by David Bell
“Okay, if you want.”
But Angela felt relieved when she put the phone down, relieved to have the company. Did she want to sit alone all night, waiting to hear more from Michael?
What if something horrible happened? Did she want to get the news alone?
She went to the dresser, pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of socks. Before she changed, she looked out the window at the quiet street. In the glow of the streetlamp at the edge of their yard, a man in dark clothes walked by, shoulders hunched.
Something about the sight of the man unsettled her. No one ever walked up and down their street late at night, and she shivered a little.
But he walked the other way, in the opposite direction of their house.
She pulled the curtains shut and changed her shirt.
chapter
thirty-seven
1:15 A.M.
Griffin slowly rolled by the house where Tiffany Flowers lived. Was supposed to live, she corrected herself, knowing full well that the information online might be out-of-date.
She meant what she’d said to Rory before she left the house—she simply intended to look.
But she also knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was lying to herself. It reminded her of having ice cream in the freezer. Sure, she could tell herself all day she wasn’t going to have a spoonful, but her mind knew better. She knew she’d be giving in at some point, succumbing to temptation.
She really wanted to knock on Tiffany Flowers’s door, and she fully expected to.
And whoever lived in the house made it easy for her. Even though it was past one o’clock, a television played inside the front room, the flickering multicolored glow from the screen lighting up the curtains. It looked like an invitation.
Griffin pulled the car over in front of the house and climbed out. As she walked across the lawn, she took a glance up and down the street. The houses were uniform, small and boxy, a working-class neighborhood. Mostly clean and orderly, not the kind of neighborhood they received a lot of calls from. The streetlight revealed light-colored siding on Tiffany Flowers’s house, some neatly trimmed bushes and colorful perennials planted in the yard. A train sounded its horn in the distance, lonely and bereft. Griffin had been told not to bother with the lead about the kidnapping, so she wanted to cross it off her own mental checklist, give herself a reason to sleep better that night, if she was able to sleep at all.
She stepped onto the porch. Through the closed door, she heard the muffled sound of the television. Voices screamed and a monster roared, as though whoever sat inside was watching a horror movie. It took Griffin back to her junior high days, late nights in summer camped out on the couch and surfing cable channels for something illicit to watch while her mother slept upstairs. She’d loved the secrecy and intimacy of finding a horror movie late at night, something that made her look over her shoulder every few minutes even though the doors were locked and the neighborhood safe.
Griffin knocked loud enough to be heard over the television. It took a moment for the sound to shut off, and then a face appeared at the window, slipping the curtains aside and glancing out. It helped Griffin to be a woman at a moment like that. Another woman would be much more likely to open the door to her than a man. The face, round and a few years older than Griffin’s, studied her for a long moment. Griffin waved in a nonthreatening way and showed her badge. When she did that, the woman’s eyes opened wide, with some mixture of nervousness and surprise. The curtain fell shut, and soon the locks on the door were being undone.
The woman who revealed herself wore a baggy T-shirt and jeans, but Griffin sensed there was a taut wiriness beneath the loose clothes, the tough leanness of a person who could run fast and fight hard. Her feet were bare. Her hair looked overprocessed and slightly frizzy. Without the barrier of the window, she looked younger, closer in age to Griffin. A suspicious intensity came off her like heat.
“Is something wrong?” the woman asked, her voice slightly confrontational.
“I’m Erin Griffin. I’m a detective with the Davenport County sheriff’s office. I’m trying to find Tiffany Flowers. Does she live here?”
“I’m Tiffany.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Can I ask what this is about? Is it because I called about the neighbor’s dog? That was three weeks ago, and I think they moved.”
“It’s not that.”
“Why are you here so late?”
“Your daughter, Stacey, disappeared a number of years ago. I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Before Griffin pushed all the words out of her mouth, Tiffany’s hand was at her chest, clutching the material of the T-shirt as though she were having a heart attack. Her face grew pale, and her mouth fell open like a loose screen door.
“Oh,” she said.
Griffin felt like she was tiptoeing through a minefield. She’d ventured too far to go back, but the way ahead looked fraught.
“You found her,” Tiffany said, her voice full of hope and dread.
“No, no. Not that. But I’d like to talk to you.”
Tiffany stepped back, still clutching her shirt, and let Griffin into the house.
chapter
thirty-eight
The two women settled on opposite ends of the couch. The TV still played with the sound muted. On the screen, an alien spaceship flew over an American city, firing lasers and missiles into the buildings. Huge explosions followed, and people ran through the streets, screaming as flaming debris rained down on top of them.
Tiffany folded her hands in her lap, but they refused to remain still. She tangled her fingers together, working them around and around like loose wires. Griffin wondered where all that energy was going to go.
“Just to be clear,” Griffin said, “you’re the mother of Stacey Flowers who disappeared from the east side of Trudeau ten years ago, when she was an infant.”
“Yes, I am.” She repeated her words. “I am.”
How much had the loss of her child consumed the woman’s identity since then? Was there room for anything else in her life besides being that woman?
Did such a loss define a person forever? Would Erica Frazier’s life forever be defined by the loss of Felicity? Griffin didn’t want to find out.
“And the case has never been solved?” Griffin asked.
Tiffany tilted her head to the side. “You’re the cop. Don’t you know it’s never been solved?”
“I didn’t work on the original case. And I didn’t have time to look up the old files.”
“There’s been nothing.” Tiffany’s voice sounded bitter, almost hissing. “After about six months, the lead detective stopped returning my calls. He didn’t know anything.”
“Who was that?”
“Detective Steven Phillips. Do you know him?”
Griffin kept her face neutral. Phillips? “I know him.”
“I don’t think he cared much about what went on with me. After a while, I became a nuisance to him. An embarrassment because he couldn’t solve the case.”
Griffin leaned forward. “Did anything unusual happen the day of the disappearance?”
“No. Except my baby was gone. Taken. I went to bed for two years after that. Depression. I was just lost.” She turned her head, looking over toward the curtained window but clearly not seeing what was there. “My ex-boyfriend, Stacey’s father, he left me pretty soon after. I thought about killing myself every day. Every hour. But I hung on. Somehow. I went back to school. I’m a nurse now, a CNA. It’s just me and Mom living here. I never had any other kids. I had a hard-enough time carrying Stacey to term.”
Griffin wasn’t sure what to say. Any gesture or words of sympathy seemed inadequate But she offered anyway. “I’m sorry, Tiffany. I am.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“So, on the day Stacey dis
appeared, did anything unusual happen? Did you see anyone? Anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
“I still don’t know why you’re here in the middle of the night. What gives?”
“For now, let’s just say I’m pursuing leads in another case. It could be related to Stacey’s disappearance and it might not. So . . . my question.”
Tiffany used her index finger to rub the skin above her lip. “Yes. I told them this back then. About five times. I know they suspected me too. They always suspect the parent.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for a parent to harm her own child.”
“I didn’t.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Griffin said. “So . . . that day?”
“There was a woman. I saw her twice, maybe three times on the street. I didn’t know her, but since I saw her multiple times, I remembered her.”
“Why did you remember her? Did she do or say something?”
“She stared at me. Two different times. Once in the grocery store, and then once at the post office. She just stared. I thought maybe I knew her, but I didn’t. She looked . . . I don’t know. Educated. Young and pretty. I even smiled at her, you know, a friendly smile. But when I did that, she got a look on her face like she was pissed off at me.”
“And that was it?” Griffin asked. “She just . . . stared at you. And kind of looked mad?”
Tiffany worked her fingers over and over again. The TV switched to a commercial. A man selling cars, his face red as he yelled at the camera about his latest deal.
“She spoke to me one day. The last day I saw her. This was about . . . two days before Stacey disappeared.”
“What did she say?”
“I was pushing the stroller, taking a walk through the neighborhood.” She gestured toward her own body. “I’ve always been into exercising and working out. I run every day to burn energy and stay sane.”
“I understand.”
“The woman approached me. She stood in front of me, so I had to stop pushing the stroller. She stared inside at Stacey. She didn’t say anything. She just stared at my baby. I felt awkward, and I didn’t know what to say. I thought she might have been some nut, even though she didn’t look like one. Not really.”
“Did she say anything?” Griffin asked.
“She finally said she wished she had a baby just like mine. A little girl.” Tiffany shrugged, her hands in the air, the fingernails on both hands chewed to the skin. “It was the way she said it too. Her voice was full of something. Regret? Anger? Almost . . . like a hungry lust for a baby. Does that make sense?”
“And then what did she do?”
“She walked off. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, though. It was the first time I really felt that whole mama grizzly thing, the feeling that I couldn’t stand it if somebody messed with my baby. Fight-or-flight, I guess. But she didn’t say anything else, and I never saw her after that. Two days later . . .” She waved her hands in the air again, like a magician performing a trick. “Poof. Stacey was gone.”
Griffin reached into her pocket and brought out her phone. “Do you think you’d recognize that woman if you saw her picture? It’s been ten years, I know.”
“I’d recognize her.”
Griffin called up the image and handed the phone over to Tiffany. “Tell me if you’ve ever seen this woman before. And where.”
Tiffany’s eyes widened when she saw the phone.
“Oh, my God . . .”
chapter
thirty-nine
1:20 A.M.
Angela dressed and went downstairs, her mind racing. She plugged her phone in and made sure it was fully charged. She went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, even though the wine looked much more tempting. Standing at the kitchen island, she ate a granola bar, not even tasting or enjoying it, then wiped off its sticky residue on a dirty kitchen towel.
Michael’s okay, she told herself. He’s okay.
Whatever he was doing, whatever Gail had to tell her, it was all going to be okay.
But on the way down the stairs, after changing her clothes and breezing through the house, she’d made a decision. After she talked to Gail, after she heard what she had to say, Angela was going to leave. She was going to get in her car and drive up to Trudeau, to the bypass south of town. If she didn’t see them, she’d call again. She’d find them, one way or another. And then she’d get Michael home. Whatever was going on would be worked out, even if it meant incorporating a stepchild into their lives.
Her mouth was dry. She opened the water bottle and took a long swallow.
Listen to yourself. A child is missing, likely in grave danger, and you’re worried about how it will affect your marriage. Your life.
The inner voice spoke true. Angela knew she had it easy if tracking down her husband on a weeknight was her biggest problem.
She heard the gentle knock at the front door. She deactivated the alarm and walked out to the foyer, her tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood, and let her mother-in-law in. Gail greeted her with a hug and a soft peck on the cheek. Gail’s every movement, every gesture, felt perfectly placed and timed. Never any awkward fumbling, never any uncertainty. Angela felt calmer just having the woman in the house.
They walked into the dining room, Gail’s arm on Angela’s elbow.
“I thought about this the whole way over,” Gail said. “I think you should call the police. I don’t care about how things look to anybody else or what Michael thinks. He’s already spilled everything on the TV. What else could happen?”
Gail looked put together. She wore skinny jeans and a lightweight black sweater. Her makeup was perfect. Did the woman ever look bad, even in her sixties?
“Yeah. I’m going to end up calling them at some point, if I don’t hear from him again. I’m going up there, Gail. After I talk to you, I’m going up there and find him.”
“Oh.” Gail seemed taken aback by her announcement. “Is there any real reason for that? Is that safe?”
“I want to. That’s it. I’m not going to sit idly by while this plays out. And if this child might be part of our lives, then I need to see that she’s safe. And that Michael’s safe.”
“Okay.” Gail stood there for a moment, the look on her face distant. Angela saw emotion welling in her eyes.
“Are you all right, Gail?”
“Silly. I can’t stand to think of this child out there, somewhere. In danger. I know how bad the situation is for her. And I get more and more weepy over these things the older I get. You know, ever since James died, I cry over everything. Commercials and the news. If I see a little kid riding a bike or walking a dog, I tear up.” She sniffled, used the tip of her finger to dab at the corner of her eye. “I used to be tougher.”
“It’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot.” Angela decided to go farther out on a limb, to say something more direct and revealing than she’d ordinarily say to her mother-in-law. “You’ve lost a child, too. Some of that must be coming up.”
Gail nodded. Silent. She reached out and squeezed Angela’s shoulder. “I tried looking at some old photos, things from happier times. I thought they might change my energy about James. You know, at least I could think of happy times.”
She stopped, but Angela felt like there was more. “I see,” she finally said.
Gail looked away, but she kept her hand on Angela’s shoulder. “Most of the happy times, the happy pictures, they have Robyn in them. Out at the lake, the kids playing. Our old house in town. I can’t look at or think of any of it these days.”
“I’m sorry, Gail. You once told me to be patient, that a baby would come to us in time. Grieving takes time too.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “Believe me.”
And Angela understood she meant more than James. She meant the weight of the years since Robyn died.
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“You said you had something to tell me,” Angela said. “Isn’t that why you came over?”
“Yes, yes, it is.” Gail released Angela’s shoulder and shook her head. “There’s a lot to say about Erica. A lot.”
Angela leaned against the table, tapping her fingers against the top. “I’d never ask you this under normal circumstances, but can you tell me what Erica is like?”
Gail looked to be taking the question quite seriously. She pulled a chair out and sat down, folding her hands on top of the table, her perfectly manicured nails and simple, classic jewelry showing in the light.
“She was never very grounded,” Gail said. “A nice-enough girl, and pretty, but the kind you worried about. Not worry like I thought she was a criminal or anything. I just always worried she would never buckle down, get serious about life. It’s hard to picture her as a mother. I think Michael had the same concerns, eventually. They should never have gotten married, but you can’t tell a kid that. I wish I’d stepped in more, but Michael didn’t want to hear it. You know how strong-willed he is, how determined. He learned.”
“I know.”
“It’s hard to watch your child go through that,” Gail said. “The hurt. The embarrassment. Michael’s not used to failing, you know. He’s not someone who makes mistakes everyone can see. But he stumbled there . . . and now it might all be coming back. I worried about this.”
“What did you worry about?” Angela asked. “That Erica would be pregnant?”
“Not exactly.” Gail pointed to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down so I can tell you?”
Before Angela could, she heard something from the front of the house. A knock? Very light. Almost a gentle tap on the door.
“Was that someone knocking?” she asked, turning around.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
And then the knock again. A little louder.
Angela felt like she was in one of those dreams in which a succession of bizarre events happens over and over again. In this case, the knocks at the door. Erica. The police. Gail.