Pinky Promises (The Promises #1)

by Ciara Shayee

  It made Grace shudder to think there were people out there like Garrett Smith—just waiting for an opportunity to snatch the little blond boy playing in his front garden on a scooter, or to bundle the curly, black-haired girl across the street in the back of a waiting van.

  “You okay?” a voice whispered.

  Grace tipped her head to the side as her lips curled up in a tremulous smile; Indie was just as conflicted. “I’m good. You?”

  Indie’s shoulders lifted and fell in the tiniest of shrugs. She wasn’t sure. Nervous anticipation raced through her veins.

  “I didn’t expect everything to look so different,” Grace admitted in a murmur only meant for Indie’s ears. Reagan and Peter continued their quiet conversation two rows behind them, Riley and their escorting police officer silent in the front. Indie shot a quick glance over her shoulder, smiling at the sight that greeted her.

  Laker and Marley—thick as thieves, as usual—were sitting together, their heads bent over the colouring book Reagan had bought at Gatwick upon their arrival.

  His first gift to his granddaughter.

  Marley was scolding Laker by tapping his fingers with the end of her pencil, pointing to where she was colouring inside the lines. Tilting her head, Indie realised it was a bunny they were working on. She didn’t need to look at Mr. Bunny belted beside Marley to know that they were colouring his replica on the page, right down to the blue-string scar on his ear from where Marley had rubbed the fabric until it split when she was a toddler.

  “Neither did I,” she finally told Grace. “Do you think…do you think the houses will look the same?”

  Grace had been thinking the same thing; wondering if their dads had changed the only homes they’d ever known.

  Like Reagan and Peter had needed to come to terms with the girls being different from how they’d been when they left, Indie and Grace were unsure if they’d shortly be arriving at homes they wouldn’t recognise.

  “I don’t…I mean, probably not. It’s been a long time, right? They’ve probably changed them.”

  The girls didn’t want to think about yet another big change in their lives, so they went back to watching houses through the tinted window as they passed them by.

  As they passed a supermarket that hadn’t been there twelve years before, shoppers paused while unpacking groceries from their trollies to speculate on who could be inside the convoy. An old lady waiting for a bus with her young grandson eyed it shrewdly, catching a glimpse of the uniformed officer in the driver’s seat. The train lines were down next to Hampden Park Train Station, so traffic wrapped around the roundabout; all eyes followed the SUV and the police car close on its tail as they cruised through the lane to turn onto Lottbridge Drive.

  Indie and Grace shared a tentative smile as they passed number eleven, where two of their friends from school had lived.

  The bus stop that had been falling apart when they were taken had been repaired and painted bright blue with an electronic timetable next to it, although at a glance the girls had no idea what it was. Their experiences with technology were limited to an old TV they’d never used and kitchen appliances. At the bottom of the hill punctuating Lottbridge Drive, as it curved onto Kingston Road, stood a graffiti-covered phone box as well as an apple-red post box, a group of kids playing football on the grass just as Indie and Grace had so long ago.

  Reagan and Peter halted their conversation to watch the girls’ reactions to the streets surrounding their homes. They were waiting for one in particular. As the SUV pulled to one side to allow an oncoming trio of cars to pass, Indie’s body began to tremble. Grace’s eyes were wide open even though she desperately wanted to close them at the sight of Southern Road.

  It was like a train wreck. You hated to, but couldn’t help but watch the devastation unfold.

  Four doors into the road, where a young woman chatted to a friend in her car, was the exact spot where Indie’s bag had been dropped, its contents scattered over the pavement until Reagan discovered it thirty minutes after the girls should have returned home. It was then he’d realised it was time to panic, calling first the police and then Peter, who’d been picking Heidi and Pippa up from preschool a few minutes away. Though inconspicuous to most, Southern Road symbolised the gates to hell for Indie and Grace, who were unable to take their eyes away from the spot where a blue car idled outside number seven.

  Twelve years ago, it was there that Garrett Smith had pulled over while he snatched two innocent school children.

  Unbidden, the scents and sounds of that day washed over Indie and Grace.

  The pungent aroma of the rose garden Margaret Johnson of number three tended to mercilessly every morning. A brindle Staffordshire bullterrier barking throatily from the window of number two, her cataract-impaired vision allowing her only to see the blurred shapes of the girls meandering along arm-in-arm.

  And then, the rumble of an engine behind them, an innocent sound to their unsuspecting ears. The smell of cigarette smoke on the black-haired man. His arm winding around Grace’s middle while his left muffled her surprised screams.

  Garrett Smith’s sickeningly sweet aftershave wafting through the air. The coarse material of his jumper scratching at the skin left bare by Indie’s short-sleeved polo…

  Gradually, Peter’s voice cut into the flashback. “Girls? It’s okay, we’re right here. You’re safe.”

  February 7th, 2004. The day the Earth stood still and life, as Indie and Grace knew it, ended.

  Not entirely registering the words he was saying, the wide, panicked eyes of the girls found Peter, their bodies instinctively turning towards a voice they were swiftly beginning to realise embodied the feeling of safety.

  “Daddy…” Grace whimpered, a fat tear sliding over her cheek.

  “It’s all right, honey, it’s all right.” It killed Peter that he couldn’t get to her, couldn’t comfort her. “Look, we’re almost on our street. We’re almost there.”

  Mindlessly following Peter’s suggestion, Indie and Grace peered out of the window. Their surroundings slowly registered. They were passing Tugwell Park.

  Football and rainbows, sunny days and rainy puddles…summers with Archie, Laker, and the twins.

  As they passed the field where they’d spent many hours playing with their siblings, aqua and baby-blue eyes spotted the large apple tree on the bend connecting the road they were on to the next street. The boughs of that tree had witnessed many games of hide and seek; had listened to the secrets of giggly little girls and muddy-kneed boys.

  “Are you ready to go home, girls?” Riley’s expression was kind, open, and gentle as the girls faced him.

  Home.

  Such a simple word, such a complex meaning for two girls who’d been through more trauma in their twenty-one years of life than most people saw in an entire lifetime.

  Sharing a look that said everything they wanted to express but couldn’t at this moment, they breathed deeply, exhaling at the same time as their heads tipped in synchronised agreement.

  Never more proud of them than they were at that moment, Reagan and Peter sat in the back with clenched fists, watching their daughters intently as the SUV crept down the road they both knew well. However, the girls had little recollection of how much their memories had been blurred by time.

  The small garden in front of a house that used to belong to an eccentric old man was now littered with children’s outdoor toys. Number fourteen had been painted pale yellow instead of chipped-white with brick showing through here and there. The Robertson’s two-person convertible had been replaced with a minivan to accommodate their six children under ten. As the numbers of the houses on the doors got closer and closer to the one-hundred-and-sixties, Indie and Grace’s fingers twined and squeezed. Hard.

  Laker drew Marley’s attention away from her colouring, pointing out the window and murmuring for her to look. She was excited, kneeling up to peer out with her face against the glass between her small hands. He grinned at her, charmed
by the little girl’s childish pleasure. This was a big deal for her, too. She should know this street, these houses. She should have walked this road hundreds of times by now, heading to and from the park with her Pawpaw and uncles. Instead, this was the first time she was seeing it all.

  Twin hearts thundered rhythmically. Stomachs knotted in nervous anticipation. The atmosphere in the SUV went from tense to beyond petrified within a fraction of a second. Riley’s eyes locked on the girls’ faces in the rear-view mirror. They shivered, quaked, and whispered fervent reassurances to one another.

  Then, they were there. Right outside.

  Home was within reach.

  Indie blinked long, wet eyelashes at the house in which she’d spent her first eight years of life. The red-brown brick was the same, as was the white moulding on the left side and the little triangular porch over the front door. The eight windows were in the same places they’d always been. A dark blue family car was parked on the driveway to the right while a little boy’s scooter lay abandoned on a scruffy lawn. To the left of the house was a tree, its blossom spreading across the grass with every soft puff of the warm breeze. And beside it, an identical house sat, a small tree in the centre instead of a scooter. Indie’s body shuddered, tears tumbling over her cheeks to splash her white-knuckled fists.

  “It’s the same…” she breathed in wonder. The exultation she felt was completely unexpected. Apart from little touches here and there—plants, the mat on the doorstep, and the child’s scooter on the grass—both houses were identical to the girls’ memories.

  “Do you want to go inside? I’m afraid we’re probably attracting attention out here,” Riley prompted gently. He didn’t want to upset anybody, but he already had an agent notifying him through his earpiece that a nosy neighbour across the street was peering through her curtains at them. They’d gone ahead and set up security cameras in and around Reagan’s and Peter’s homes, with the focus on Reagan’s as they’d made the decision to head there on arrival in England.

  In the early days, when Reagan had moved in with his wife, and Peter with his, they’d often congregated at the Ashbys’ house.

  Grace nodded for the both of them, so Officer Burgess and Riley climbed from the SUV. The latter then slid open the door separating the girls from the outside world while the officer let Reagan and Peter out through the rear door. They peered in at their girls, not wanting to pressure them but knowing they needed to get inside soon.

  “It’s time, Indie,” Grace whispered softly.

  “We’re in this together, right, Gracie?”

  “Always.”

  With that, they steeled themselves and slid across the leather seats, stepping out onto the pavement at the same time. Their hands were locked between them, eyes wide open to take in everything at once.

  Reagan quickly walked up the path to open the door while Peter stayed a foot or so behind the girls, Laker at his side with Marley on his hip; Mr. Bunny’s ear was trapped firmly between her teeth as she gazed at the home looming ahead with trepidation, nervous now they’d arrived.

  Riley kept back with the police officer, arms crossed over his chest, eyes suspiciously wet. The officer glanced his way with a smirk.

  “All right, all right. I’m not made of fucking stone,” the American grunted, earning himself a rueful chuckle.

  “Hey, I’m not judging. I got a daughter about their age.” Officer Burgess shook his head, light brown hair flopping down over his forehead. “Can’t imagine what those guys’re going through.”

  Riley dashed tears from his eyes as they followed the family into the house. Not for the first time, he was thankful he’d never have to know how Reagan or Peter felt at that moment.

  Inside, Indie and Grace tried to take in their surroundings through a haze of disbelief. The short hallway led them straight into a living room decorated in a mix of warm creams and varying shades of blue and brown. The familiarity of it was startling. Two, three-person sofas faced each other with a coffee table in the middle, a forgotten newspaper and a half-empty mug sitting there patiently. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall above the fireplace. The windows were framed by blue and cream striped curtains that brushed the floor, the ceiling above painted a matching shade of sky-blue.

  “Do you remember how your mum always said she wanted to be able to see the sky, even when it was cloudy?” Reagan asked in the softest, calmest tone he could manage. Seeing Indie in this room was all he’d wanted for so long, but his head and heart didn’t know how to take it now that it was actually happening. The memory of his late wife sent a wave of longing through his veins. She was always good with tricky situations. Penelope would’ve known how to make this all okay. She set people at ease without thinking about it.

  “I remember,” Indie sputtered. She lifted a hand to her mouth as images of her mother dancing her toddler-self around the room filled her mind, dark brown eyes twinkling in that way Reagan had fallen in love with. At once she felt the urgent need to see her mum’s favourite room, the room she adored and inhabited the most. Turning swiftly on her heels, Indie tugged Grace along with her into the hallway, then took a sharp left and gasped. Tears overflowed, drenching her skin and darkening the grey t-shirt she wore beneath her unzipped hoodie.

  Before she’d died, Penelope had turned this house into a home. She’d loved the summer, and had spent a weekend with Karen painting every cupboard in the kitchen a sunny yellow—to match the bright flowers she insisted went on the island in the centre of the room, as well as the dining table which stood opposite French doors that opened out onto the garden patio. The dark brown-black surfaces reflected the light brilliantly, the creamy-brown tiled floor adding a farmhouse feel to the large space. Six, dark brown leather chairs surrounded the oak dining table, a pot of yellow zinnias filling the room with their fresh scent. Flashes of a blonde-haired woman flitting to and fro in her signature pink apron, a four-year-old on her hip and a twelve-year-old trailing behind, danced in front of Indie’s eyes.

  But that was before…

  “Do you want to see your room? I left it the same…we both did.”

  The girls blew twin sighs of relief.

  “Please, Dad.” Indie released Grace’s hand so she could take Reagan’s. They moved back through the hallway, making their way up the stairs with their hands still joined. The first door on the left at the top of the landing was different, decorated with trains and cars instead of band posters and football trophies. Carl-Roman and Chase’s room, Indie surmised.

  A sharp gasp left Indie’s lips when she and Reagan reached the door at the end of the landing. Indie’s name was still spelled out in glittery pink letters on the white wood, a piece of cardboard hanging from the handle that read ‘This Princess Is Busy—Do Not Disturb’. Reagan’s body was rigid as he nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. It swung in slow-motion to reveal an eight-year-old girl’s paradise.

  The room had the same bright pink walls, matching carpet, and a white, imitation crystal chandelier that any princess would be jealous of—if it were real, of course. The headboard of a white bed was tucked into a small alcove, a multi-coloured canopy pinned back with lacy pink ties. Indie stepped into her childhood bedroom and slid off her trainers, marvelling at the softness of the abstract, floral rug between her feet.

  Letting Reagan’s hand fall back to his side, she trailed her fingertips over the smooth, curved footboard of her bed, her tear-blurred vision taking in the throw that matched the canopy folded neatly across the pale pink quilt; a single, flower-shaped cushion rested against the blue pillows at the opposite end.

  Her eyes caught some photographs on the tall cabinet near the window. As she leaned closer, her lips involuntarily twitched upwards. The grinning faces of her nearest and dearest sent her stomach flip-flopping. A teddy bear she vaguely recalled being given after having her tonsils removed at aged six sat untouched in the same place she’d put it; on the desk in front of one window, while a pale green armchair sat in front of the
other.

  Indie’s feet carried her unthinkingly to the chair where she slowly sat. Tucking her legs up against her chest, Indie whispered, “I can’t even…it’s just…thank you.”

  No words could describe how grateful she felt for this simple refusal to give up, because in her eyes that was exactly what this was—a tangible bit of proof that even when she and Grace had lost hope of being rescued, their ever-loyal dads hadn’t.

  ~ oOo ~

  An undisclosed location, UK

  A pair of grey-blue eyes stared out at the sheep meandering by the window. The sting of tiredness prickled even as the tall man leaning against the wall fought sleep. He sighed, reaching up to ruffle his hair before falling into the chair at his back.

  Boredom was torture. Not knowing, was torture.

  He’d been in this house for two weeks, but it already felt like centuries. Wind rattled the windows, the first drops of rain spitting at the glass. It was always raining, never sunny. He’d thought it was a myth, that England was perpetually rainy.

  He was fast learning it was no myth.

  The clock ticked loudly in the corner, but the hands didn’t move. Within his first few days here, he’d tried to fix it, but the old thing was beyond repair and he’d given up when he couldn’t even get it to stop ticking.

  Beneath his socked feet, the floorboards were cold and hard and bore the marks of booted feet whose soles had trodden upon the miles of muddy earth surrounding the cottage. From all directions, all he could see was green or brown, and the grey of the sky. It had been nice at first, the peace and quiet, the tranquillity after the weeks of upheaval and revelations. The novelty had quickly worn off, leaving maddening boredom and restlessness in its place. There was only so much more of it that he could take before it was too much.

  He’d snap. And he wasn’t sure he’d like it if that happened.

  The sound of a car roaring towards the house had his head whipping around, dark blond hair flying with the movement. He was long overdue a haircut, not that it was high on the priority list at that moment in time, but it meant he was sporting quite the mane.