Shaking her head, she ate a forkful of pancake and sighed with pleasure. “They’re absolutely delicious, India. Just as I thought they would be.”
“I second that,” Damien agreed, smiling at his blushing daughter. “They’re even better than Grandma’s.”
India’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “But that’s just between us. Don’t wanna hurt Grandma’s feelings, know what I mean?”
India grinned, nodding wisely. “Gotcha.”
At Damien’s prompting, she launched into a humorous account of Rosemary Wade’s indignation at Thanksgiving dinner last year when she was told that Imani’s sweet potato pie was almost as good as hers. Althea listened and laughed, allowing herself a temporary reprieve from thoughts of missing books, sadistic predators who kidnapped innocent girls, and things that went bump in the night.
Chapter 21
“She’s a great kid,” Althea said to Damien an hour later after they dropped India off at the East Baltimore middle school she attended.
“She is,” Damien said, a note of deep pride in his voice as he pointed the truck north. “She’s the most incredible thing that ever happened to me.”
Althea smiled gently. “She adores you. She thinks you walk on water. You know that, don’t you?”
Damien chuckled wryly. “Then she’s in for a rude awakening.”
Althea laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re a pretty cool dad, D-Wade. I can’t think of too many fathers who do the Soulja Boy with their kids. Even if you did totally bust her on the lipstick.”
He grimaced. “Her mother knows better.”
Resisting the temptation to take sides, to take his side, Althea said diplomatically, “I guess parents never agree on everything.”
“You got that right,” Damien muttered under his breath.
Althea said nothing, but there were so many questions racing through her mind. Why did he and Angelique split up? How long had they been divorced? How had he coped with losing custody of India? What kind of relationship did he and Angelique now have? Were they friends with benefits? Did they argue passionately one moment, then tumble into bed the very next? Were they thinking about getting back together?
None of your business, to all of the above.
“What happened at your apartment this morning?” Damien asked, breaking into her tortured musings.
Welcoming the opportunity to segue from one unpleasant topic to another, Althea told Damien about the missing book and her suspicion that an intruder had been inside her apartment sometime yesterday. As she recounted her nerve-racking encounter that morning, Damien’s jaw hardened and his hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles protruded.
Too late, Althea realized her mistake in confiding in him. Now she’d never be able to convince him she didn’t need protecting. Damn it!
She immediately began damage control. “I was probably just hearing things, noise from outside or another apartment. I was on edge, jumpy. It’s possible my mind was playing tricks on me. The locks were secured, and I live on the fourth floor of a high-rise building. There’s no way someone could have scaled the window, definitely not without being seen. In fact, the more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that there was an intruder.”
Damien kept his gaze trained ahead, a solitary muscle ticking in his jaw. She could feel the tension radiating from his body, and she knew he was fighting to keep his temper in check.
When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “I saw an alarm panel when I was at your apartment last night. Is it activated?”
“No, but I already called the security company and left a message. If I don’t hear back from them by noon, I’m calling again to have someone come out this week.”
Damien inclined his head coolly. “And what about the missing book?”
Althea glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was seven-forty. “I was waiting until nine to call my aunt. She and my uncle panic whenever I call late at night or early in the morning. I don’t want to get their blood pressure up for nothing.”
“You’re not going to be available at nine,” Damien reminded her in that same mild, implacable tone. “And depending on how the rest of the day goes, it may be hours before you have a chance to call her—if you remember. So why don’t you just do it now?”
It was posed as a suggestion, even though Althea knew it was anything but.
Conceding the logic of his explanation, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and pressed the button to speed-dial her aunt and uncle.
Barbara Pritchard answered halfway through the first ring, sounding alert and worried. “Hey, baby. Is everything all right?”
I told you, Althea mouthed to Damien, who was watching her instead of the road.
“I’m fine, Aunt Bobbi,” Althea quickly reassured her. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. I was just about to get dressed and run some errands, and your uncle is on his way to the Hill. She’s fine,” Barbara murmured to someone in the background, and Althea could imagine her uncle hovering nearby with an anxious look on his face.
“Good morning, Uncle Louie,” she called into the phone, smiling.
Sure enough, he called back, “Morning, baby!”
“Are you sure everything is okay, Althea?” Barbara pressed. “You know your uncle and I have been worried sick about you ever since that girl went missing. They were saying on the news last night that this kidnapping might have something to do with what happened to you.”
Althea inwardly groaned. She should have known it wouldn’t take the media long to make the connection. “They’re just speculating, Aunt Bobbi. We don’t know for sure that there’s a correlation between the two cases.”
“We certainly hope not.” Her aunt didn’t sound too convinced. “Your uncle spoke to Garrison Wade yesterday, and Garrison told him he’s hiring a bodyguard for Imani and the children until this is over. We’d like to do the same for you, if you’d let us.”
“You both mean well, but that really won’t be necessary, Aunt Bobbi. I can take care of myself,” she said, pretending not to notice Damien scowling. “Don’t worry.”
“That’s easier said than done. I don’t have to tell you how devastated we would be if anything happened to you again.”
“I know,” Althea murmured.
Barbara heaved a sigh. “Will you at least consider moving back home for a while? I know the commute from Georgetown to Baltimore would be a little long, but at least you’d be safe here with us.”
“I—” Althea broke off as Damien abruptly switched lanes, pinning her against the passenger door as he veered around another vehicle. This time she scowled at him, and he grumbled a sheepish apology.
“Althea?”
“Sorry about that. Crazy Maryland drivers,” she muttered, glaring pointedly at Damien. “As I was about to say, as much as I’d love to see you and Uncle Louie more often, I can’t move back home. I need to be close to my job.”
“Well, at least give it some thought. Will you do that for us?”
“I will,” Althea lied. “Oh, before I forget, Aunt Bobbi. Did you happen to borrow one of my books on Friday?”
“One of your books?” Barbara sounded puzzled.
Althea’s heart sank. Her aunt didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “Yeah. From the bookcase in my office.”
“No. I didn’t borrow a book. I can ask the ladies from church who helped me unpack your things, but I’m sure none of them took it. Not without asking first. Are you telling me one of your books is missing?”
“I probably just misplaced it,” Althea said, feeling the weight of Damien’s hawklike gaze on her face. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. Her mind was spinning.
“Listen, I have to run, Aunt Bobbi.”
“All right. Oh, wait! Your uncle wants to know if you’re free to meet him for lunch this afternoon. He’s got a two-hour midday break be
tween sessions.”
Althea groaned softly. “I’d love to meet him for lunch, but I can’t. My day’s going to be pretty full. But tell him I want a rain check.”
“I’ll do that. And Althea?”
“Hmm?”
Barbara hesitated. “You be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Althea snapped the phone shut and shoved it back inside her purse with hands that trembled slightly.
Damien noticed.
He stared at her, his eyes hooded, his expression grim. “We can’t ignore it,” he said in a low, flat voice.
“I know.” Althea let out a long, measured sigh. “But I can’t focus on it right now. This case isn’t about me. It’s about Claire. And until we find her and bring her home safely, nothing else matters.”
Damien looked like he wanted to argue, but he said nothing.
Her lie hung in the tense silence between them. This case isn’t about me.
Althea wanted to believe it was true, but she knew better.
And so did Damien.
Organized chaos greeted them when they arrived at the old fire hall on Reisterstown Road in North Baltimore.
As Althea and Damien entered the building, they passed a group of volunteers headed out the door, armed with flyers that provided Claire’s photo and vital statistics. The flyers would be distributed all over the community—papered across storefront windows, stuck on bulletin boards, stapled to light poles, tucked under windshield wipers, passed along to people on the street. The hotline telephones, temporarily housed at the police station, had been set up on a long bank of conference tables in a far corner. Even at that early hour, the phones were already manned and busy; the number of incoming calls and tips was expected to quadruple once Spencer Thorndike announced the $500,000 reward later that morning. Copy and fax machines lined one wall where, at a nearby table, volunteers stacked flyers in neat piles and ran off additional copies as necessary. Office supplies donated by local businesses—envelopes, staplers, stamps, and boxes of rubber bands—littered every available surface of the tables.
The hall was overflowing with law enforcement officers, volunteers from the community, and those who had been lured by their curiosity and morbid fascination with the high-profile case. There were reporters, photographers, and cameramen from newspapers and radio and television stations around the entire metropolitan region—which encompassed Maryland, Virginia, and Washington. They prowled around filming footage of the volunteer efforts while trolling for a scoop, an exclusive, an angle none of their competitors had. They interviewed concerned citizens who expressed fear, shock, and outrage that such a heinous crime could have struck the quaint, insulated community of Mount Washington, where teenage girls were supposed to be safe at all times, especially in their homes. These sound bites would be aired and reaired ad nauseum on evening broadcasts, along with video montages of the bright, beautiful heiress who had seemingly vanished into thin air.
“I’m gonna go talk to Detective Mayhew before the meeting begins,” Damien said, briefly touching Althea’s arm before moving off, threading his way easily through the throng of bodies.
Althea watched him go, then continued scanning the crowded room in search of two particular individuals. She saw a number of teenagers that could only be Claire’s classmates. Some were making good use of their time, while others loitered around and congregated in small groups, laughing and enjoying the day off from school.
Althea eventually spied Heather Warner, whom she recognized from her MyDomain page. The cute, petite blonde wearing black leggings and an oversize cardigan sweater stood behind a table serving hot coffee and doughnuts donated by a local bakery. As Althea watched, a tall, good-looking kid with dark hair and a trim, athletic build sauntered over to the table and struck up a conversation with Heather. Althea recognized the newcomer as Josh Reed.
Josh, who had traded insults with Claire just a week before she disappeared.
Josh, who had hired an attorney and now refused to speak to the police.
Althea stood there for a moment watching him and Heather, studying their interaction with each other, reading their body language. Heather seemed annoyed with him, rolling her eyes and shaking her head in barely concealed disgust. Josh seemed unperturbed by her rancor, snagging two doughnuts from the tray and laughing when she rebuked him.
Deciding she’d seen enough, Althea made her move, cutting a path through the crowd to reach the table near the back. As she approached, Josh glanced up, his dark eyes widening in startled recognition before he quickly averted his gaze.
Althea frowned to herself. How had he recognized her? Neither she nor Damien had appeared in the news in connection to the kidnapping investigation. And even if Josh had seen an old photograph of her, she had changed a lot over the last eight years. Even Keren and Kimberly, her best friends from high school, had done a double take when they saw her on Friday for the first time in years. And none of the reporters milling around the room had recognized her, and some of them had covered her abduction extensively.
But somehow Josh Reed knew who she was.
In contrast, Heather Warner greeted Althea with a friendly, vacant smile that held no trace of recognition. “Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”
Althea smiled. “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Josh fidgeting with a bracelet on his wrist, looking everywhere but at her. She silently counted to five.
On cue, he mumbled, “I’ll, uh, catch you later, Heather.”
Althea turned as he started away. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Reed? I was hoping to have a moment of your time.”
He shook his head jerkily. “Sorry. My lawyer said I’m not supposed to talk to the authorities. That includes feds.”
So he did know who she was.
“Why are you hiding behind a lawyer, Mr. Reed?” Althea asked mildly.
He walked faster, not looking back.
“Well,” Althea said, turning back to Heather, who was staring curiously at her.
She passed Althea a steaming cup of coffee. “He’s been acting weird ever since Claire went missing. But I guess we all have. Are you an FBI agent?”
Althea nodded, flashing her creds with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Althea Pritchard.”
The girl’s blue eyes narrowed shrewdly on her face. “You came to my house yesterday.”
“Yes, I did. I wanted to ask you some questions about Claire.”
“That’s what my mom told me. But I already spoke to the police, so I’m not sure how much—” She paused to serve coffee to a volunteer who had wandered over.
“Here, let me help you.” Althea set down her own cup, then rounded the table to stand beside the teenager in front of an industrial-sized coffee machine. “Why don’t we just fill some cups and leave them on the table?”
“I was doing that at first, but I heard a few people complaining that the coffee was cold.”
“Ingrates,” Althea grumbled.
Heather grinned. “It’s no big deal. It was a madhouse when I first got here, but it’s trickled off since then.” She shrugged. “I used to work at Starbucks. This is tame in comparison. Besides, someone’s supposed to relieve me in a few minutes so I can go out with the search team.”
Althea nodded. “It’s nice of you to come out here so early and help with the volunteer efforts.”
“It’s the least I can do. She was my best friend.” Heather shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “God, I keep doing that,” she whispered, emotion clogging her voice. “I keep referring to her in the past tense. Was. Like she’s already dead.”
“Do you think she is?” Althea asked quietly.
Heather’s blue eyes clouded. “I don’t know. I hope not.” She swallowed hard. “But I keep having these horrible dreams. They seem so real.”
Blinking back tears, she grabbed a paper towel and busied herself wiping a ring of coffee off the table.
Althea watched her
sympathetically for a moment. “How long have you and Claire been friends?” she asked, deciding to start with the easy questions first.
Heather sniffed. “Forever. We grew up together, went to the same schools. She was like my sister.” She groaned. “God, there I go again.”
“It’s all right,” Althea said gently. “Just because you use past tense doesn’t mean you think Claire is dead.”
“But she probably is, isn’t she? I mean, she’s been missing for almost a week now. In most cases, kidnapped people don’t come back after they’ve been gone that long. Am I right?”
Althea pursed her lips, trying to think of the best way to reassure Heather without misleading or patronizing her. “It’s true that the odds against finding a missing person increase the longer they’re gone,” she said carefully, “but that doesn’t mean we should give up hope. We just have to keep praying and doing the best we can to help find Claire.”
Heather nodded slowly. “I knew something was wrong. I kept calling her all weekend, but she wouldn’t answer her cell phone. I even tried calling the house, but no one answered. Finally I just gave up and figured she’d gone to hang out at her mother’s place.” She shook her head, looking guilty and miserable. “Maybe if I’d driven over to the house and saw her car sitting there, I would have realized something was wrong, and I could have called the police.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Heather,” Althea said softly. “You had no way of knowing Claire was in danger.”
“I know,” the girl mumbled, her eyes downcast. “That’s what my parents keep telling me. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. I just wish there was something I could do.”
“Actually,” Althea murmured, “there is.”
Heather lifted her head, meeting her gaze. Her expression was suddenly wary.
“If you know anything that might give us a clue into Claire’s whereabouts, you have to tell us, Heather. Anything at all. No matter how small or insignificant it may seem to you.”
“I already told the police I didn’t know Claire was planning to meet someone on Friday night. She didn’t tell me anything about that, I swear.”
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