Althea strode to her office, sat down at the desk, and turned on her computer. She pulled up Claire’s MyDomain page and scrolled down the screen until she reached the Hobbies and Interests section where Claire mentioned the summer job from last year. Althea jotted down the name and address of the animal-rescue shelter, then quickly read through the new comments that had been posted by Claire’s friends and classmates who were hoping and praying for her safe return. Conspicuously, no comments had been left by Josh Reed.
“What are you hiding, kiddo?” Althea muttered in the silence of the room. “Whatever it is, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
But assuming she was on the right track with the copycat theory, even she had to admit that Josh seemed an unlikely suspect. He’d been only nine when Althea was abducted. She couldn’t see him dredging up an eight-year-old case in order to kidnap and possibly murder his ex-girlfriend.
Stranger things have happened.
Althea frowned, staring at Claire’s smiling image on the computer screen. Somewhere out there, someone knew what had happened to the missing teenager. That someone had waited until the day Althea returned home, nearly eight years later, to emerge from the shadows.
Taking Claire had been his first move.
Only time would reveal his ultimate endgame.
Outside in the darkened parking lot, Damien hankered for a cup of strong black coffee as he pored through a report he’d printed out before leaving the office. Every so often his gaze strayed to Althea’s fourth-story apartment, where the lights glowed invitingly from the living room. Through the closed curtains, he saw her shadow passing back and forth in front of the windows as she moved around inside the apartment. He frowned, his gut tightening at the thought of an unknown predator spying on her from the shadows of the parking lot, patiently biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
It was that suspicion, that unnamed fear, that had brought Damien there that night.
After seeing Althea off two and a half hours earlier, he’d returned to the office and run a background check on Suzette Thorndike. While he waited for the report, he’d reflected on his earlier conversation with Eddie Balducci, who’d summoned Damien back to his office after his meeting with Althea that morning. When a grim-faced Eddie informed him that Althea would be assisting him with the Thorndike investigation, Damien was surprised.
“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon for her to be handling a case like this?” he demanded.
“Of course,” Eddie bit off tersely. “Not only that, but her life may be in danger.”
Damien had listened, with a mounting sense of dread, as Eddie explained the similarities between Althea’s kidnapping and Claire Thorndike’s disappearance, disturbing similarities that could not be easily dismissed.
Eddie finished by saying, “Make no mistake about it. I don’t want Althea anywhere near this case when I know there’s a very real chance she could get hurt. But she insists on helping, and damn it, if her involvement can somehow lead us to Claire Thorndike, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
Damien let his boss know, in no uncertain terms, what he thought of his willingness to use Althea as bait to draw a dangerous psychopath out of hiding. Then, realizing he may have revealed too much about the nature of his relationship with Althea, he’d left the office without another word. He spent the rest of the morning berating himself for losing his cool, something he rarely ever did. He told himself he had no right to feel so protective over a woman he hardly knew, a woman who probably wouldn’t welcome his interference. So he’d vowed to treat Althea the same way he treated every other agent he worked with, which meant he wouldn’t ask her to step down from the case—no matter how much he wanted to.
But as the day wore on and he learned more about Claire Thorndike, the harder it became to suppress his misgivings.
Seated at his cluttered desk that evening, he’d grabbed a notepad, flipped to a blank page, and created two columns under the headings Similarities and Differences. In the first column, he jotted down the similarities between Althea and Claire. Young female, only daughter, honor student, aspiring doctor, prominent father, affluent upbringing, cheating boyfriend.
In the second column, he recorded the differences. Race, one year apart in age at the time of abduction.
When he’d finished writing, he stared down at the list, chilled by what he saw. The similarities between the two victims outnumbered the differences. There was no disputing that. Add to that the timing of the abductions—less than a week apart—and a cold knot of dread tightened in Damien’s stomach.
When he left the office that night, he wasn’t surprised to find himself driving to Althea’s apartment. He parked in an empty visitor spot near the front of the building, slid his seat as far back as it would go, and prepared to settle in for the long haul. He didn’t know what he expected to accomplish by staking out her apartment. All he knew was that he felt compelled to be there, and he’d never been one to ignore his instincts.
At eleven-fifteen, when the lights went out in Althea’s apartment, Damien gave his undivided attention to the printout he’d brought from the office.
Twenty-eight-year-old Suzette Cahill Thorndike was born and raised in a small fishing town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, the eldest of five siblings. An aspiring actress, she left home at the age of seventeen and moved to Baltimore, where she held a number of waitressing jobs before landing a position as a production assistant at Center Stage Theater. It was there that she met her first husband, Patrick Farris, a prominent internist who ran his own private practice in Baltimore. After they were married, Farris, who served on the boards of various arts councils, used his connections to help his wife land some community theater roles. Two years into their marriage, the wealthy physician was sued for malpractice by five former patients who accused him of sexual misconduct. Not only did the lawsuit cost him his practice, his medical license, and his reputation, but shortly afterward his young wife filed for divorce, citing emotional distress caused by his infidelity. Suzette Cahill walked away with more than half of Farris’s remaining assets—a cool two million dollars.
Within a year, the wealthy divorcee was remarried to real estate mogul Spencer Thorndike, whose vast fortune made Patrick Farris look like a pauper.
The girl from a backwater fishing town had done very well for herself, Damien thought sardonically. But that didn’t mean she’d gotten rid of her stepdaughter to get her hands on all of Thorndike’s money, as Althea had conjectured.
If anything, Suzette’s ex-husband seemed a more likely suspect in Claire’s disappearance. Patrick Farris lost just about everything in the aftermath of the malpractice lawsuit; he must have viewed Suzette’s desertion as the ultimate betrayal. At a time when he’d needed her the most, she’d not only left him but took more than half of his money with her. He definitely had motive for wanting to get back at her. There was a strong possibility that the unknown subject, or Unsub, they were looking for was a sexual predator. If Farris was capable of molesting his patients, he was certainly capable of molesting his ex-wife’s beautiful stepdaughter.
Damien frowned, questions and hypotheses churning in his brain like mathematical computations. What if Farris kidnapped and murdered Claire for the sole purpose of framing his ex-wife for the crime? Surely he realized that investigators never ruled out the parents whenever a child went missing. Was he setting up Suzette Thorndike to take the fall? Would the police suddenly “stumble upon” evidence that implicated her in her stepdaughter’s disappearance?
Damien frowned a second time, chilled by another possibility. What if Farris intended to abduct and murder Suzette to complete his revenge? Could she be the next victim?
Pulling out his laptop, Damien quickly entered Patrick Farris’s name and identifying data into the Bureau’s National Crime Information Center, a computerized database accessible to law enforcement agencies nationwide. If Farris had a criminal history, Damien would know by tomo
rrow morning.
As he was closing his laptop, his cell phone jangled. When he dug it out of his breast pocket and saw that his daughter was calling, he felt an instinctive twinge of alarm.
He answered quickly. “Hey, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“Hi, Daddy,” India greeted him cheerfully. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”
Damien smiled, the tension ebbing from his body. “I’m good, baby girl. But why are you still up? It’s almost eleven-thirty.”
“I know. I couldn’t sleep. You’re not at home, are you?”
“No, sweetheart. I’m out.”
“Are you on a stakeout?”
Again he smiled. “Something like that.”
India hesitated, and Damien could see her sitting cross-legged on her canopy bed, frowning up at the ceiling and twirling a thick lock of hair around her finger because she never remembered to wrap it at night.
“What’s on your mind, kiddo?”
India issued a long, deep sigh. “I’m worried about you, Daddy.”
“And why is that?” he murmured, although he already had an inkling. Over the years, he and India had had many heart-to-heart conversations about the dangerous nature of his job. Although she was proud of him for “protecting innocent people and putting away the bad guys,” she made no secret of the fact that she’d much rather have him working as a doctor, a teacher, or a garbage man than a federal agent. You’re always chasing bad men, but what if they turn around one day and start chasing you? she’d once demanded of him, tiny fists planted on her narrow hips, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. Although Damien gently recited the statistics to her, telling her that only forty-nine FBI agents had been killed in the line of duty since the Bureau was founded in 1908, India remained convinced that he was in mortal danger as long as he was an FBI agent.
So when she announced that evening that she was worried about him, he automatically braced himself for another spirited lecture about the hazards of his occupation.
But India surprised him by saying, “I think you need another wife.”
Damien let out a choked laugh. “Excuse me?”
“I think you should get married again. Before you tell me I’m too young to know what I’m talking about,” she hastened to add, “let me just tell you why I said what I did. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening,” he drawled, distinctly amused.
India blew out a heavy breath, as if she were about to impart some unpleasant news. “You’re lonely, Daddy.”
“I am?”
“Of course.” As if the answer should be obvious. “Don’t you think so?”
“I, uh, hadn’t really thought about it. What makes you think I’m lonely?”
“You live all by yourself.”
Damien grinned. “So do a lot of people.”
“And they’re probably lonely, too. The other thing is, you spend your birthday with me every year.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing! I think it’s great that you like celebrating your birthday with me, and we always have the best time.” Her voice gentled. “But, Daddy, I want to know that you’d still have fun if I couldn’t spend the day with you. If you were married, I wouldn’t have to worry about that. I know your wife would make your birthdays special, the way Aunt Imani always does for Uncle Garrison. You know what I mean?”
“I think I understand,” Damien said, his tone somber. “You’re dumping me for some beady-headed boy at school.”
“Daddy!” India protested.
Damien chuckled softly. “I’m just giving you a hard time, baby girl. You know how much I enjoy spending my birthdays with you, and I appreciate your concern for me. But don’t you worry your pretty little head about me. I meant it when I told you I wasn’t mad that you couldn’t make it on Friday. You’re growing up, sweetheart, and that means a whole new world is opening up to you. Believe me, I understand that. You don’t have to feel guilty if you want to go to a school dance or a friend’s party that happens to fall on my birthday. I’m cool with that. I really am.”
India mumbled dispiritedly, “Mom says you had a good time on Friday night, but I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just telling me that to make me feel better.”
Damien swallowed. An image of his and Althea’s naked, writhing bodies flashed through his mind. He gave himself a hard mental shake. “I had a good time,” he assured his daughter. “Take my word for it.”
“Okay,” India said, sounding relieved. But a moment later she was sighing deeply again.
Damien smiled. “No wonder you can’t sleep. Got a lot on your mind tonight, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” She hesitated another moment, then blurted, “I think Mom misses you.”
His smile faded. “Baby girl—”
“Last week I walked in on her looking through your wedding album. She closed it really fast when she saw me, but it was too late. And, Daddy,” she added, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper so as not to be overheard, “I could be wrong, but I think Mom had tears in her eyes.”
Damien flexed his jaw, turning his head to stare out the window. India was only five years old when he and Angelique split up. In the aftermath of their bitter divorce and protracted custody battle, Damien swore he would never again put his daughter in the impossible position of having to choose between her parents when it came to her love and loyalty. He refused to allow her to become a tool, a possession to be bickered over. To that end, he never bad-mouthed Angelique; in fact, he rarely discussed her at all. It was an unspoken agreement between him and India, one she’d always seemed perfectly content with.
Until now, apparently.
“I didn’t tell you that to make you feel sorry for Mom or anything,” she said in a low monotone. “I just . . . thought you should know that she misses you.”
“Is that what this is about, India?” Damien asked quietly. “You want your mother and me to get back together?”
“No! I mean, not really. Well . . . maybe. It’s just that you both seem so lonely. Mom still goes out with her friends all the time, but she doesn’t seem very happy. Maybe if you guys were married again, things would be better this time.”
Damien wondered fleetingly if Angelique had put India up to this phone call, but no, he knew his daughter well enough to realize that the concerns she’d just expressed were very much her own.
In a gentle but firm voice, he said, “You know I’d do just about anything to make you happy, India. Unfortunately, getting back with your mother isn’t one of them.”
“Do you hate her?” his daughter whispered, as if fearing the answer.
Damien pushed out a deep, weary breath. “No, baby girl, I don’t hate your mother. I did, once. But I don’t anymore. That said, I don’t want to give you any false hopes about our relationship. Your mother and I have done a lot of things to hurt each other, things we can never take back. I know you think we’re both lonely—and maybe you’re right—but believe me when I tell you we’re better off apart than we are together. Anyway, sweetheart, the most important thing is that we both love you very much, and nothing will ever change that. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” India said in a small voice.
Damien frowned slightly. “You don’t sound too convinced.”
“I am.” India sighed heavily. “You’ve always told me the truth, Daddy. No matter what, you’ve never lied to me or treated me like a dumb little kid.”
He smiled softly. “That’s because I’ve never thought you were a dumb little kid. Far from it.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” India held the phone away from her mouth and yawned, but Damien heard it anyway.
“It’s almost midnight, kiddo. Time for you to get some shut-eye.”
“Okay,” she mumbled drowsily. Then, “Today in school everyone was talking about that girl who got kidnapped. Are you trying to find her, Daddy?”
“I am, sweetheart. A lot of
people are.”
“That’s good. Her parents must be really worried about her. I hope you find her soon.”
“Me, too,” Damien murmured, scanning the darkened parking lot, as if the key to Claire Thorndike’s whereabouts lurked in the shadows. As he said good night to India and disconnected the call, he sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that his daughter was safe and sound in her own home, in her own bed.
Just as he’d done when Althea Pritchard was kidnapped.
As he glanced at the list he’d made earlier, a chill swept over him that had nothing to do with the cold. On its heels was a foreboding sense of déjà vu.
From the shadowy interior of an old Honda Accord parked five rows away, near the back of the parking lot, he watched Damien Wade. The agent had arrived an hour ago and appeared to be in no hurry to leave.
He didn’t know whether to feel amused or annoyed that Wade had intruded upon his nightly ritual of spying on Althea Pritchard inside her apartment.
That evening he’d watched through his military-issue binoculars as she stood at the living room window, staring out into the dark, wintry night with an apprehensive expression that told him she was thinking about the missing teenager. Thinking about him. Wondering who and where he was. The thought excited him, made his blood pulse through his veins and his cock throb with lust. He had just reached down to stroke himself when she suddenly disappeared from view.
He swore viciously, lowering the binoculars. He held his breath, waiting for her to reappear. As the minutes ticked past, he grew impatient, frustrated. His erection subsided.
After what seemed an eternity, a light clicked on in another room. And there she was, seated at the small wooden desk, the glow from the computer lighting her beautiful face. The back of the monitor faced the window, making it impossible for him to see what she was viewing on the screen. But he didn’t have to guess. He knew she was on Claire Thorndike’s MyDomain page, chasing down potential leads like the good little investigator she was. So smart, so tenacious. She would work at the puzzle until every piece fell neatly into place.
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