Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

  Hugs had just been given all around, except for between her and Kyle, when her mother called out, “Dinner’s ready. Get to the table.”

  Amanda had never seen people move as fast as her family did when one of their mother’s meals was about to be served. The subsequent thought stung Amanda: who would take care of their dad after Mom went to prison? None of them could really tend to him like his wife had. Did her dad even know how to cook? Heating up a microwave meal didn’t count.

  He’d been spoiled—as they all were—by Mom’s cooking. She wasn’t fancy, but she did wholesome, home-cooked meals that would have made the pilgrims proud.

  As Amanda munched on the most delectable and moist roast beef of her life, she listened, she absorbed, she observed. She was soaking all of this in. Family. What she had given up for so long. After Kevin and Lindsey had died, she’d pried herself away from them. Such a hard thing to comprehend now. And she couldn’t help but feel responsible for what their future as a family looked like. Their mother would go to prison; it was just a question of for how long. So Amanda would enjoy this time with her family, even if it was a brief visit. Sometimes, though, she wondered if the continuous banter was how they distracted themselves from reality.

  As everyone finished up, most eased back in their chairs with satisfied looks on their faces. Her father patted his stomach and was the first to praise his wife for the fantastic meal. The gratitude and compliments were echoed around the table and ended with Kyle, who belched his appreciation and received a “Dad, that’s gross” from Demi.

  “Your sister’s sorry she couldn’t make it for dinner.” Her mother was sitting next to Amanda and took her hand. “Syd isn’t able to get here until later, but you’ll be running off. Am I right?” A little stab of a guilt—a weapon most mothers were skilled at wielding.

  “No choice,” Amanda said. “I’d stay if I could.”

  Her mother patted Amanda’s arm. “I know.”

  When Amanda looked up from where her mother had touched her, she met Kyle’s gaze. Again, he looked away.

  Her sisters Kristen and Emily had kicked into action and were clearing the table, and Amanda went to get up to help.

  “You stay right there,” her mother directed.

  “I should help,” Amanda said.

  “Stay,” her mother said, then, “Kristen.”

  Their mother’s tone had her thirty-three-year-old daughter moving faster. Why?—Amanda had no idea. Just like every other week, it would be tea and apple pie. But it was a brief glance from Kristen that told her they had something else planned.

  “No. You didn’t need to do anything,” Amanda groaned and slid down her chair.

  “Nonsense. It’s your birthday,” her mother said.

  “Not until Tuesday.”

  “Now, now, this is the best time. And sit up before your back becomes a question mark.” She rushed Amanda with waving hands.

  Kristen brought in a large rectangular cake with white icing and, gratefully, no candles to serve as a visual testimony to her age.

  “Vanilla with a strawberry filling, just how you like it.” Her mother beamed at Amanda. “At least I hope you still like it that way. I should have asked, but then it wouldn’t have been a surprise. You didn’t think we weren’t going to do anything for your birthday, I hope. Happy birthday to you, happy birth—” She stopped and leveled a glare at the rest of the family, and they all joined in singing to Amanda.

  Off-pitch, off-key, off-tempo, but it was the most beautiful thing she’d heard in a long time. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she pressed her lips into a smile to stave off crying, while her heart ached. She had forgotten just how much her family meant to her and how much they were a part of not only her life, but her very essence.

  Forty-One

  He had followed her home and waited outside, wanting to knock on her door and witness her reaction when she answered. But maybe his face would mean nothing to her. It would all depend on how smart and good she was at her job. He’d given her an opportunity to see him, but he was quite sure she’d looked through him, just like his mother often did.

  Sure, she’d thanked him for getting the door for her that one day at the diner, but she didn’t really see him. It had been nothing more than etiquette in action, practiced by rote.

  But with his mind yapping tirelessly, he’d ended up missing his opportunity to surprise her—and what did he really want to do anyway? He still hadn’t decided. Did he want to kill her or just make her realize how she was interfering in his plans and had strayed from his team?

  She’d ended up coming out of her house, dressed differently than when she’d entered. When she drove off, he followed her across Dumfries. He kept at a distance but watched as she parked behind a pickup truck near a house with a large wraparound porch. It looked like there was a party going on with the full driveway and some other vehicles parked on the street.

  He keyed the house’s address into his phone and did a reverse search. Nathan Steele.

  He grinned broadly. “I’ll be,” he said out loud to himself.

  This was Amanda’s parents’ place, and all those vehicles had to belong to her siblings.

  Her siblings…

  Anger knotted in his chest, and he clenched his hands into fists on top of the steering wheel. She had a real, functioning family who did dinners together on Sunday. Idyllic. Fictional—in his experience.

  He found himself hating the detective even more. He wanted to strip everything from her, let her know true pain when he killed every one of her siblings and her parents.

  But he calmed as he remembered that Amanda didn’t have a perfect life, the perfect family. She’d lost her husband and daughter, and her mother was a killer, just like him.

  He felt a little warmth shoot through him. Amanda should understand him. The instinct to kill probably flowed through her veins, just like the woman who had given birth to her. And yet she wasn’t on his team as he’d first thought. She was working against him to shut down his stories from getting out. She’d turned that newswoman away. He really couldn’t forgive her for that.

  She had to know that she was making herself an enemy. The severed tongue—how could he have been any clearer that he wanted no more interference? Had he messed up somehow, sent another message entirely? Or was the detective not as good as she was portrayed in the newspaper back in January? Another option, and this one sent rage through him, was that the detective had purposely done her part to ignore him and deny him satisfaction.

  That possibility was worse than all else. She had seen him but chose to disregard him and assign him little value and importance.

  What more could he do to make it evident that he was serious and that it was his time to be glorified? He deserved to be seen for what he was—someone who made a positive contribution to this world.

  He was no longer that child doing whatever he could think of to make his parents pay attention to him. He’d found his path through his pain, and now he had his life mapped out. He knew what to do to make a difference in this world. And he was doing it.

  The detective obviously didn’t understand that, but she would. He would see to it.

  Forty-Two

  Amanda had eaten two pieces of cake before leaving her parents and hugging everyone goodbye. Kyle hugged her, but he had clearly done so because he’d caved under the pressure of everyone watching. He had whispered into her ear, “Mom may have forgiven you, but I haven’t.”

  It had taken all her willpower not to cry then and there, but she made it to her car. She let the tears fall as she drove from her parents’ to Central. Best she get the tears out of the way before she met up with Trent at seven thirty—something they’d arranged before they took a break for dinner.

  Her phone rang, and Jacob Briggs popped up on the vehicle’s onboard display. She answered immediately. “Tell me you have good news.”

  “Interesting way of answering your phone.”

  “I could just use some good
news right about now.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “You’re not calling with any,” she surmised.

  “You’d be right about that. Sorry.”

  “Nope. You would have done all you could.” She had every confidence if there was a way to track the blocked number that had called Fraser Reyes, Jacob would have found it.

  “I did. Wish it met with better results.”

  “Makes two of us. Thanks, though.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jacob ended the call.

  She pulled into Central, and a message from Trent came in. She parked and read it.

  Be there in about thirty minutes. Sorry.

  Okay. she sent back and pocketed her phone. The time in the top left-hand corner of her phone told her it was seven thirty now.

  She went to her desk and found a handwritten scribble on a sticky note that the canvassing officers’ interviews from that day were already in the system, available to read.

  “Good to know,” she said to herself as she sat at her desk. If talking to oneself was the first sign of insanity, she was in trouble.

  Before she went looking for the interviews, though, she logged into her email to see if anything useful would filter in. There were a couple. One from Detective Robbins and another from Mia Vaughn. Amanda opened the latter first.

  Some pictures of the crowd. Sketches and photos of the house to follow.

  They always seemed to take longer, but Amanda couldn’t imagine them revealing much to her, given the condition of the structure. But at least she had something to work with. She printed the three image attachments in color, collected them from the printer on her desk, and closed the email.

  Next, she opened Chester Robbins’s email. Attached were the investigation files for Crystal Foster and Ashley Lynch. In the body, he provided a clear list of the top three suspects’ names. At the sight of them, she knew what she had to do. Her father had placed a high value on intuition, that sixth sense as a cop, so she listened to hers and called Patty Glover.

  “Detective Glover.”

  She had expected voicemail due to the time of night. “Ah, Patty, it’s Amanda Steele.”

  “Hey there, what’s up?” The cheeriness in Patty’s voice made Amanda wish she’d been calling with good news.

  “There was another fire, and two more young women were killed.”

  “Oh.” One word, and Amanda felt the pang of hurt travel the line.

  “That’s four victims in…four days, three of them only teens.”

  “Were the most recent ones branded too?”

  “No way of knowing. The fire destroyed their bodies, left only bones. All we have is an eyewitness who saw a man with two young women go into the backyard of the house.”

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  Amanda went on. “We were able to ID the victim pulled from the first fire. Her name was Ashley Lynch, out of Washington. She was groomed on social media by someone claiming to be a boy from her high school. Obviously it wasn’t. Ashley was spotted with another friend—who also ran away—talking with a woman.”

  “I wish I could help.”

  Amanda shifted straighter in her chair. “You might be able to, and I may be able to help you. I have a few names from the detective who investigated Ashley Lynch’s disappearance. He cleared these people, but I was hoping you could take a look and see if any of them mean something to you. Might even give you a lead to shut these monsters down. Or at least make their lives hell.” Amanda had amended her comment because Patty had told her before that it was near impossible to destroy these rings. They’d just reorganize and pick up business as usual.

  “Sure, shoot the names over, and I’ll take a look.”

  They wished each other a good night in spite of the darkness that had occupied their entire conversation.

  Amanda’s phone rang immediately.

  “Just wanted to let you know that the tip line will be functional and broadcast on the eleven o’clock news.” It was Malone, and he was to-the-point again.

  “You got that set up fast.”

  “How I work.”

  She thought for a second he was going to hang up on her, but he said, “How are things going with the case?”

  “Nothing more since we last spoke. Just about to dig back in now. I’ll probably start with reviewing the interviews conducted by canvassing officers from today and see if any leads pop up there.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.”

  “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

  “Four dead bodies in four days. Not really.” He hung up.

  Maybe he was just upset about the murders and his mood had nothing to do with her, after all.

  “Heard you on the phone.”

  She turned to see Trent going to his desk.

  “Was it Malone?” he asked.

  “Yep. The tip line will be in place for the eleven o’clock news.”

  “That’s good. Right?”

  “Sure.” She was for it when Malone had made the suggestion, had doubts about its effectiveness when talking to Justin Cooper, and now, with its inevitability, they had become stronger. Even if someone did decide to speak, would they come forward only to get themselves killed for doing so? She cleared her throat and told Trent about the memo she’d received on the yellow two-by-two square.

  “I’ll get started on reading the interviews.” He no sooner finished speaking than he started clicking away on his keyboard.

  “Ah, just a couple more things. I got an email from Mia, and she sent over some pictures of the crowd.”

  He looked over the partition, and she passed him the colored printouts.

  He glanced at the pictures, then at his monitor, back at the pictures. His brow furled up. “Huh.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it looks like…” His lips were moving, but no words were coming out.

  “Trent,” she prompted.

  “There’s a folder on the server labeled Crowd Interviews, but nothing from canvassing officers.”

  “Okay, well, start with what we have.”

  “No problem, but I just counted and there are fourteen interviews and, in this picture—” he held up one of the printout she’d given him “—there’s fifteen people.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Let me count again…” His lips started moving like before, then he nodded.

  “All right, well, we’ll just have to figure out who got missed.”

  Forty-Three

  “How do we figure out who wasn’t interviewed?” Trent left his desk and joined Amanda in her cubicle.

  She could only think of one way. “We read through all the interviews—you do half, I’ll do the other half. We’ll pull background reports for everyone as we go and compare their DMV photos with the pictures of the crowd. It’s likely most of them have a driver’s license. We mark off every face as we go along. Make a copy of the picture and give one back to me.”

  Trent left for the copy room to do as she’d asked and returned seconds later. “Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Next thing she saw was the top of Trent’s head from his cubicle as he looked down and pecked away on his keyboard.

  She got to work on her half. She’d had to pull a lot more backgrounds at one time before. Seven were nothing. But still the hours passed. It was one fifteen in the morning when she had one more report to pull.

  The interviewing officer recorded her name as Cindy Page.

  Cindy… It wasn’t a common name, but one she’d heard recently.

  She typed Cindy Page into the system and… nada. She brought up a map of Dumfries in her mind, and the address Cindy gave during the interview was only a block over from the first fire. Then it suddenly sank in why Cindy was familiar. She was the young woman Amanda had spoken to, the one who had brought her boyfriend a coffee. Why wasn’t she in the system, and what was she doing at the scene of the second fire?

  �
��Trent, you finished over there? I need your photo to see who you marked off.”

  “Ah, yeah.” Trent’s marker squeaked across the page as he inflicted his final X before handing it to her.

  She scratched off the faces on his that she had on hers. They were left with two—a dark-haired man and a blonde with teal highlights standing several people apart. “Okay, quite sure this is Cindy Page. I spoke to her and her boyfriend at the scene of the first fire. But that man is a mystery.” She went digging through the image gallery on her phone, searching the photos of the gawkers from the first crime scene. She stared at one after the other, looking to see if she could find his face in the crowd there—and finally she found him.

  “Look!” She pointed excitedly at his face on the screen and then to the one in the printed copy from the Clear Mountain Circle crime scene.

  “He was at both fires.”

  “And so was Cindy…” Did that mean anything? Was she grasping for a clue so badly she was making them up now? After all, Cindy and the mystery man weren’t standing together in any of the photos. There was nothing screaming that they knew each other. It could have just been a coincidence that they were both at the two scenes? But what about the morning of Fox’s murder? Had they been in the crowd that day?

  “Quick,” she directed Trent, “look for them in the crowd across from Fox’s house.”

  Trent rushed back to his desk, and shortly later, his printer came to life.

  “Both the man and woman were there too.” Trent bolted to his feet, snatched the paper off the tray, and handed it to her. He pointed out their faces. “Him, right there in the back, and her near the front.”

  What the hell is going on? Her heart raced, and her stomach tightened. “Okay, we pull all the crowd interviews—from the first fire and across from Fox’s house. His name has to be there somewhere.” As she heard herself rattling off directions, she realized she was getting ahead of herself. And if the man was the killer, would he have stuck around to be interviewed? By extension, if he was questioned, she couldn’t imagine that he’d provide his real information. There was something they could try right now, though.