“I just want what’s best for you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Henry dropped his head, sighed, pushed his chair away from the table. “Are you done with this?” he said, pointing at Connor’s plate as he got up.
Connor didn’t respond.
Henry must have taken that as a “yes” because he picked up both plates and carried them to the sink, which was already full with an assortment of cookware. “I’ll clean it up before I go.” Then, lumbering like he always did, he made his way from the kitchen to the dining room. Before he was out of sight, he turned around. “You’re an adult. I can’t make you come with me if you don’t want to.” He waited for Connor to say something, but Connor wasn’t sure what he should say. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to deal with all of this.” He pointed a finger and waved it around as if to indicate not just the house but Connor’s entire life. “You can’t afford this place on your own, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to stay, even if you could.”
I can afford it for now, Connor thought.
Connor knew the statistics as well as anyone. It seemed like every talking head would repeat them anytime the news covered an abduction. The most important of those statistics, and the one Henry had been driving at, was this: If a victim wasn’t found within the first day or two, he was probably dead.
Connor wasn’t ready to accept that possibility when it came to his own family, and going with Henry to Florida would be tantamount to not only accepting the possibility, but accepting it as fact.
Still, he shouldn’t have acted like a jerk. Henry was only trying to help.
Henry huffed and puffed his way down the hall, his suitcase held out in front of him. Connor met him in the foyer.
“I’m sorry,” Connor said.
Henry let his suitcase fall by his side. “It’s all right. I wish I could stay longer.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Henry’s phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then at the door. “My Uber’s here. Call me, all right?”
Connor nodded. He wanted to give Henry a hug. He thought Henry might want one, too. But they had never had that kind of relationship, so with a handshake and an awkward pat on the back, Henry was out the door.
Connor locked the deadbolt behind him, slid the chain into place. Then he made sure the garage and rear doors were also locked. He checked the windows, set the alarm.
This is my life now, isn’t it?
Always wondering, always worrying.
Connor called Austin to say he was ready to come back to work. Hanging around the house with Henry had been bad enough. Now there wasn’t even the minimal conversation Henry had provided to comfort or distract him.
He pulled the envelope of cash out from the back of his sock drawer, counted it again. It was all still there. Twenty thousand dollars to the penny. He hadn’t spent any of it and wasn’t sure he would. He counted it not because he thought Henry had found it and secretly pocketed a couple of hundred dollars for himself—Henry would have come right out and asked him about the money—but more as a form of meditation. Slowly going through those bills, one by one, he let his mind drift. Wondered again what the money meant. Hoped that an answer, anything that made sense, would occur to him.
Once again, though, he came up empty.
Connor returned the money to its hiding place. He went into his parents’ bathroom, opened his mom’s medicine cabinet, and took an Ambien from a bottle of pills. She had trouble sleeping and had been taking the drug for as long as he could remember.
Connor stretched out on his bed. He looked over at his computer. He could find out more about the man who had died on his mom’s table if he wanted to. It wouldn’t be hard to hack into the hospital’s system, find the man’s records. But he decided against it. He hadn’t tried to hack his way into anything since the night his parents had been abducted. Part of that was because he had been too wrapped up with worry and heartache to think about it. The other part was that message he had gotten from Ion: Stay out of my system or I’ll make sure Matt finds out what you’ve been up to.
It still creeped him out.
Besides, the Ambien was already starting to take hold.
But there was one thing he did want to do before he passed out. He forced himself to sit up, then stand, then cross the room to the only window. It was here that he had stood when he saw the panel van parked on the front yard. It was also here that he had stood for several minutes every night since, looking for . . . well, he wasn’t sure what. It was a little like pulling back the shower curtain just to make sure there wasn’t a killer on the other side.
He was certain by now that if the intruder was going to come back for him, he would have done so already. He also knew it was unlikely, if the killer did come, that he would be looking out the window at the exact right time to see him before he entered the house.
Still, it made Connor feel better, so he looked.
He could still make out the tire marks on the grass. But there was something else out there this time, too, that didn’t belong. A man.
CHAPTER 7
The man was standing at the end of the driveway, facing the house. He was little more than a shadow in the darkness.
Connor began to panic, his terror overpowering the Ambien. It was the killer. (Your parents aren’t dead. Don’t think that way.) He had come back, after all. Maybe he had been watching the whole time, waiting for Connor to be alone.
Connor ran to the stairs before he knew what he was doing. But he did know this much: If the intruder thought he was going to take Connor by surprise like he had his parents, he had better think again. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he thought about the sound of his mom tossing dishes at the intruder. He remembered thinking she should grab a knife from the block on the counter.
He detoured to the kitchen—the fireplace poker was a fine weapon, but a knife would be better. Especially that large carving knife they used only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. He circled right around to the foyer, barely stopping long enough to pull the carving knife out of the wooden block.
He charged out the front door. “Who are you?” he shouted. “Tell me where my parents are or I swear—”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” The man’s hands were out in front of him. Connor could see him better now. He was in his early thirties, Connor suspected, and wearing pleated tan slacks, loafers, and a striped dress shirt. His hair was carefully styled into that “I pretend I don’t care but I do” look Connor hated. “Put that thing down, would you?”
Connor slowed to a stop as he realized this man wasn’t the intruder. But still he demanded to know, “Who the hell are you?”
The man pulled a business card out of his pocket with an efficiency that suggested he was prepared for a confrontation like this. Then he rambled off his name so fast Connor couldn’t understand it.
Connor sized him up. He let the knife fall to his side, but still watched the man warily. He crept forward, snatched the business card out of the stranger’s hand. The name on it was Isaiah Cook. His title: Producer. And the show he produced? That was on there, too. Uncovered.
Connor knew it well. It was among his favorites. Or it had been, until his parents were abducted. Since then, he’d had trouble concentrating on any TV shows long enough to follow a plot, and the last thing he wanted to watch was true crime.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“I wanted to talk to you—”
“Why were you just standing there like that, looking at the house?”
“Oh, that.” He smiled. It seemed a little forced, like he was trying to put Connor at ease. “I just wanted to get a feel for the place. Trying to picture how it might look on camera, you know? Good, I think. These traditionals almost always play well. They’re the kind of home just about anyone can imagine themselves living in. Makes the whole story more relatable.”
“What are you talking about?” Connor suspected he
knew where this was going, but he still wanted to hear Isaiah say it, just to be sure.
“We heard about what happened to your parents. That’s a strange thing. You don’t have a lot of cases like that—someone just coming in and snatching two adults out of their home. And you saw him, right? The guy who took your parents? And he saw you. But he just let you go. That’s strange, don’t you think?”
The question sounded rhetorical. But since it seemed like Isaiah was looking for a response, Connor nodded. “Yeah. I mean—yeah, I thought so.”
Isaiah glanced over each shoulder. “Do you mind if we go inside?”
Looking for his competition, Connor thought. A series of reporters had made their way up to the house over the two weeks that had followed the abduction. First in a big wave the day after it happened, then in ever-dwindling numbers until they had stopped coming altogether. Connor hadn’t spoken to any of them, and Henry had been good about shooing them away. Some had baited him into answering a few basic questions, like how long Kim and Frank had been married and if he knew why they had been targeted. Since Henry hadn’t been present during the abduction (and since he had no idea why his sister and her husband had been targeted), they never got much out of him. Certainly not enough to make it worth a return trip.
Connor thought it over. “Sure.” Then he turned around and led Isaiah into the house.
Connor stopped in the foyer, but Isaiah did not. He made his way to the living room as if he had been invited and took a seat in a large, pillowy chair that, as it happened, was intended for guests.
Connor followed him. He took a seat on the sofa, put the knife down on the coffee table between them.
“How’s the investigation coming?” Isaiah said.
Good question, Connor thought. “You’d have to ask the police.”
“They haven’t told you anything? No leads they’re working? Nothing like that?”
Connor shrugged, and repeated what Olivia had told him about the man who had died during surgery.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I know about.”
“That’s not a good sign, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
Isaiah leaned back in the chair. “She told you about the incident at the ER because it’s all she’s got. She wants you to know she’s working the case, but she also wants you to know it’s not going anywhere.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She basically told you that. Has she even followed up with the family yet?”
Connor shrugged again.
“You would know if she had.” Isaiah crossed one leg over the other. “So I guess it’s a good thing I stopped by.”
Here it comes. The big pitch. Connor had been expecting it ever since Isaiah had commented on how the house would play with his audience. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There was a reason he hadn’t done any TV interviews or even given a quote. God knew he’d had the chance if he’d wanted to. Being in the spotlight just wasn’t his thing, and would it really do anything to help his parents? He doubted it.
“Have you seen our show?”
“I have.”
“Then you know what we could do for you.”
“Actually, Mr. Cook, I’m not so sure I’m interested in doing any TV at all.”
Isaiah rocked forward. “What? Are you serious? Do you know how many calls a show like ours can generate?”
It probably did generate a lot of calls. But there was a more important question. “Has it ever closed any cases?”
“Are you kidding? I can think of a dozen cases right off the top of my head that were put to rest because of the tips that came into our show. You know the story of that kid—Nick Parsons—taken straight out of his backyard in broad daylight? Barely a toddler. You remember that?”
Connor wasn’t certain. It sounded familiar. But this time Isaiah didn’t give him a chance to answer.
“The guy who kidnapped him was in jail a week later thanks to our show. Sick fuck was part of some baby-snatching ring.”
Connor’s eyelids started to close. With the adrenaline wearing off, the Ambien was starting to take effect again. “I appreciate you stopping by,” Connor said as he stood up. “I haven’t slept well. Could I think about this?”
“Oh, sure. Of course,” Isaiah said, likewise standing. “I understand. Really do think about it, though, and call me. I’m back and forth between here and California a lot. But trust me, unless I’m in the air, I’ll answer. Anytime, day or night.”
Connor led Isaiah to the door and closed it behind him. He was starting to understand why Henry had made a point of keeping the reporters out of the house. Were they all as bad as this guy? Connor considered that and decided they were probably worse. If a reporter had managed to get inside, he would likely have kept firing questions until he was physically thrown out.
Connor went upstairs, barely made it to bed. The last thing he thought about before falling asleep was the man who had died during surgery. He was sure Olivia would talk to the man’s family eventually. But it was Connor’s parents who were missing, so why shouldn’t he track them down and talk to them, too?
CHAPTER 8
Connor woke up feeling disoriented and tired. The morning sun sliced through the blinds of his one window, hitting him smack in the face. He squinted, checked the clock. He had been asleep for twelve hours. Good. He had needed it. Once the Ambien finished wearing off, he would probably start to feel a little better.
He sat up, vaguely remembered the conversation with Isaiah from the night before, and checked his pocket for the man’s business card. Okay, so that hadn’t been a dream. Connor tossed the business card onto his nightstand and made his way to the bathroom. He washed his face, ran his wet hands through his hair, trying to tame the worst of it, and applied deodorant. Then he traded one tee shirt for another and called himself done.
Austin would already be at 213 Powder Lane, likely in the midst of tearing out the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, and Connor had promised him he would be back at work today to help. Anything was better than wandering around this empty house like a ghost. He particularly liked the idea of spending the day smashing drywall with a sledgehammer.
He put his father’s cellphone in the right front pocket of his jeans and his own cellphone in the left. Then he grabbed the keys to the old Ford Fiesta he had been driving since he turned sixteen and headed out of the house. The car had been a hand-me-down from his mother, who, when he had complained it wasn’t new, said no first-time driver needed a new car. She had been right, too. He’d had more accidents than seemed fair, and they had left the vehicle a beaten-up shell of the car she had given him. These days, it barely managed to limp along from one location to the next.
He made the ten-minute trip to Powder Lane in silence. He had no interest in music right now and feared if he turned on talk radio he might accidentally stumble upon a report of his parents’ abduction.
Connor had been lucky to get this job. It paid quite a bit better than any other summer gig he had considered, and Austin, who had only started flipping houses, could afford just one assistant. If Connor had been required to compete with other applicants, no doubt somebody with experience would have won out. But Austin had never gotten so far as to take applications. Connor had run into him when Austin was putting up flyers in the neighborhood, advertising the open position.
Actually, he hadn’t quite “run into him.” That would imply they had met by chance. In truth, Connor had seen Austin tacking a flyer to a telephone pole from his bedroom window and had gone outside to investigate. He came up on Austin from behind while the man was in the middle of hanging his second flyer on a pole even closer to Connor’s house.
It said “HELP WANTED. HOME RENOVATION. $30/HR. NEARBY” and included a phone number.
“What’s this about?” Connor said.
Austin turned around, startled. He was rail thin, hadn’t shaved in a week or more. His blue e
yes were sunk deep into his skull. His stringy blond hair hung to his shoulders. Connor had thought he must be in his sixties (later he learned Austin was only a year older than his mother). But he also smiled easily and was wearing a white Polo shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. “Sneak up on people much, do you?”
Connor smiled back. “Depends on the day.” He pointed to the flyer. “You’re looking for help?”
“It seems that way.”
“Why don’t you put an ad online?”
Austin turned back to the flyer, placed the staple gun on the last remaining corner, and fired, securing the flyer in place. “I wanted somebody local. Thought they might be more reliable. Are you interested?”
Connor frowned, thoughtfully. He wasn’t big on manual labor. Then again, any job he could get would put him on his feet all day, and at least this wouldn’t force him to interact with an endless stream of customers. “What would I be doing?”
“The flyer kind of spells it out, doesn’t it?”
“I mean specifically.”
Austin tucked the stack of flyers under one arm. “Look, I’ll level with you. I needed a change. My old job—I was on a computer all day long and I just needed to do something. So I bought this house on the cheap, figured I could get in on the whole flipping game. I’m not much of a handyman. But, I thought, ‘I’m smart. I can figure it out.’ So here I am—figuring it out. But it’s just too much for one person to do alone, and I need some help.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a software developer.”
Interesting, Connor thought, noting the similarity between Austin’s former career and his future one. “I don’t have any experience with all that renovation stuff.”
Austin shrugged. “Didn’t you just hear my story? Neither do I. But you’re young. You look strong enough. Could I count on you to show up?”
“Sure.”
“Then the job’s yours if you want it. I don’t feel like interviewing a whole bunch of candidates. Plus, even if I find someone with experience, I don’t have the time to find someone else if they flake out on me. You just do what I tell you to and we’ll be fine.”
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 3