Authors: Samantha Westlake
The Stolen Girl
THE STOLEN GIRL
Copyright © 2014 SAMANTHA WESTLAKE
All rights reserved.
NOTE: ALL CHARACTERS APPEARING IN THIS WORK ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
For Mary, always
☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼
A
s he climbed the steps up to his family home, Senator Leonard Sterling saw his Secret Service detail keeping close, watching as he ascended up to the outdoor porch that stretched around the outside of the sprawling two-story gabled home.
Sterling turned and glared at the black-suited man. “Barry, I am still perfectly capable of climbing my own stairs, of my own house!” he announced, a hint of anger in the deep and resonant timbre of his voice.
Agent Barry took a couple steps back, but didn’t retreat all the way back to the car. Ascending the last few steps, Senator Sterling let out a sigh. Just a few years ago, he would have bounded heartily up these steps without a second thought. Ever since high school, when he had shot up a foot in a month like a spring weed, he had struck an impressive figure of a man. Broad shouldered, All-American in college, the senator had always kept himself in excellent shape, well-conditioned and muscled. The years had merely sharpened the edges of his angular face, emphasizing his cheekbones and strong jawline and sending streaks of iron gray through his black hair. But the last couple of years had been hard. Harder than he ever would have thought. He might still turn heads and catch the gazes of the young female reporters, but he felt like an old man.
Reaching his front door, the senator drew his house key out of his suit pocket and slid it into the lock. When he twisted the key, however, the deadbolt didn’t resist; it was already unlocked. Beth must have forgotten to close it after taking in the mail, he guessed. He’d have to chastise her for it.
“Elizabeth?” Sterling called out, raising his voice to project through the big house. “Hey, honey, I’m home.” Stepping inside, he dropped his briefcase on the living room coffee table. It was full of papers, but they could wait. He always had new bills and proposals to review, a never-ending flood of paper. But right now, Sterling wanted nothing to do with his job. Instead, the tall man made his way to the kitchen, scooping the television remote up from the marble-topped center island and clicking on the TV in the corner of the room.
Immediately, a female news anchor appeared on the screen, dressed in the perfect mix between professional and seductress that so many of the White House reporters had mastered. Her blazer dipped to show off just the slightest hint of cleavage, but her eyes were serious as they gazed into the camera, and her no-nonsense voice filled the room. “And in other news today,” the woman read from an invisible teleprompter, “Capital Hill is still remaining very close-lipped on the budget debates and refusing to disclose any details about a possible deal. We received a statement just a few hours ago from the office of Senator Leonard Sterling. Sterling has not wavered from his strong stance on budget reform - a choice which appears to be helping him in early polls looking at potential presidential candidates for the upcoming election. The senator’s office states…”
Sterling turned down the volume. He knew exactly what his office states - he had personally reviewed the press release before it was sent out, as he always did. “Beth?” the man called out again, listening towards the ceiling for any response. He didn’t hear one, but he was sure that the girl was up in her room, probably pouting or busy on her computer.
Pouring himself a glass of water, Sterling took a long sip, and then started towards the stairs out in the living room that lead up to the second floor of the house. “Elizabeth, I know you don’t want to go out, but I need for you to at least make an appearance at the fundraiser being held tonight,” he called.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the man stopped, leaning against the ballister. “I know it’s been hard,” he said, his tone slightly quieter, talking just as much to himself as to his daughter. “I still miss her every day as well, and there isn’t a night when I don’t lay awake, wondering if there was anything that I could have done. But we need to focus on our own lives, on moving forward.”
Sterling gazed off into the distance for several seconds, focusing on nothing, before shaking off the melancholy. “You’re eighteen, and you’ll be going off to college next year,” he went on. “Just think - a few more months, and you’ll be out on your own, free of your nattering father’s silly old demands. But for just a little longer, I need for you to keep up a brave face, and to come stand next to me and smile at these fundraisers.”
There still wasn’t any answer coming from upstairs. Sterling started to climb the steps, his brow furrowing. His only daughter had a tendency to ignore him, but she was still a good girl, and she usually would have responded by now. “Beth?” he queried, hesitantly using the nickname that his wife had chosen for their daughter. The word felt thick in his mouth, as if stiff from disuse. “Beth, are you there?”
As he reached the top of the stairs, the senator drew to a halt. Something was off; he could feel it. Elizabeth’s door was cracked open - it looked like there was a shoe or boot or something in the doorway, blocking it from closing. A breeze was blowing from the cracked door down the hallway, smelling like fresh air and carrying the chill of a late spring. Sterling moved in closer, approaching the light shining through the slit of the open door and splashing across the hall.
Reaching the door, he pushed it open with one hand - and gasped. The glass of water, held in his other hand, slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and shattered on the hardwood floor. The man’s mouth fell open as he stared into the room.
It looked as though a fight had occurred inside. Elizabeth had always kept her room quite neat, and seemed to focus even more on cleanliness now that her mother was gone. She had never left dishes or clothes scattered around, even as a child, but in the last few months she had always left her room looking like a showroom model, pillows perfectly centered on the bed and pencils perfectly aligned on her desk.
But this room was a disaster zone. The decorative pillows, which the senator had always privately considered to be useless but his wife had loved, were scattered across the floor. One of them must have split open, as feathers covered several surfaces. Beth’s shoes, normally all neatly aligned at the foot of her bed, were also thrown across the floor; one of them had caught at the door with its heel, propping it open. Sterling’s eyes rose up to the window, the breeze from which sent splashes of feathers flying about in lazy little tornadoes. Someone had roughly punched out the glass to gain entry, and fragments of the window pane were scattered around the inside of the room. A splash of bright red was visible on one jagged fragment; the intruder must have cut himself when punching out the window.
