Aftermath (25 page)

Had Camelia come here on purpose?

Amanda didn’t ask for a case number the parent of a missing girl may or may not remember. Tried to keep in mind the tight line she was supposed to be toeing, whether or not her boss seemed to approve.

“Do you have kids, Detective Nettles?”

Amanda wet her lips. She wasn’t about to dispel any details of her life, no matter how harmless this woman might seem. Learning that lesson the hard way had been enough. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

Camelia dug through the purse she’d stowed at her feet. Pulled out a Manila file and held it toward Amanda. The edges were tattered.

“She’s a good girl. She wouldn’t run away.” A tear slipped over the edge of one eye. She dashed it away. “It’s been so long. People seem to...well, I can’t give up on Paige. I’m her mother.”

The folder was warm and dry in Amanda’s hands, the material worn. As if it had been flipped through more often than not. The buzzing in her ears convinced her she had to have heard wrong.

Paige was a fairly common name. She opened the file. A list of the girl’s school schedules, extracurricular activities, friends and what she’d done the full twenty-four hours before her disappearance stared back at Amanda. All neat and organized.

Unlike the woman in front of her.

“A year ago, my husband was given a promotion, but it meant moving to Raleigh. At first, he made the commute every weekend. We wanted Paige to finish out the school year and have the chance to sell our house. And find a new one up there.” Camelia tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“She got into one fight and the school suspended her for three days. And slapped the other girl on the wrist. She was upset about it and missing school. My husband and I decided it was time to proceed with our move. Give her a fresh start. One minute we’re packing up and the next...” Camelia paused. Pressed her lips together and took a breath. “Every detective I talk to comes to the same conclusion. If she’d truly run away, wouldn’t she have come back, long before now? It’s been six months.”

Amanda took a deep breath. Couldn’t afford to get all worked up over nothing. “What was the fight about?”

Camelia fiddled with a stray scrap of string hanging from the cuff of her jogging top. Wound the thread around her index finger. Released it. Created the motion again. She didn’t take her eyes from the folder Amanda hadn’t finished reading through.

“It doesn’t matter. It will only take the focus off the most important aspect. My daughter is missing.”

Okay. She laid the file on her desk, open. “Camelia, I’ve been doing this job a while. I’ve solved more cases than I want to count. Only like to dwell on the ones with happy endings.” She leaned toward the other woman. Tried to ignore the small group she’d just described. And the bigger one that always haunted her—the huge downside to homicide. “I didn’t get here by avoiding difficult questions. So, I’ll need details before I can even think about helping you.”

“But you can?” Her gaze lit on Amanda. “Help me, that is?”

Something heavy plunked into her stomach.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“She’s just a baby. My baby. She wouldn’t touch marijuana. And she certainly wouldn’t put her mouth on male anatomy, in situations best left to a married, loving and committed relationship.” A shaky fist met the corner of her pressed, pale lips. “Even if she
were
to have oral sex—and we’ve had the sex talk—she wouldn’t do it in broad daylight. Behind the school. With multiple boys.”

Amanda sucked in a stale breath of air before she could stop herself. Holy mother of pearl. “Shot in the semi-dark, here. This fight wasn’t about accidental matching outfits or broken confidences, was it?”

“The other girl’s boyfriend was rumored to be involved. There was some name-calling. And I’m not proud to admit fists were thrown.”

Paige’s had been first. Otherwise, the other girl would’ve been suspended as well.

A harsh swallow came from the other woman. “The news said police found the body of a girl around Paige’s age and I thought—” A hitch in her voice took away the rest of her words. “I have to find her. Even if she was angry and ran away, I can’t stop looking for her. One wrong decision doesn’t mean she ceases to be my daughter. She’s still the sweet, funny and caring little girl I raised.”

From the file on her desk, an enlarged photo of Paige Jurik stared at Amanda. Had her heart racing toward an invisible finish line.

This picture was warmer than the one she had in her pile. Showed a vibrant smile, a smudge of paint on the girl’s cheek as she held a brush full of yellow goo. Brown hair was in a messy ponytail, a few wisps escaping beyond the headband meant to keep the pesky strands from her face. The camera caught the in-progress mural on the wall adjacent to the girl.

A very striking sunset. In the background, a man worked with a large brush, out of focus.

“Paige and Jerry shared a talent with paint and white space. Me? Not so much.” A loving glance touched the photo in Amanda’s hands. “Unless you want crude stick figures. How about you?”

Something dark swirled in her stomach and, like a clogged toilet, the water kept rising. “Where is your husband, Camelia?”

“He’s...” Camelia’s gaze swam away. Touched on the various pictures and art in the office, before centering back on her. “He’s dead.”

What? She’d been expecting a wide array of excuses, because a missing child could grate on a marriage, on any relationship, and it had already been six months.

“Seems like this conversation might need something a little stronger than coffee.” Robinson entered her workspace, a cup in hand, and placed it in front of Camelia. And, as if he hadn’t rushed all the way here, he shot them both his handsome smile.

Those beautiful eyes lingered on Amanda a touch longer than needed, as if he were making sure she was, in fact, not in any immediate danger. His eyes scanned the picture still in her grasp, then they bounced to her face in complete understanding.

She’d tuck that glowing little amber away for inspection later. “Camelia, this is Special Agent in Charge, Baker Jackson Robinson, of the FBI field office, here, in Charlotte.”

As if she spoke in an alien language, Camelia’s gaze flicked between them.

Robinson clasped her hand in both of his. “Heard you gave Detective Brink a hard time.”

Camelia paled.

“Wish I’d been around to witness it.” He released her hand and pulled a folding chair from the corner and sat on it as if he worked with Amanda on a daily basis and this was all routine. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, Camelia. Did this happen recently?”

“Three months ago.” She licked her lips. “Heart attack.”

___

FOURTEEN MINUTES. TWENTY-EIGHT seconds.

Then Beth would be free of the Chaplin for another two days. The TV, in the corner of the dayroom, droned on about some headlines that didn’t mean squat to her. A woman who’d won the lottery was talking to a reporter about what she planned to do with her millions.

It would be gone in a heartbeat. One expenditure turning to another. And another. Until the woman had to resume whatever life she’d had before her
lucky
day.

Across the table from her, Dexter didn’t do or say anything. Just watched her as if there were nothing more interesting. The notebook in front of him was blank. The pen in his right hand, unused.

Didn’t he know it was rude to stare? And with such an empty expression at that.

The thought of stabbing herself with her own pencil had appeal. She rolled the utensil between her thumb and forefinger. Pressed both fingers into the wood. Imagined shoving the sharp point right into her jugular.

Or maybe falling on it would be better. More force to ensure proper death. Much better than putting a gun in your mouth and missing. Ending up with half a jaw, no tongue and eating through a tube.

Probably more painful. Not as quick as a bullet speeding through the chamber. The lead pencil had nothing in comparison to the weight of a cold gun in her hand.

And it would probably snap in half with the pressure pushing it to her throat would cause. Leaving her with nothing to show for it, but more confinement.

“Don’t even think about it.”

The deep voice sent a wave of high-pitched nails on a chalkboard through her system. The pencil fell from her grasp, landed on her notepad and then rolled to the edge of the table, toward her.

Dexter caught it before the piece of wood leapt to the ground. Hadn’t had to move from his seat to accomplish it. Just
Go-Go Gadget
arms attached to a body that belonged anywhere but inside the rigidity of a Chaplin with a fancy degree in psychology.

He handed it over to her, but didn’t let it go when she grabbed the tip. His deep blue eyes—an almost violet color—latched on like a leach with a serious need for blood. The blank expression he carried was in full force. An impenetrable wall with no footholds.

It should have unnerved her. Made her want to break contact and slither back to the safety of her own empty notepad. Instead, there was an unusual calm. She tugged the utensil from his grasp. Tried to string together a sentence she could expound upon until the page was full.

And the next.

For once, her brain wasn’t teaming with darkness, begging for careless release. The only thing there was a pair of violet eyes. And a stern face that made her wonder if he had ever smiled in his entire life.

Don’t care.

The crack of wood split the air, the pencil in her grasp now in two.

Dexter didn’t so much as flinch.

The two CO’s in the room didn’t move. They stood like sentinels made out of stone. Beth didn’t doubt they could see and hear everything. The lack of privacy had ceased to bother her.

Even in her early days on site, when she’d been in constant restraints—before Dexter and a team of various professionals had deemed her nonthreatening—she hadn’t minded much.

No. Now, it was just Dexter’s expression. His lack of interest on whether or not she progressed to the infinite repentance.

It’s what everyone expected. Death warrant equaled seeing the bright light, figuratively and literally. And a Chaplin should want to nurture that more than most, shouldn’t he?

“You have precious few liberties here.” His voice was deep and smooth. It wiggled into places she didn’t like. “Don’t lose one form of communication you have with your family members, by doing something stupid, Mrs. Markel.”

“No loss there.” She winced. Wanted to snatch the raspy words back. And the sardonic cast to her voice. As if she’d meant to break it in half, she laid the pieces of her pencil in front of her notebook.

His eyes stayed steady on her. No shock over her spoken words. Not even the smallest hint. What did you have to witness in life to be so calm and collected? Aloof.

“Not everybody sees it that way. Perhaps you should think about mending fences.”

“Before my execution, you mean?”

Dexter didn’t say anything. As if to prove his proficiency in the game of one-up-manship, he remained silent.

Too bad. It would have taken her mind off the stark reality of life and the dwindling days within it.

Not the number of people who’d come to visit, nor the ones who wouldn’t, in that small number remaining.

Her mother had come once in the time she’d been here. Her biological father a dozen times. She’d refused to see either. Taken one look at both, on separate occasions, and asked to be returned to her cell. Forgone her daily out-of-cell time.

Beth doubted that either parent had anything nice to say. Certainly not her mother, who found her a nuisance, even now. Especially now. And there was no telling what Walter Nettles wanted. She didn’t really know him. Didn’t want to start.

And Amanda…

There were no
fences
to mend.

Dexter tucked his pen inside his uniform, a stock blue button down with matching pants. Shiny black shoes. Innumerable pockets that held things like a taser and baton. Never seen him use either item, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Or that he wasn’t well-trained.

She’d witnessed him step between an inmate and Correctional Officer before. Watched him almost take the brunt of a blow for what most people considered the scum of the earth.

In her short residence, it had happened twice. Two separate inmates. Two different CO’s. That same stoic face daring another man or woman to step across the line of right and wrong. Even against someone who deserved the worst.

She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a little inspiring. And confounding. Why bother?

A scar ran down his upper and lower lip, near the corner. The line was straight, pale and faint. There was another one at the spot his light brown hair met his temple. The collar of his shirt hid all but the tip of one more. He folded his hands, as if in prayer, in front of his mouth, sleeves buttoned to his wrists.

Contemplative eyes stared at her as if the fact that she was gawking at the wounds marring his face didn’t bother him. “You have a mother. A father. Even a sister, Mrs. Markel. Perhaps, it’s time to reach out. In a whole-hearted manner.”