Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

  She found a folder on her desk and looked inside. It contained the interviews from the canvassing officers.

  She put her light jacket on the back of her chair and dropped down.

  Amanda shuffled through a few of them but didn’t find anyone’s statements particularly helpful at quick glance. She closed the folder and brought up Missing Persons on the computer. She keyed in the little they had in the way of narrowing things down. The butterfly pin, the name Crystal, her approximate age at time of death, her height, and her hair and eye color.

  Trent returned and settled in at his desk. She handed him the folder over the partition. “Officer interviews,” was all she said as an explanation.

  She clicked enter on her search and tapped her fingers and toes while she waited on the results. Nada.

  They needed more. Her DNA profile, which Rideout was handling, and the girl’s dental impression—just in case it came in useful. She didn’t want to consider that no one was missing Jane Doe.

  She logged into her email, and there was a message with attachments from Fire Marshal Sullivan. She opened it and read his brief message. He was still compiling his sketches and the photographs of the house’s interior, but he sent photos he had taken of the crowd across the street at different points throughout the day. She opened them, looking at one after the other, scanning for anything that might seem obviously out of the ordinary. Nothing struck her, and the direness of their reality sank in.

  It was starting to feel like their only option for ID’ing the girl was waiting on Rideout and hoping that Jane Doe was actually in the Missing Persons database.

  She glanced over at Trent and could only see the top of his head. “How are you making out over there?”

  “Nothing yet, but I just got a coffee. I’m good to keep at this.”

  She got up and grabbed her jacket. “I need a break.”

  “Sure. You okay?”

  She just waved and left. She was far from okay, but she wasn’t in the mood to get into it right now. There was one place she wanted to be. Whether it was healthy or advisable would remain to be seen.

  Thirteen

  Amanda stopped by 532 Bill Drive on the way to her intended destination, just to feel like she was doing something to move the case along. A quick conversation with the officer on scene only emphasized the slow progress with this case. He hadn’t seen anyone who stood out to him, but the memorial had grown significantly from earlier in the day. Amanda knew it would only blossom further once the news of the fire and death reached more people. Then throngs would come to pay their respects. She found hypocrisy in how some would show support to a stranger in tragedy but snubbed those they didn’t know in daily life. But death had a way of changing people and the way they looked at the world. Amanda knew for a fact she viewed everything differently after being personally impacted by the work of the Grim Reaper.

  She gave the memorial another look and realized she didn’t want to show up where she was going empty-handed. She got back into her car and drove to a convenience store that she knew sold bouquets and bought two. Then she headed to the graveyard.

  She pulled in through the gates of Eagle Cemetery and followed the winding roads to a parking lot. Getting out, flowers in hand, she noted how once again she was here at night. Above her, an almost fully formed egg moon hung in the sky—a British term she’d learned from her maternal grandmother for a full moon in April. Its glow illuminated her path as she walked up the hill toward an oak tree that was perched at the top. Kevin’s and Lindsey’s plots were just over the crest.

  For a while, she’d stopped coming here. It just felt too awkward, uncomfortable. It never got any easier to speak out loud to her dead husband and child as if they could hear her when she wasn’t sure they could. But she’d persisted, and over the last few months, she actually felt like she’d bonded with them. She had sensed the touch of her daughter’s spirit—or her memory anyway—affect her and help her. She hadn’t yet told Kevin she was seeing someone, and she wouldn’t unless things with Logan became serious. And she had no plans of that happening.

  But with the case of Jane Doe and the nightmarish images resurfacing of those poor sex-trafficking victims, she didn’t know who else to talk to. She probably could have gone to Becky’s and chatted with her, but she didn’t want to burden her friend, and the hour was rather late. And, even if it was earlier in the day, she certainly wasn’t about to pour her heart out to a shrink. She’d tried that after Kevin and Lindsey had died, but it hadn’t lasted long. Besides, she just wanted to talk without being interrupted or offered advice. That was one strong advantage of talking to the dead. Though Rideout would disagree and say the dead talked a lot. She supposed they did, in their own way.

  She reached the top of the hill, stopped, and breathed in the warm night air. It had her wishing she’d just left her jacket in the car. She took it off now, though, juggling the bouquets from one hand to the other as she pulled her arms out of the sleeves. She tied the coat around her waist and continued toward their graves.

  She rounded the stones and noted there were already flowers in each of the holders. Probably from her mother, who visited religiously.

  Amanda squeezed a new bouquet in with the one already at Kevin’s stone. Her gaze landed on the inscription as she straightened back up. Beloved Husband and Father, Kevin James.

  There were so many times since his death when she’d wished she’d taken his surname and not stuck with her maiden one. It had purely been strategic when she’d made the decision. Her father was the police chief, and his recognizable name would go a long way as she climbed the ranks. At least that had been her reasoning.

  She moved her daughter’s bouquet around to make room for the additional blooms she’d brought for her. As she was fussing with the flowers, a small envelope came out of the older arrangement, wedged between her fingers. She smiled, thinking that it was just like her mother to leave a note for her granddaughter.

  Amanda gathered the two bunches of flowers in hand, the card temporarily set aside on her thigh as she crouched down. She fed the two bouquets into the holder and went to replace the card. But she stopped cold. The moonlight spilled over the envelope just enough to make out the person to whom it was addressed.

  It was Amanda’s name—in type.

  A chill tore through her, and she looked over her shoulders, left and right, right and left, left and right again. Suddenly it felt like the night carried eyes.

  She rubbed her arms. Maybe she was making too much out of this, but there was a nattering voice in her brain cautioning her. Anyone who knew her and had something to say to her could pick up a phone or show up at her door. Who would have the audacity to leave a message for her here—and why?

  She let go of the envelope, and it fell to the grass. She never should have touched the thing. What if it was evidence? A feeling of dread pricked her skin, but as she stared down at it, her curiosity had to be satisfied.

  She pulled out her cell phone and turned on the flashlight.

  “Here goes,” she said out loud. As if it wasn’t creepy enough that she was haunting a graveyard at night, now she was receiving mail at her daughter’s grave…

  She set her phone on her thigh as she picked up the envelope again, resolute, but her fingers were working slowly to peel back the seal. Once the lip was lifted, she withdrew what was inside, and with her other hand, she aimed the flashlight on it. Just a piece of regular copy paper folded in half.

  A typed message read, “We’re on the same team. Be grateful that your angel will always stay innocent.”

  She dropped the card and her phone. What the hell? She fumbled to pick up both quickly, now concerned about the dew destroying the note and her phone.

  She read the letter again as she stood, and her legs quaked unsteadily beneath her.

  The card’s sender had to be Jane Doe’s killer, but for what purpose? Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling much like talking to anyone. It was time to leave.

&n
bsp; Fourteen

  His adrenaline was pumping, and he felt so very alive. He’d take that as further confirmation he was on the right path. Getting the address for Shannon Fox had been easy, thanks to the internet. Maybe he was being reckless or stupid returning to the same street in less than twenty-four hours.

  It was about five thirty in the morning when he parked along a side street a block away. The closer he got to the nurse’s house, and by extension 532 Bill Drive, where he’d killed that girl, the more his hands started to shake. So much for being at complete peace with what he had done. But, for once, he had his mother’s understanding and attention. Possibly even approval. That spurred him forward and helped him focus.

  He was dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, and he trotted along the sidewalk toward Fox’s house. Or the Fox… Ah, he liked thinking of her as that. Because that’s what she was. Cunning and scheming, hiding her true intentions behind a good act.

  He kept an even pace, not too fast, not too slow. If any curious neighbor saw him, they’d just conclude he was out getting some exercise in the early morning.

  He looked at the cop car in front of 532. Even the officer wouldn’t think anything of him if he noticed him. But the sight of the house again, just how untouched it was, had rage blistering within him. But all he could do was move forward, perfect, and get things right this time.

  He stopped at the end of Fox’s driveway, running in place and checking his watch, probably appearing as if he was consulting one of those gadgets that tracked heart rate, distance, and calories burned. In his peripheral, he looked at the four-door sedan in the drive, but he also saw a light coming through a second-story window. Someone was certainly home and, by the looks of it, awake. That could prove to be a problem. Did he wait, or come back and try another time?

  He jogged in a circle. He didn’t want to put this off. A message needed to be sent, and he had to redeem himself.

  He ducked up the driveway with one more furtive glance at 532, this time thinking of the girl who had been inside. He was doing this because of her, because of what she represented.

  The end of the driveway butted against a chain-link fence and tall shrubbery. He found a gate, which he unlatched and slipped through. The backyard was banked by large bushes and trees. The branches overhung the space, filling it with shadows like outreaching fingers. The moon was the only source of illumination back here, but that was a good sign. And maybe the light in the house was also a positive omen. It would give him a place to target.

  He slipped across the back of the house to a deck and a sliding patio door. Closed vertical blinds took away the possibility of catching a glimpse of the interior, but he’d been in houses that looked similar to this one, and the layout here was likely the same.

  He considered the door as a point of entry. He put on a pair of gloves and tugged on the handle. The slider didn’t budge. The security bar was probably in place. He could break the glass, but that would make a racket and draw attention.

  He moved farther along the rear of the house and found a window at the far west end near the fence line. It was only about four feet above the deck, and it was aluminum cased and opened vertically. Given the age of the home, he’d be surprised if the latch even caught anymore.

  He smiled. This just might work.

  He pulled a knife from a pocket in his jogging pants. He took the blade and sliced the screen out of its frame, and it fell to the ground like crumpled silk.

  Next, he lifted the pane and smiled as he met with no resistance.

  He made his way through the opening and closed the window behind him.

  He was in a small, dated bathroom that smelled of vanilla. Through the door there would be a hallway that went left to a room. Right would lead to the other living areas of the home, and he’d find the staircase near the front door—if the floorplan was as he imagined.

  He walked slowly, thankful for numerous nightlights placed in outlets throughout Fox’s home. But one unfortunate placement of his foot, and a floorboard let out a loud groan. He froze in place, listened. Nothing—just his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  He proceeded until he came to the staircase, positioned just to the left of the front door, as he had guessed. He looked up. A faint light spilled across the landing, and he guessed it was probably another nightlight.

  He treaded slowly, cringing to think of another misplaced footstep that could expose him. After all, it was crucial that he keep the element of surprise.

  He made his way up, sliding his back against the wall as he went. At the top, he confirmed that it was just a nightlight. There wasn’t any light trickling out from under any of the closed doors.

  He scanned his surroundings—three rooms, two on the right and one on the left. Then he slinked down the hall and confirmed the first room on the left was a bathroom—facing the front of the house. It had probably been the source of the light he’d seen from outside, but it was dark now. Maybe Fox had just used the toilet and gone back to bed.

  He strained to hear anything or detect movement. Next to the second room on the right, he heard heavy breathing coming from inside. He slipped a hand into his pocket, wrapped it around the needle, and twisted the door handle.

  It was a bedroom, and there was a form in the bed, likely Fox. He stepped inside, but immediately felt something was wrong. Fear curdled through him. The deep breathing was now coming from behind him.

  Before he could turn, he was struck. A blinding pain pierced his skull, and he roared. As his vision cleared, he made out Fox in a bathrobe, holding a bat over her head, poised to hit a home run.

  But the form on the bed… He rubbed at his head and advanced on Fox.

  “You come near me, I swear to God, I’ll—”

  He pulled his knife and arched it in the air. It stopped her midsentence. Her eyes were darting around the room and behind him. Is somebody else here?

  He glanced quickly over a shoulder. The form hadn’t moved at all, and he pieced it together. Fox was indeed a sly one. She must have heard him enter the house and positioned her pillows to make it look like she was in bed. As long as she didn’t call 911…

  “Get out of my house!” Fox yelled.

  He lunged toward her, and she juked left, swinging the bat at him, but he ducked. The bat bit into the drywall above his head, and dust rained down. He coughed but kept his focus on her. The bat had gotten stuck somehow in the wall, and she was struggling to reel it back.

  “Well, well.” He grinned as he closed in on her. Trapped little fox.

  “Help!” Fox screamed, her voice ringing in the otherwise silent house. She reached out and swiped at him. Her long nails bit into his arms, and pain fired through him. He howled, but adrenaline swiftly minimalized the sting.

  He thrust the knife into her gut, and she wailed. He felt the blade tear through tissue and bank in bone.

  Not his intended use for the knife. It was an impulsive act, but it had disabled her. If only she’d shut the hell up! He removed the loaded syringe from his pocket and plunged it into her neck. It would deliver a heavy dose, and she’d become a lifeless puppet.

  Almost immediately, her eyelids lowered. Then they lifted slowly, but it was obvious she was having a hard time keeping them open. Her body crumpled against the wall, then down to the floor in a heap.

  He crouched next to her. She was still breathing. He lifted one of her arms and let it go. It fell beside her. Good, she was completely incapacitated. She probably wouldn’t feel much. He truly was The Merciful.

  He cupped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. “You should really learn to keep your mouth shut.”

  Fifteen

  Amanda had hardly slept last night after finding that note at the grave. It had to be from Doe’s killer—or did it? She teetered back and forth on the matter. But it was the wording that chilled her. “The same team… happy your angel will always stay innocent.”

  What team? Did it refer to values and beliefs? Somethi
ng more? If it was the killer, did that mean he saw himself on the same side as law enforcement? And, really, the only possible thread connecting Amanda and the killer would be sex trafficking. But he had killed a victim of sex trafficking, while she had rescued them. The last tidbit wedged in her mind. She’d rescued them…

  Had the killer seen the articles earlier this year about the girls she’d found? If so, that would indicate he was a local. Another shiver ripped through her.

  But what had truly prompted the note? Was there an enclosed threat—that he could get to her whenever he wanted? He had, after all, violated her daughter’s resting place. Or was he simply delusional, really believing that she was an equal with a man who had strangled a young woman and intended to burn her body to ash?

  She tapped the steering wheel of her Honda Civic. She was sitting in the parking lot of the Department of Forensic Science in Manassas waiting for the place to open at eight. Only a couple more minutes to go.

  Her plan was to turn over the note to investigators and rush back to Woodbridge for the appointment at the bank. Hopefully, Forensics would get somewhere with fingerprints or touch DNA.

  The clock told her it was time, and she got out of the car and entered the building. She was going to request CSI Isabelle Donnelly, whom she rather liked, but another CSI she knew was to the left of the counter. Amanda smiled and lifted her index finger to the receptionist and took one step toward CSI Emma Blair just as she withdrew from an embrace with her son—the fireman, Spencer Blair.

  Amanda’s instinct was to glance away—even walk away—like she’d interrupted an intimate moment between the two of them simply by being there. Instead, she signaled to the CSI that she was coming over, but Amanda’s legs felt weighed down as she started to walk. Both Blairs were leveling glares and scowls at her. She was tempted to just conclude the family was miserable, but she’d seen them be nice to other people. It would seem their hostility was aimed at her. Not that she had a clue as to why.