Aftermath (17 page)

“You’re not going to find anything outright. And why Ariana’s locker?”

“Something’s happening at school.” Amanda tugged the strand from her mouth. “When I asked her why she skipped class in the first place, she clammed up. This after being pretty tell-all about her ordeal.”

It was unlike his happy-go-lucky niece, who had been upbeat and upfront about her feelings, and everything else, even while Lilly had been in the hospital. “How much more worried should I be? Are we talking normal teenage drama or something worse?”

A sigh escaped her lips. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Has she mentioned anything?”

“No.” But he’d been a little preoccupied by Amanda’s absence as of late. When was the last time Ariana had asked to sleep over at a friend’s house? Talked on the phone for hours or giggled about boys? He’d shrugged it off as the makings of a young girl trying to help her mother. What if it were something worse?

And he’d missed it.

Overlooked all the things he told others to watch for.

Amanda’s fingertips brushed the back of his hand before her entire palm rested there, her fingers settling between his thumb and forefinger. And like a big schmuck, he could have held it for the rest of his life and been happy.

“I know I don’t have any say, but you can’t send her back to school. Even without whatever is going on, it’s too risky. There’s only two weeks left anyway. And neither of us want to add her to the list of girls we are trying to find. She can’t hide out forever, but—”

He placed the middle and forefinger, of his free hand, over her lips. A puff of warm air hit his digits. Those amber-colored eyes locked on him, full of anxiety and determination. And love. All aimed at a thirteen-year-old girl he considered more a daughter than niece.

Her love for others always astounded him. Left him in a humbling place where he knew he’d never measure up to that kind of passion.

Could never replicate it. Only drink it in and watch her in action. Keep her safe from people who thought she was an easy target because of it.

If she’d let him.

“You’re right. She can’t hide out forever, but she’s not stepping foot in that school, or out of my sight, until we get to the bottom of this. I’m not going to risk her life.”

“Any chance she had something with her address on it, in her backpack?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t have a solid plan of action, just enough sense to know they couldn’t sit at his apartment wondering when these guys might catch up with them. If it were only him, that’d be another story.

“We’ve got to find those girls, Robbie. There’s more than those three. It’s too perfect. Cold...”

She stilled for half a beat and then scrambled out of the car, forcing him to move out of the way or end up with Amanda in his arms.

A nice thought. Better reality.

The brilliant light in her eyes could have lit up a path like a new set of headlights. “What if our unsub put her on ice?”

He kept pace with her, her excitement fueling him. “After he killed her?”

The beautiful head shook back and forth. “No. Beforehand. Anything below ninety-five degrees is hypothermic. Hospitals use targeted temperature management in cardiac and neurological patients. Lowers the risk of heart and brain damage. Increases blood flow between ninety-five and ninety-one.

“Body temperature below ninety starts to harden everything. Heart starts to slow. Possible coma, heart arrhythmias. Death. My mom used to tell me stories about people who’d survived it.”

“Let me guess, a little information that might keep you, and whatever foster kid living with you, safe?”

She elbowed him as they approached the scene. “One little girl, in particular, always stayed with me. She wandered out in the middle of the night in forty below temps. They found her the next morning, by the front steps. Core temp of fifty-seven. She survived.”

“Bet she didn’t have a needle through her heart.” He tossed her a pair of gloves. “What’s the point of doing that to someone you plan to kill anyway?”

“Punishment. Torture. A sick game. If this isn’t his first victim—”

“We can’t assume either way.”

“Right, but there’s a reason why he put her here. This moment. This time.” Amanda neared the techs as they gathered up the young girl, in a body bag meant to preserve evidence. Already had her gloves on. She bent near the girl’s face and lifted an eyelid. Then she brought her hand back and rubbed her forefinger and thumb together. “It’s not glue. It’s ice. And I’ll bet we find the composition of tears in this mix.”

And, if not for the needle piercing her heart, they could have had a shot at saving her. A giant flag waved in the air, louder than the words etched across the girl’s sternum.

You’re too late. Try again.

___

Journal Entry #112

Age: 14

THERE’S A LARGE Oak in our yard. It holds a double-seated swing with rusty chains that have dug their place inside the old bark. Never to be untangled.

It sits on the back of my mom’s property. In a forgotten little spot, behind the garage. Tonight, the full moon illuminates the wooden slats of the seat as if knowing I’d need a place of comfort.

A place to shed worthless tears, in private. Away from the disproving looks of my mother. The ones that say the salty mixture is uncalled for in every circumstance. Not befitting a Porterville. Too much weakness. A disgraceful lack of pride. It ignites anger and begets no comfort.

If she only realized how called for they were. If she put herself in my shoes for even a second, or remembered I am her flesh and blood, she might cry, too.

Wishful thinking on my part.

Porterville’s do not cry. They do not simper about with their hearts on their sleeve. They are always right. Always know what’s best. They certainly do not daydream, but set their sight on a goal and achieve.

I am not a Porterville. I can’t be. The other half of my genes must be dominant, whoever the faceless man is. I’ve long since given up hoping to learn his name. My mother either doesn’t remember him or never intends to tell me. As if the facts can harm her or me, somehow.

It is a name with little impact on my future.

The one I see much differently than she does. In it, fancy dinner parties are about the company around the table. Not the price of the China on its surface. Nor the fake cheers for good health and will.

Instead of a centuries-old table, I envision a campfire. Marshmallows and graham crackers and chocolate. We wouldn’t need an overly priced roasting tool or a live-in maid to clean up behind us, all while cursing our existence. We could use old logs for seats. The sky for our tent. Tattered blankets for cushion. And we’d talk. Really talk.

About normal things.

Like first love. And college without preamble. Promise to never get old and remember the feeling forever. And ask questions that don’t come with stuffy answers. Or reproving looks.

So, when Dana suggested a weekend for exactly that, I jumped at the chance. Life is short. We did all those things and more. And it was everything I’d dreamed. We shared secrets—ones I’ve never told a soul. We laughed. And danced. Burnt more marshmallows than we ate.

And then Larry Catsky showed up, police gear and all. As if my mother had sent him after us, in an effort to appear caring. He put us in handcuffs like criminals. Started shouting about trespassing on private property. Shoved us into his police cruiser.

Dana started crying. Mumbled something about Mr. and Mrs. Carter being so mad they’d do something drastic.

I didn’t believe it. Not after all the time I’d spent with them. Their home was cozy, quiet and efficient without being grand. They smiled and asked questions while waiting for real answers. Were concerned about homework and projects and grades. They kissed each other goodnight.

This wasn’t my first time in the back of this particular cruiser. I could move across the ocean, and I doubt it would be my last. I tried to comfort my friend. Dana’s parents would never do more than give a good scolding. Never.

I’d been so sure.

It’s been seven days. I haven’t seen Dana since.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“YOU SURE ABOUT this, A.J.?”

Beside Amanda, Robinson shifted his sleeping niece in his arms. Waited for her to open the door to her apartment as if he weren’t holding a full-blown, dead-to-the-world teenager.

Behind them, Lilly hadn’t said a word. Carried a bag with her book and notebook inside. And pain medication for Ariana. A blank look rested on her face, as if she weren’t really in this moment, but another.

Nothing new, there.

This had the potential to get ugly. Even a moron would see the disaster and back away with slow, precise steps.

“We could always—”

Amanda sent a glare in Robinson’s direction. Blamed the surge of irritation sliding through her system on the late—or early, depending on how she looked at it—hour. “If I wasn’t sure, I never would have agreed to have you all stay here. Besides, this was your idea, pal. No backing out now.”

He shifted again. Pressed his lips together as if she’d given him an answer he didn’t like. And then he flicked a discreet glance back at his sister.

There’d been no real discussion. One minute they were checking Mr. and Mrs. Rose into a nearby hotel and getting the all clear from his agents stationed at the hospital, the next picking up Ariana and Lilly. Then pulling into her apartment complex. He’d driven, taken over in usual Robinson fashion. And she’d been too emotionally drained from the morgue visit to argue.

In the end, it didn’t matter. “This makes the most sense. I’ve got AtEase operational.”

And even if this crew of deranged men had gotten a hold of Ariana’s address—a high probability due to the contents of her backpack—they wouldn’t have any idea where Amanda lived. She’d decreased her visibility dramatically over the last eighteen months.

“Don’t get complacent, A.J. Just because you have a high-tech monitoring
deterrent
doesn’t mean nothing can come through that front door.”

Amanda held back the scream of frustration bubbling at her throat. “I have a gun. Turns out I haven’t forgotten how to use it.”

Because he was right. She wasn’t
off-grid
by any means, but if someone wanted to find her they’d have to do more digging than the average person would be able to stomach.

You’re not dealing with average people.

The devastation on Mr. and Mrs. Rose’s faces was etched in her mind. The way Kimberly’s mother had cupped her hands to her mouth, a downpour of tears racing for her chin. Her head shaking back and forth. Mr. Rose holding her as if he feared she might crumble, all while keeping himself in check. Tight lips. Clenched jaw. And rage. So evident in eyes that matched his daughter’s.

A how-could-this-happen-to-us stuck in his gaze. A question that had no answer. Only empty reassurances.

You will survive. You will find a new normal.

Nobody ever admitted that it took some doing. And surviving left you with guilt or anger. Or something worse. A combination of both.

Where freezing temps made mirages appear, in a mind so far gone, the person actually felt nonexistent heat. Only to tear off what remained of warm clothing and find it wasn’t real.

“You did great with the Rose’s.”

She pushed the door open and stepped aside so they could pass. Addie started a steady beep. “Only if you count fumbling for words a strong point.”

Those lips were still in a firm line. He shook his head as if she were a teenager who didn’t know what to do with a compliment.

It was her job to urge them to aid law enforcement in any way possible. Could they remember any new details? Had they found anything inside her bedroom or her school notes that might have been missed?

The situation had never been easy. How was she supposed to convince grieving parents to look outside their anguish so that someone else’s daughter might have a chance?

It didn’t seem possible. It was cruel. And yet, she’d forced herself to offer comfort that did little. To promise she’d get to the bottom of their daughter’s disappearance and murder without giving them the words they wanted to hear.

I will avenge your daughter’s death. I will make sure this deranged psychopath never sees the light of day again.

That wasn’t in her hands.

She should have taken the trek to their house. Found every shred of evidence she could find. And maybe…

“Let me get a few things together and then you can put Ariana in the bedroom.” She shut the door and flipped on the light switch near where Lilly stood. Flicked Addie into home mode and headed toward the back of the apartment. No time for what-ifs.

CONFIRMATION PLEASE.

“Down, Addie.” Robinson’s voice floated toward her.

The system stopped chirping.
GOOD MORNING, ROBBIE.

Crap. She froze for half a second. AtEase’s specific response que was an everyday motion for her, much like brushing her teeth. She didn’t think about the ordinary responses and prompts.