Aftermath (40 page)

Amanda
’
s thoughtless words settled like a sharp blow, in her chest. She shook her head. Explaining the jittery emotions swirling in her entire body hadn
’
t been possible. No words would right the horror. And if he hadn
’
t pulled her out when he had...

Was Davis right? Was she more liability than asset?

A shaky hand flipped the paper in both journals, in front of her. Another page was filled with sentences harder to swallow than pills meant for an elephant.

A combination of letters and numbers sat in the lower right hand corner. She flipped forward. Found more on every copied page of Beth
’
s journal, starting somewhere around her fourteenth birthday. No chronological order to them.

Had they been investigated and dismissed? What did they mean?

Paige
’
s words were a mix of something bleak, but only on the last several entries. They were far more candid than Beth
’
s, all while detailing the aftermath of an unknown event.

A lump formed in her throat. The only way to discover the truth was to find her. Alive. With the rest of their missing girls.

What if the numbers and letters were some type of code?

She grabbed a pen from her purse, flipped Paige
’
s copied diary over, on the center console, and recorded every number, beginning to end.

“What have you got?” Robinson flicked a glance at her as he pulled up next to a brown house with a well-maintained lawn. The street was quiet, porches lit with quaint lighting. A basketball hoop sat in the center of the cul-de-sac. He put the vehicle in park.

The clusters didn
’
t make a lot of sense. She tapped the edge of her pen against the paper. “Possibly some type of code.” Or nothing but the ramblings of a lost woman.

He leaned closer, his arm brushing the side of hers. Took in the same bunching of code that looked like a complex math problem. “We questioned her about the journal during the investigation.”

“But not these.” She ran a finger over the grouping. Was Jonas right? Did Beth know more than she was letting on? Was this one last mind game before death? One planned well in advance? “They begin on her fourteenth birthday.”

They had missing girls as far back as six years.

He grabbed the diary and flipped through the pages. “It can’t be possible. I refuse to get screwed over, by the same criminal, twice.”

“Might be a complex math problem.”

He tossed the journal in her direction. It landed on the floor by her feet. He leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know why I thought her information might be straightforward. I guess I assumed her warped mind wouldn’t touch kids. So, what? We get a mathematician to solve it for us? Then find out we’ve wasted time.”

She shook her head. “They make programs for this type of thing. There’s a whole network dedicated to stuff like this. Maybe it’s something similar.”

“You’re talking about Darknet, again, aren’t you? Can we get inside and take a look at what we’ve got here?”

“You can look at it, but everything is encrypted, so you’re talking a lot of work just to figure out you’ve gone down the wrong rabbit hole. If you want to put someone on it, I’d recommend Detective Brink over Agent Max. The guy’s a class-A jerk, but knows his stuff.” She glanced over at him. His face was inches from hers, those eyes intense and set on her. A breath of air lodged in her lungs.

“Brink better be damn thankful you’re level-headed. Not too many people would stick their neck out for someone who has treated them like he’s treated you.” Gone was the stoic expression and hard mouth. In its place, resided the face of a guy who’d been through the fire and lived to tell about it.

His gaze slipped to her lips and back up.

She leaned closer, the Robinson magnet pulling at her body. Her palm found his cheek. Warmth flooded her hands. “I wasn’t too level-headed earlier. If you’d been working with Brink or Max, they probably wouldn’t have given you grief after you saved their lives.”

“Probably not.” A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “A fist-bump? Sure.”

“I
’
ve got something better.” Naive Youngster was gearing up for some magnificent trouble, which involved hopping over the console and right into Robinson
’
s lap. After that, the possibilities were limitless.

Not trouble. Not really.

More a distraction they couldn
’
t afford at this exact moment. She held still. Tried to recall the older, more mature version of herself. Even Miss Sass would do. “What I should have said was, right on time, Mr. Hero.” The words were a bare whisper, part stuck in her throat. “I
’
m sorry, Robbie.”

“It
’
s been a rough day.” His voice held a tiny bit of desperation mixed with some other indiscernible emotion. It made the tenor a little deeper.

“Rough would qualify if you
’
d worked a twelve hour shift full of partying college kids, who you had to detain for wreaking havoc on the neighborhood. Tonight
’
s been more—”

“Harrowing?”

A lump rose to her throat. That fit.

One flick of his wrist and her seatbelt was undone and zipping toward its resting spot when not in use. “Come here.”

“Uh…”

He tugged her arm until she had no choice but to half-climb, half-skid over the paperwork between them and land in an awkward heap in his lap. Her face was centimeters from his. One knee was wedged in between the console and the seat, the other side in limbo on the opposite edge of the seat. A blip of pain rushed through her leg as the wound hit the edge of the door panel.

“Forgot about that.” As if he could read her mind, he touched her injured leg. “You okay?”

A portion of the steering wheel pressed into her back. “Movies lie.” She adjusted, only to wedge her knee farther in between the seat and center console. “This is...”

“Not in line with that cake idea you had.” He drew her right hand from her side and put it behind his neck. Then he eradicated the space between them, his lips crashing over hers. Everything stilled for a fraction of a second before whirling to life.

Alright, maybe movies didn
’
t lie.

He placed his forehead against hers. “I need a vacation. So do you.”

“If I couldn
’
t smell your breath, I
’
d assume you were drunk. Impulsive decisions are my thing, Robbie.”

“What can I say? I
’
m drawing from the book of Amanda Nettles.”

That wasn’t always good.

The street lamp, over them, glinted off something on his hand. A solid white-gold band circled his ring finger. From experience, she knew if she removed it, the inscription would match that of the ring still residing on one of the two necklaces around her neck.

Love is a choice.

She wound her arms tighter around his neck. Placed a kiss on his lips, but didn
’
t linger. “So, we need a vacation.” Followed it up with another. “You
’
re stuck rescuing me. And I
’
m...” A flash of Robinson
’
s face, at the scene of Camelia
’
s accident, rose to the forefront of her mind. Horror mixed with gut wrenching terror. As if someone had reached inside him and torn out his heart and made him swallow it whole.

Love was a choice. Sometimes it led you in the right direction. And other times it brought you straight to danger.

She was a liability.

A danger to herself. To everyone around her. Even now, when propriety and professionalism dictate she untangle herself from his arms, and resume this private conversation at a more suitable time, she didn
’
t want to.

Didn
’
t want to face Keith Cooke
’
s parents and ask questions that would seem anything but a dutiful part of her job.

How was that lightening Robinson
’
s burden? What would happen if one day she took a risk that didn’t have a good ending? The kind that cost a life besides her own. Left families to deal with a sudden void.

Maybe it was time to turn in her badge. Call it quits while she was ahead.

“You
’
re what?” His voice was a soft caress.

“Getting back to work.” She opened the door, the dome light illuminating his half of the vehicle.

His eyes locked with hers, holding her in place. “This isn
’
t over, A.J.”

“So you keep saying.”

She was either the little old lady who refused to give up her driver
’
s license, even though she was causing accidents right and left. Or the woman who willingly cut it up and sold her car.

Moved on.

___

HE HADN’T BEEN thinking. Not with his brain. Robinson had only needed a few minutes alone with his favorite detective. His wife. No work. No drama.

Only the two of them.

He’d needed to hold her. To reassure himself she was alive and well. And not some paranormal, beyond-the-grave apparition he was trying to recreate for his own well-being.

Not stuck under that car with Camelia.

Somehow, he’d mucked up what should have been simple. And, as they sat inside Ms. Cooke’s living room, Robinson knew he’d made an error, somewhere. Amanda was too quiet. Too formal. Hadn’t even inquired if Detective Brink had responded to the request that he decipher the code they’d found earlier.

“Are you still teaching at Malloy High, Ms. Cooke?” On the coffee table, in front of them, Amanda shifted her water one full circle, but didn’t sip from it. “I didn’t get a chance to go to the ten year reunion.”

Huh. Must be the high school Amanda, McKenna and Jordan had attended. And, at one point, Beth.

From the pictures gracing the living room walls, there was no Mr. Cooke. Just a lot of photos including the blonde in front of them and a dark-haired boy he could only assume was the woman’s son.

“Just Jessie is fine.” Slender fingers tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. “I’m still teaching history. Is Keith in some kind of trouble?”

Robinson shifted forward on the couch, next to Amanda, and clasped his hand between his knees. “We’re hoping we can speak to you both about a field trip his class took this last fall.”

Her eyebrows slammed together. “To the nature center? Three different junior high schools, in Charlotte, went the same day. It’s the highlight of the year for a lot of the students. Keith’s always loved nature. Usually spends quite a bit of time with his dad, in the summer, camping. He’s actually—”

Behind them, the front door opened, a heavy-footed stomp echoing on the hardwood. “Mom, guess what?”

Jessie stood and headed toward the entry as the same dark-haired kid in the photographs came rushing in. Excitement lit up his face and dark eyes. A cowlick dominated the hair at one corner of his forehead.

He looked familiar.

Amanda lifted her glass to her lips. “Remember that rumor I told you about after we found Kimberly?” Her voice was the barest of whispers. Her eyes flicked to mother and son.

They’d covered a lifetime of ground since then.

“Jessie, I was thinking—” Sam Richardson stepped into view, his gaze flicking to Amanda and then Robinson. His lips pressed together, his jaw clenching. “Detective Nettles. Agent Robinson.” He turned to Jessie. “You shouldn’t let just anybody in the house.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not your house.”

“My son lives here.”

The teen rolled his eyes and stepped from between them. Jessie settled a hand on his arm. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Amanda set her glass aside and stood. “Were you ever going to tell us that one of your students and your son’s classmate, Kate Corbin, is missing, Sam?”

The teen turned toward his dad as shock blasted across similar features. “Kate’s missing? Like gone?”

The boy’s mom gasped.

The same emotion was absent from Sam’s face. “Let him go, Jessie. This is an adult conversation.”

She shook her head. “They need to talk to him about the nature field trip.”

“It’s a trip half the schools in North Carolina go on.” Dark eyes leveled on them. “I’m a chaperone every year.”

“I’d say that works in our favor, but it turns out you’re not real good with delivering forthcoming answers.” Robinson stood. This had the potential to get out of hand fast. He could see the propensity sitting on Sam’s face, a mass of rumbling emotions.

Robinson walked toward the kid, hand extended. “Keith, right?”

The teen nodded, shook his hand.

“We’ve got a couple of girls that are missing. Some of them you know. Others you don’t. Any information you have could help us find them. No matter how small.”