. Or person.

And there was nothing.

But there was a first. Or a botched attempt or something. And she’d find it.

Amanda stepped inside the bar. At ten p.m., the place was packed. Loud music filtered from the stage, where a live cover band played various rock tunes. Four college-aged guys threw darts to her left.

Groups of men and women filled the tables covering the space between the door and the dance floor. A young, skinny, blonde girl hung on a muscular man, her arms wrapped around his neck. Their gazes were locked as if they were alone in the world.

A dozen women danced in front of the stage, their colorful, yet skimpy, outfits attracting the men directly behind them. One woman had a crown on her head that read
bride.

That explained it.

She and Robinson had skipped the traditional prenuptial partying and opted for an evening with their closest friends and family, at a private restaurant Robinson had found. There’d been stellar food, prepared by their own chef for the night, unlimited drinks and great music, in a cozy atmosphere.

Not a cheap club they’d hopped to in a limo filled with vomit.

In her peripheral vision, she noted three men at the bar, to the right of the stage, taking shots of whiskey. The tallest of the group, turned in her direction.

Something sinister climbed up her back. A byproduct of dealing with a deranged serial bomber, for sure, but a feeling she didn’t ignore. Ever. Amanda held back a shiver of disgust. Spotted Jordan and McKenna at the bar, adjacent to the men. They faced the band, their profiles toward her.

Her friend leaned toward her husband. Whispered something in his ear with a smile. A goofy grin covered Jordan’s mouth.

Oh, boy. Something was up.

“Hey, guys.”

The couple’s gazes swung to her as one. “You came.” McKenna hopped off her barstool and wrapped her in a hug.

“I said I would.” She scanned the people around them. Didn’t spot any of the Charlotte FBI Agents. Didn’t bother looking for Robinson. She’d be amazed to see him after their morning, even though the idea set her heart to a faster beat.

Stupid organ needed to get a clue.

“I didn’t know if you would with everything.”

Amanda could have studied those missing girls’ profiles more. Watched any matching crimes pop up in her search. Worried about Ariana and the day’s impact. Called Robinson and made sure he didn’t need anything.

Like her company, conversation and…complete trouble, if the naive youngster locked inside her body had any say.

“You look like you need a beer.” Jordan didn’t wait for an answer, but flagged down a bartender.

Her stomach rebelled against the thought. “Where is everybody?”

Jordan took a swig from the long-necked bottle in his grasp. “Rupert had to take a phone call.”

McKenna leaned closer to Amanda as if she were sharing a deep secret, one hand cupping her mouth. Her voice was above a whisper when she said, “It was a woman.”

Jordan shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

McKenna shot her husband a smirk. “Wanna bet?”

His eyebrows rose on his forehead. “Feel like losing twice, there, sweetheart?”