by Amy Waeschle
He also gave generously to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, a surprise because to her memory, she and Quinn had never set foot in a Boys and Girls Club. Her father was a mountain lover and gave generously to the National Geographic Exploration Fund, and an environmental charity called The Mountain Institute, and he had also started his own charity, Frigus Futures, which funded climate research.
But so far, none matched the list of current events in Seattle for August 21st. She continued, losing herself in the sea of information from each of the websites, recognizing it for the indulgence it was. By 6:15 she had three remaining and promised herself a second cup of coffee once her scavenger hunt was complete.
However, the moment the next page in her search opened, she forgot all about it.
Twenty-Two
Cassidy stared at the match between the list of events on August 21st and the name on her screen: The Faith Ellison Foundation.
Her heart pumped faster the further she scanned the website. Faith Ellison was the daughter of Tony Ellison, a well-known entertainer from her dad’s era. Tony Ellison had started the foundation after Faith died from a drug overdose.
But he hadn’t started the foundation alone. As she scrolled the list of contributors, her father’s name was side by side with Tony’s. And Preston Ford’s.
How were these three men connected? Friends? Business partners? And what was the Faith Ellison Foundation’s mission?
Cassidy returned to the home page, digesting each paragraph slowly, her mind trying to process it. She followed links to the other pages, reading until her eyes felt like dried grapes. Sitting back, she reviewed what she’d learned. The Faith Ellison Foundation supported teen substance abuse recovery research, founded a recovery program called RISE that also offered free medical services and counseling, which they hosted at their intake centers.
A detail buzzed at the back of her brain. She searched the Web for Faith Ellison and Seattle then clicked open the story from the Seattle Times. The night of August 21st was a gala to raise funds for a new intake center.
An uneasy, slippery sensation wove through her insides. She typed “Faith Ellison” and “intake center” into the search bar.
She opened the map option. There were eighteen, in four different cities: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle.
Fingers shaking, she dialed Quinn’s number, not caring that it was only seven o’clock. He didn’t answer. Frustrated, she hung up before leaving a message and texted him instead.
Call me. It’s about Dad.
Then she called Bruce, who answered on the third ring.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he said, sounding tired. As if to punctuate her suspicions, he hissed a loud yawn.
She opened her mouth but her turbulent thoughts wouldn’t form into words.
“Hello?” he asked when she didn’t answer.
Cassidy stood from the couch and hugged herself with her free arm. “I found something weird.”
“Hang on,” he said, and she heard the phone muffled against him, then footsteps. “There. Now I can hear you better. I’m in the hall.”
“Are you downtown?” she asked, squinting through the blinds at the bright sunshine making mirrors of the neighboring glass buildings.
“Yes.” He finished another noisy yawn.
“Wait, have you been up all night?”
“Yeah, we’re just about done.”
She plopped onto the chair. “Did something good happen?”
“Yep,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice.
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?” she half-cried, squeezing her middle to make it stop.
Bruce sighed. “As soon as I can, I will. It’s not over.”
Cassidy groaned in agony. “Where’s Quinn? I can’t reach him.”
“He’s still being held for bail, as far as I know.”
Cassidy slumped against the edge of the couch. “He had to spend the night?”
“It was for the best.”
“Please get him out of there,” she begged as the thought of Quinn sleeping on a flea-ridden mattress next to drunks and killers flashed into her mind.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, but she heard the lightness in his tone. Muffled voices sounded in the background and she wondered if his meeting was breaking up.
“I need to see you,” she said.
“Oh?” She didn’t take time to interpret the surprise in his voice. “Remember how I told you that Preston Ford stopped by the studio after my interview?”
“Right,” he said, with a sigh. “You were spooked.”
“Turns out he and my dad and Tony Ellis created some kind of charity organization for drug-addicted kids twenty years ago.”
“Tony Ellis, wow. Your dad must have been some kind of bigwig.”
Cassidy ignored this. “One of their projects is providing free medical care, Bruce.”
“You think they recruit for the sex trade? Come on, Cass. This is your dad we’re talking about.”
“I know!” she said, flustered. “But what if they’re linked? What if my dad was part of this?” Saying it out loud made her vision tunnel. She forced herself to focus on the edge of the white countertop across the room while she coaxed three full breaths into her lungs.
“Have you slept at all?” She pictured him frowning down at her, concern tightening his eyes.
“Yes,” she lied. “Bruce, I’m not delirious.”
She waited through a long pause. “Okay. Send me the details, and I’ll pass them on.”
Cassidy pinched the bridge of her nose. That doesn’t sound very promising, she wanted to say but held her complaints. It was pointless.
Bruce released another yawn. “I’ll go check on Quinn, okay?”
After ending the call, Cassidy returned to her data crawl. She made sure there were no other events in Seattle that night involving Preston Ford. Clicking pages and links, she read the individual websites of several of the intake centers: the one in Portland, and the two already established in Seattle. One was located in the heart of downtown, in an area she would never visit alone after dark.
A memory of Reeve and her dad fighting floated into her mind. Her dad had discovered his stash of pot. The irony was not lost on her. Reeve had been headed for danger while her dad formed an organization intended to help kids like him. Yet Reeve had still descended into addiction. If her father had lived, would he have been able to stop Reeve’s downward spiral? Would Reeve still be alive?
Her phone chirped, yanking her back from her memories. But it wasn’t Quinn.
“They released him last night,” Bruce said, sounding agitated.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s good.”
“No, it’s not.”
A tingle of anxiety rushed over her skin. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what happened. He was safer here, so we held him. Cassidy, I have to go.”
“Wait!” she cried. “Bruce, what’s wrong? I don’t understand.”
“Somebody messed up. Do you know where he might have gone?”
“He’s not home?”
“No, someone’s already checked.”
“Oh,” she said as her mind played catch-up. Quinn hadn’t replied to her call or text, but she’d assumed it was because he was still in jail. “I think he’s got a girlfriend,” she said. Would Quinn have gone to her last night?
“Name? Address?”
“I don’t know,” she said, searching her memories of the past few days. Had he mentioned her name, even in passing? “I don’t know anything about her. Or even if that’s what’s been keeping him so busy at night lately. I’ve been teasing him about it, actually, but he hasn’t shared. He’s…like that.”
“Okay, don’t worry,” he said, though she knew this sudden downshift was for her benefit. “He’s probably just crashed out. It was a long night.”
“He’s rarely up before nine.” She checked the time: 9:50. Another thought came to her. “He co
uld be out running. He never takes his phone.”
“That’s it,” Bruce said, sounding more sure of himself.
Her stormy thoughts quelled as an image of Quinn jogging the city streets, his tired face calm in concentration. It was exactly what he’d do after such a crazy night. “I’ll call you when I hear from him,” she said.
“Okay.”
“So, am I getting out of here soon?”
“Might be a little longer,” he said. “I know it’s tough,” he added quickly, as if sensing her protest.
“Can you at least tell me yet what happened?”
“We intercepted a shipment,” he said. “And it’s opened up several leads.”
“A shipment of people?” she asked. “Where are they? I mean, what happens to them?”
“Immigration has a system in place.”
“Will they get to go home?”
“Depends. Some don’t have a home to return to. Some families don’t want them back.”
Cassidy winced.
“Look, I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep,” he said, sounding exhausted. “But I still want you to call when you hear from Quinn.”
After ending the call, she gazed around the apartment, every surface so white it blinded her. Sun poured into the space, adding warmth and brightness she didn’t feel. She felt caged, helpless, shut out.
She heated a breakfast burrito but gave up eating it after three bites, then drifted into the bathroom. Her dry eyes accepted her contact lenses grudgingly, then she stepped into the shower. While the hot water seared her skin, she thought back to her conversation with Bruce and his reaction to her request to see him. She shook her head to clear the confusion. She and Bruce were friends. That night when he’d held her was just an extension of that, nothing more. So then why did he act so protective of her? Was that just part of his role?
With only one other spare set of clothes, dressing was easy, and she stepped back into the bathroom to brush her tangled curls, noting the dark circles under her eyes and her pale lips. Should she pack up her things? Would they come for her soon? What would she do all day if they didn’t?
Returning to the living room, she checked her phone, but there was nothing from Quinn. Don’t worry, Bruce had said, as if he could read her anxiety through the phone. But hadn’t he also told her that releasing Quinn had been a mistake?
The idea began to weigh on her as she tried to keep her mind occupied with answering emails then diving back into her Etna proposal. By noon her apprehension had turned to anger. Why hadn’t Quinn called her? What was so important that he would make her worry like this? She debated calling Bruce to vent but wanted to let him sleep.
A knock on the apartment door made her jump. Oh, thank goodness, she thought, bolting for the door. Finally, they’re letting me leave. She pictured herself striding into the apartment to rouse Quinn from sleep so she could give him an earful.
Rising to her tiptoes, she took in the police officer standing outside her door: medium-build, neutral eyes, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Yes?” she called into the door. Where was Officer Hutton?
“Officer Nash from San Francisco P.D.” he said, rocking on his feet. “I’m here to escort you home, ma’am.”
Cassidy glanced back at her belongings strewn about the apartment. “Just a minute,” she said, then wondered if she should invite him in. If she had neighbors, they would surely think it strange to see a cop parked outside her door. “Do you want to come in?”
“Up to you, ma’am.”
Cassidy unlocked the door then stepped aside for him to enter, his presence at odds with the white space. “Be right back,” she said, then hurried into the bedroom and bathroom, stuffing her things into the bag as she went, double checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
She returned to the living room for her laptop. Before tucking her phone into her bag, she checked for messages, but there was nothing more from Quinn or Bruce. Wouldn’t Bruce have texted her that an officer was on his way to free her? Though he was likely asleep—probably the entire team was, and her mind tripped up on a sudden image of Special Agent Katrina Harris passed out in a sleep mask and a white silk nightgown. “Shoot, I haven’t done my dishes,” she said, moving to the sink where she had left a coffee cup and fork.
“No need,” the officer said behind her. “The cleanup crew will handle that.”
“Oh,” Cassidy said, halting. She took one last glance at her bright-white dungeon, spinning slowly to make sure everything was in its place. Officer Nash waited, the image of patience.
Why did she feel like she was leaving something behind? Cassidy paused a minute longer, trying to see what she’d missed, but the apartment was as white and empty as it had been when she arrived. Finally, she turned and followed the officer out the door.
Inside the elevator, the mirrored walls gave her an opportunity to notice his features: the mustache, the thin lips, the scar above his left eyebrow, the tattoo peeking out from under his short sleeved uniform shirt. He stared straight ahead, ignoring her almost.
As a teenager, she’d been brought home once by a local cop. Back then, she hadn’t understood how lucky she was—he could have taken her to the police station but instead he’d delivered her safely home to her father as a favor. After the officer left, Cassidy expected her father to be furious, but instead he simply begged her to talk to him, to tell him what was driving the bad choices she was making. But words had felt foreign to her then.
Once on the street, Officer Nash opened the trunk of his all-black cruiser and indicated that she should place her bag inside.
“It’s regulation. For your safety.”
Cassidy complied, eager to get off the street where people were surely watching her. Officer Nash closed the trunk then let her into the passenger side. Sliding into the hard seat, she took in her cage-like surroundings. Wire mesh closed her in on three sides; a thick plexiglass divider separated her from the front seat. The front console of the vehicle was crammed with a giant laptop and a dashboard with buttons, a radio. The barrel of a shotgun extended vertically between the front seats. A stab of unease tugged at the corner of her mind, but she shook it off. Soon she would be back at Quinn’s and away from all this. Officer Nash walked around the front and got in. After buckling her seat belt, he pulled away from the curb.
They headed west on a broad boulevard, the tall skyscrapers transitioning to neighborhoods, restaurants, businesses. Cassidy reached to the door panel to lower her window but realized there were no buttons. She also discovered that there were no door handles on either side. Another pulse of unease wormed through her. She wished she had thought to put her phone in her pocket so she could text Bruce, let him know she was on her way home.
Relief began to trickle through her as they neared Golden Gate Park. They passed familiar landmarks, each mile making her feel more eager to reach her destination. I wasn’t cooped up that long, she told herself. Relax.
But at the intersection where she expected Officer Nash to turn south toward Quinn’s apartment, he continued west, towards the Presidio. Cassidy tried to catch the officer’s eye in the rearview mirror, but he was focused straight ahead.
“You know Quinn’s address, right?” she asked, though with the thick plexiglass and the windows closed tight, her words bounced back in her face.
“Yes,” he said, not taking his eyes off the road. “There’s a concert today in the Park. We’ll take the coast.”
Cassidy nodded, though her mind chewed much more slowly on this new piece of information. Had she read about a concert today? It was the kind of thing she and Quinn would consider attending. They could walk to the concert grounds from his apartment.
“On a weekday?” she asked, but it came out soft, and Officer Nash didn’t seem to hear.
Cassidy sat back, watching the nicer homes along the edge of the Presidio pass. Tall, lush trees lined the road; ivy crawled up the side of some of the buildings; joggers an
d walkers dotted the sidewalks. At an intersection, Officer Nash turned right.
Cassidy knew it then. Something was wrong.
“This dead-ends,” she said, as they continued down a curving road lined with trees, sculpted hedges, and increasingly opulent homes. Was he just confused? She had been in this area only a few times but knew the road didn’t go through. To connect to Outer Sunset, they should have continued West on Geary, then turned south on the 101, or if he really wanted the scenic route, he could have followed El Camino then looped west on Clement.
“I know,” Officer Nash replied.
Panic filled her mind. “Where are you taking me?”
Twenty-Three
Cassidy lunged for the door, but her fingertips met smooth plastic. She banged on the mesh, but it didn’t even flex.
“Let me out!” she screamed, trying to unbuckle her seat belt.
Officer Nash turned into a gated driveway that swung open to let him pass.
“Where are we? What’s going on?” Cassidy said, taking in the tall, rectangular mansion that would have looked at home on a hillside in Tuscany. A flagstone driveway followed the side of the giant house that was accented by a lush, green lawn, green plants, and flanked on the far side of the entryway by tall, windblown trees.
“Answer me!” Cassidy cried as Officer Nash parked facing a stone wall inset with a nearly invisible garage door.
Officer Nash stepped out of the car, then opened her door. “You have an appointment, Dr. Kincaid.” He paused there, one hand resting on his weapon. She got the impression he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“The hell I do!” she said, scrambling away from him.
With one meaty hand he reached in and grabbed her arm. Though her rational brain knew there was no use in resisting, her legs and arms went wild anyway.
“Quit it or I’ll get out the cuffs,” he said, easily dragging her from the back of the car.