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After opening her book and pretending to read, she reached for her cell again but stopped when Sister Cora's high-pitched voice commanded everyone's attention.

“I have an announcement,” she said, standing at her desk in gray slacks and a sweater, a silver cross swinging from a chain at her neck. “There are going to be some changes.”

“
It's about Antonia.”

Jade turned a deaf ear. Antonia Norelli was another friend of Mary-Alice's and the TA for this class, so Jade barely listened to Sister Cora's long-winded explanation that Antonia had come down with a serious case of mono. At the end of her diatribe, Sister added, “Luckily, at least for me, I've found a replacement,” she said, scrawling down the name of Antonia's replacement on the white board.

Jade glanced up, and her heart sank as she read Liam Longstreet's name in the teacher's flowing hand.

She couldn't believe it. What were the chances that Longstreet, a senior and a jock, would be assigned to this class? Jade wanted to die a thousand deaths—no, make that a million deaths. This was just too much. She even sent up a prayer that there had been some colossal galactic mistake. Surely God, if there was one, wouldn't do this to her.

But He did.

Ten minutes after Sister's announcement, Liam Longstreet, six feet plus of arrogance, sauntered in, dropped his backpack, and while Sister Cora taught the lesson, appeared to listen to the boring lecture on plant reproduction. Jade stared at the clock, willing the hour to pass. It seemed that he didn't notice her. Either that or he was ignoring her, which was just fine.

But that changed near the end of the period when he looked up and their gazes finally met.

He smiled.

Oh, this wasn't good!

She'd been certain he would say something to her, something harsh, but he merely nodded at her, his near-black hair falling over his forehead for a second before he grabbed his backpack and, five minutes before the final bell sounded, walked out of the room.

Somehow she'd gotten a reprieve from another confrontation.

For now.

Seeing him every day, though, in this class would change all that.

Talk about bad luck.

Automatically she started to text Cody before she saw the crack in the screen of her iPhone again. “Awesome,” she muttered under her breath before realizing that her texts were going through, even though her screen was nearly impossible to read. Frantically she texted Cody once more, then spent the next forty minutes being bored to death in Algebra. Though cell phones were forbidden in class, she kept hers handy, in her pocket, the volume turned off. She checked the screen every five minutes while the teacher, a lay woman, frantically wrote equations on an old-fashioned chalkboard. The teacher was so interested in her work that it was easy for Jade to check her phone. She wasn't the only one. A boy who sat nearby, Sam Something-or-other, was totally into his as well, either texting or playing a game.

She caught a glance from that Dana chick who'd been in the restroom, and the girl sent her a frosty glare, but Jade tossed her a “what're you looking at” stare and Dana looked away. Good. Jade was more upset with Cody than anything. He hadn't shown up as he'd promised and had texted again that he was coming, just wasn't sure when. She'd called him, and he hadn't picked up nor called back, so her faith in him was waning. Not for the first time, she wondered if he already had another girlfriend.

What would she do then?

All her bravado with Mary-Alice and her claims that she didn't need anyone at this lame-ass school would be hollow.

Her phone vibrated, and her heart leaped as she glanced down at the text, but it wasn't from Cody. Nope. It came from a number she didn't recognize.

Wanna go out sometime?

What? Was this some kind of joke, a sick prank by Mary-Alice or Longstreet or one of their stupid friends? She didn't respond.

It's Sam. I'm trapped here too. With Ms. Sprout.

She glanced over at Sam's desk. He was kinda cute. Sure enough, his phone was in his lap, hidden, while he pretended to watch the teacher and check the book lying open on the desktop.

Go to the fb game?

No way. And how the hell had he gotten her cell phone number?

Her finger hovered over the keypad as she formed a response in her head, but before she could type in a letter, the phone silently vibrated and a text from Cody came in.

Miss you.

Her heart melted.

Miss you too, she wrote, tears of relief glazing her eyes.

C U soon.

When?

OMG, did he mean now? Her heart soared. Maybe he was coming to surprise her! Quickly she brushed her tears away and ignored the other texts from Sam.

As the last bell sounded, she was out of the room in a shot and nearly ran to the staircase, where from the balcony she had a view of the student and teacher parking lots. Hoping against hope, Jade searched the vehicles. Cody's Jeep was glaringly absent. She walked to the opposite side of the landing and peered through the high windows that overlooked the front of the building and the streets nearby. Still no sign of him.

What had she expected?

Just because he'd texted her that he'd missed her hadn't meant he'd hopped into his Cherokee and driven here. She'd just hoped, deep down, that he couldn't stand being apart from her and had driven the hundred miles to just catch a glimpse of her. Her heart pounded at the thought. God, she loved him. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, and the sooner they could be together, the better. She peered at her cell phone, where his number was attached to a photo she'd taken of him: startling blue eyes, thick brown hair that fell over his face, and a firm jaw. He rarely smiled, but there was a certain brooding-actor quality to him that she found fascinating. Roguish. “Don't give a damn” attitude. “Very James Deanish,” her mother had once commented, though Jade hadn't known who that guy was until she'd Googled him. Not hardly. Cody was so much better-looking.

She believed he loved her and couldn't stand being apart from her, and told herself he wasn't making excuses but really couldn't have gotten away any earlier. But, as he only worked part-time, she'd kind of expected him to show up, to surprise her. Before Saturday.

It could be that to make the surprise complete, he'd driven another car, but as she looked through the windows she knew she was grasping at straws, making excuses. A few days ago, she'd been elated, certain he wouldn't be able to wait until Saturday and was on his way to spirit her out of this hellhole. But she'd been wrong.

And she couldn't go to see him without her car.
That
really made her furious. How long did that cretin Hal have to keep it? She had his number in her phone, so she called and waited while the phone rang and rang. Certain she'd get a recording, she was about to hang up when a gravelly-voiced woman answered. “Hal's Auto Repair.”

“Hi. This is Jade McAdams. You have my car,” she said, then launched into why she needed it back ASAP. She must've been a little pushy, because the woman on the other end of the line responded with, “I'll have Hal call you, but we do have other vehicles to work on, you know.”

“But this is important,” Jade pressed, phone held to one ear as she tried to hear over the din of the students filing up and down the stairwell.

“I'm sure all the other clients want their vehicles as well.”

Jade wanted to scream. Oh, she'd seen the other clients. One was the older woman with a dog, who'd pointed at her white Chevy Impala that had to have been from the 1960s. “In pristine condition,” she'd told Hal with a nod and a smile, “and I'd like to keep it that way. Did you know it's only got thirty thousand miles on it? Well, of course
you
do. We always drove Randolph's car when he was alive, God rest his soul.” Jade had thought she'd go crazy with that one, and there were others as well, a couple of guys who brought in their vehicles. That's what happened in a town this small. Hal's Auto Repair was the only game in town.

“But I need my car,” she pleaded with the woman on the line. “Really, really badly.” Surely her urgency was more dire than the old lady and her dog.

“The parts have been ordered and shipped, but they're not here yet. Once we've got 'em, Hal'll take care of you.”

“You don't even have the parts yet?” Jade couldn't believe it.

“It's an older Honda. We don't keep parts for every make and model, but you'll get the car back soon.”

Not soon enough,
Jade thought, deflated. She descended the stairs and turned in the direction of her locker. Any thoughts that she could somehow get to Cody had been dashed. No way would Mom let her borrow her car. So she'd have to wait for Cody to show up here. If he even decided to come.

Don't give up on him, He's coming, You know it, You just messed up thinking he'd meant he was coming that night,

Not so, she realized. Maybe he would never come. But he had to! She couldn't suffer through many more excruciating days as the new kid at Our Lady of the River. She just couldn't.

S
cowling into the tiny mirror mounted near the door of his office, Sheriff Cooke adjusted his tie, tightening the damn thing and noticing that his salt-and-pepper hair was leaning a lot more toward salt even though he wouldn't be forty until the spring. His mother's genes. All of her family had been blessed with jet-black hair that started turning gray before they reached thirty. By forty-five or fifty most had hair that had turned snow-white, and he figured he was on that path. At least he wouldn't lose it, if, as it appeared, he took after his mother's family and not his father's. All the men and some of the women on his paternal side were bald long before they'd been laid to rest.

He would make sure the press conference wouldn't last long. After all, there just wasn't that much to say that hadn't been reported. There were no new leads in the case. Rosalie Jamison was long gone. In the wind.

And it scared the hell out of him.

He squared his hat on his head just about the time there was a quick rap of knuckles against his door. Before he could say, “Come on in,” Lucy Bellisario had popped her head inside.

“Showtime, Boss.”

He nodded curtly. He hated being put on display. Even though he wanted to portray a stern, solid leadership in a department that protected the citizens of this county, he detested the folderol that came with it. “Any news on her laptop or cell phone?”

“Nothing substantial. All the leads to that boyfriend in Colorado have led nowhere. It's as if he never existed.”

“All in her mind?”

“Maybe. They haven't given up and are working with the cell phone company and the Internet provider.”

“Hopefully they'll come up with something. You double-checked all the resident scumbags' alibis?”

“Still working on several. Lars Blonksi, for example. Something's not quite right there. His friend—and I use the term loosely—keeps changing his story. Gonna talk to Lars again and Jay Aberdeen's ‘wife,' who's really an ex-girlfriend and lives in Cincinnati.”

“Once a liar,” he said.

“Yeah, and I've heard that there are sightings of Roger Anderson in the area, just local gossip, really, but I talked to the bartender at The Cavern, and he thought Anderson had been there. So far, he hasn't connected with his parole officer.”

Cooke harrumphed his disgust.

“I've got a call in to the officer, and I'll check with Anderson's family and friends, but it's a long shot.”

“Doesn't he have a cell mate from this area?”

She nodded. “Saw it in his file. Drifter named Hardy Jones. Already looking for him.”

“Find him and talk to Lars and his alibi-buddy again.”

“Will do,” she said.

“Good.” Cooke glanced in the mirror again and gave his tie one last tug. “Let's go.”

They'd set up a podium outside, under the portico near the front door, by the flagpoles, where both Old Glory and the flag for the state of Oregon were snapping in the wind. Thankfully the storm that had been predicted had died before it reached this part of the country, but it was still cold as hell. Camera crews from a local station, as well as from Portland, had set up, their vans parked across the street. Reporters with microphones had gathered, along with people who lived in the area—the curious, who were being surreptitiously filmed by people in his own department with the wishful thinking that if someone had indeed kidnapped Rosalie, he or she might take great pleasure in watching the police scramble and squirm. Coming to the press conference for an up close and personal view might be top on their list.

Cooke hoped so.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said once the initial screech of feedback from the microphone had passed and the tech in charge of the system had made some quick adjustments. Thankfully the sharp noise had died an instant death. “I'd like to give you all a quick update on the case involving the disappearance of Rosalie Jamison,” he began, then launched into a brief description of what had transpired so far which, of course, wasn't very much.

Cooke explained that they were exploring all leads and hoped, as was promised by the local television station, a direct number to the department would be flashed across television screens across this part of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho in the hope that anyone who saw something suspicious would phone in a tip. There was already a reward offered, so hopefully even the most reticent informant would come forward. Cooke wasn't sure.

The reporters were eager and the questions rapid-fire.

“Any new leads?” one man, barely in his twenties, asked.

“Nothing substantial. As I said, we're exploring all avenues in this investigation.”

“Has the FBI been called in?” a black woman, dressed to perfection, dark eyes serious, questioned.

“Not yet. Miss Jamison's disappearance hasn't been proved to be a kidnapping.”

“You think she left on her own volition?” The female reporter was clearly not buying it. “Does she have a history of running away?”

The flag chains rattled with a sharp gust of wind.

“As I said, we're unclear as to what happened to her, but the investigation is continuing. We hope to have more substantial evidence and leads that will take us to her soon.”

And on it went for ten minutes until he cut it off. Then, against his better judgment, but at the demand of the higher-ups, it was the family's turn. Sharon Updike, appearing defeated and older than her years, made a heartfelt plea to anyone who had information about her daughter to come forward. Her message was brief, and as her voice cracked before giving out completely, she whispered, “Please, please help us find our daughter. If someone”—her voice broke and she cleared it—“if anyone has our daughter, please release her. Give us back our Rosie. And . . . and . . . Oh, God . . . Rosalie, if you can hear me, I love you. Your father loves you. Please come home.” And then she fell into the waiting arms of a dry-eyed Mel Updike, while Rosalie's biological father, weary from a long drive from Colorado and the pain of his daughter's disappearance, stared bleakly from behind rimless glasses. Mick Jamison's face was somber and wary, his eyes sorrowful as he stood by a much younger woman, his wife, Annie, who kept squeezing his hand.

All in all, it was an ordeal that, to Cooke's way of thinking, hadn't accomplished much.

But there was always hope that someone who had seen the news report would remember something and call in, or that Rosalie, on the run, would hear her mother's pleas and return, or that the kidnapper, if there was one, was cocky enough to have joined the small crowd that had assembled.

If that were the case, Cooke silently vowed he'd nail that son of a bitch and slam his ass behind bars. One way or another he would find out what had happened to Rosalie Jamison.

 

By the time her mother pulled into the parking lot of the dog shelter, Jade was over being upset that Cody wasn't around. In fact, she was kind of bummed about it. Sure he was coming, but it was almost as if she had to beg him to come and see her, and that just wasn't right. Not if you really loved someone. And then there was her car. She
needed
the Honda back and pronto. She felt trapped without it. Worse yet, she was royally pissed about her damaged phone, which didn't begin to touch how Mom would go off the rails when she found out about it. And Dad? Jade didn't want to think about what her father would say. He'd bought the thing for her and put her on his plan so that they could communicate since he was in Savannah.

Explaining that it was pretty much trashed would be tough.

“Okay, let's go,” Sarah said as she found a parking space near the front doors of Second Chance Animal Rescue and cut the engine.

Gracie took off like a shot and was inside before Jade had even opened her door.

“Guess she's excited,” Sarah said, pocketing her keys

“Isn't she always?” Jade asked, but her mother was already out of the car. Gracie was like that, sometimes acting like she was closer to seven than twelve, other times surprising Jade with her deep, almost spooky, insight. Today, she was the kid. Jade followed into a wide reception area, where fluorescent fixtures reflected on shining tile floors. Leashes, collars, and harnesses decorated one wall, while metal shelves were piled high with bags of dog food, beds, and crates on another. Close to a reception counter, a long display board was mounted, and tacked up on it were pictures and information about each animal available for adoption. Gracie was already scouring the listings, while a three-legged tabby cat, obviously the shelter's unofficial greeter, perched along the top of the long board, his reddish tail ticking a bit as he eyed the newcomers.

“There are so many,” Gracie said as she viewed the selection of dogs and cats ready for adoption.

“But we only need one,” their mother reminded her.

“Maybe a cat too?” Gracie pointed to a picture of a black-and-white tuxedo kitten.

“One. Dog.”

A glass door behind the counter opened. “Hello!” A plump woman who was barely five feet tall and dressed in jeans and a purple hoodie bustled in. “Sorry.” She sounded breathless as if she'd been running. “I was in the back cleaning up, and I didn't hear the bell. So, welcome to Second Chance. I'm Lovey Bloomsville, the manager here, well, and the owner.”

Sarah made quick introductions and said, “We're looking for a dog. Mature. Housebroken. Good with kids.” She added that they wanted a midsize dog, finishing with, “A pet primarily, but a guard dog would be nice.”

“Guard dog?” Lovey repeated slowly.

Jade gave her mother a look. Really? A guard dog?

“We live out of town and are pretty isolated,” Sarah said. “The property's pretty vast, so it would be nice if the dog would bark when people showed up. I'm not talking about a dog that bites or even snarls, or that I have to put up a Beware of Dog sign for, just one that will give us fair warning that someone's around.”

“Oh. Well. I'm pretty sure we've got that covered.” Lovey waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course, we don't have any vicious dogs, though, if you ask me, it's the owners, not the dogs, that give some of the breeds a bad name. All that legislation against the pit bulls, for example. Nonsense! I've got two of my own, and let me tell you, they're lovers, wouldn't hurt a flea! Not nearly as feisty as my pug. She's in trouble all the time and rules the roost at my house, bosses the pits around, and they let her.

“So now . . . ,” Lovey motioned to the pictures of the animals. “All of our dogs have had temp tests to see if they're good with cats or young children or other dogs or whatever. We work with them every day and know if they're shy or the least bit aggressive on the leash or around food or whatever. They all have different personalities, you know. Anyway,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I'm sure we can find you the perfect pet. A midsize to large dog, you said?”

“I was thinking fifty or sixty pounds maybe? Even sixty-five, but not much bigger. We really don't care about breed.”

Lovey took a sweeping glance at the posters on the wall just as the door to a back room opened and a thin twentyish guy walked into the lobby area. A cacophony of barks, yips, and howls rose to the rafters until the door shut behind him. Lovey took the noise as a cue. “As you can hear, finding an alarm dog shouldn't be a problem. Come on, let me show you around and we'll meet a few candidates. Then you can think it over as you fill out the adoption papers. Jared,” she said to the skinny guy who'd picked up a broom, “can you bring Henry, Shogun, Brawn and, oh, maybe Xena, one at a time to the meet-and-greet room?”

“Sure thing, Ms. B.” Jared was already heading through the door again.

“Perfect.” To Sarah and her daughters, Lovey said, “I'll give you a quick tour of the place while Jared rounds up the most likely candidates. If you see any dog that appeals to you, just let me know.”

Explaining a little about her rescue work and the health and well-being of the animals in the shelter, Lovey led them deeper into the interior, where smaller dogs were kept in one area, larger ones in another, and cats separated into a space of their own. A pot-bellied pig Esmeralda (“Ezzy”) was kind of the mascot. She trotted along after Lovey, snorting a bit, but a happy part of the entourage.

Gracie's face was alight as she watched the dogs playing and romping in the open area. Lovey Bloomsville chattered away as they walked, but Jade didn't really catch all that Lovey was rambling about as her phone kept vibrating. Sam, the phone geek from Algebra wasn't giving up, and Jade's cousin Becky had left her a message about her mother's Halloween party.

U coming? was Becky's question.

Mom says we have to, Jade texted back. Zero options.

Always options, Becky replied.

Hmm. Jade considered. Even though she acted like she didn't, she kind of liked Becky. But Becky was sort of two-faced, a little like Mary-Alice, though Becky had a darker side that appealed to Jade. Can we leave? Jade texted.

Not if we ask.

Jade almost laughed.

Becky wrote, I'll call you later.

K.

Jade was feeling better by the minute. The party was scheduled for Saturday night, right before Halloween, and just happened to be the night Cody had said he would show up. Yes! Finally it seemed things might be falling into place. Jade couldn't help but smile, and Mom probably thought it was because she was into the dogs.

Lovey Bloomsville showed off bouncing teacup Chihuahuas and Yorkies and finally a huge, droopy-faced mastiff that was the size of a pony. “No one wants Bubba here,” Lovey said, gazing lovingly at the huge dog, “but he's an absolute love. I guess he'll just have to be our shelter dog, won't you, boy?” She patted his broad head, and Jade wondered who weighed more, the dog or the woman. Silently, she bet on Bubba.