Beatrice took her hand. “You’re crying again.”
“Am I allowed to do that?” Abigail stared at the stack of newspapers on the coffee table, the printouts from the Washington Post and the Seattle Intelligencer. Paul had downloaded every story he could find, scouring the reports for some detail that he was certain the police were withholding from them. He was paranoid about everything, quizzing Abigail about crime-scene details the press had made up, conjecture they’d put out as real news. Three years ago, Adam Humphrey had been cautioned for driving without proof of insurance. Did that point to a darker side the police weren’t talking about? Kayla had been kicked out of her last school for smoking on campus. Did that mean she was doing harder drugs? Did her drug dealer bring this insanity into their lives? Was there some thug out there who was pumping Emma full of dope right now?
Making matters worse, Paul’s temper was more uncontrollable than ever. Abigail had pressed him for details about the fight with Will Trent yesterday and he had gotten so angry with her that she’d left the room rather than hear his tirade. She wanted to say that she didn’t even know him anymore, but that wasn’t true. This was exactly the Paul she had always known was there. Tragedy just brought out the finer points, and, frankly, their privileged lives had made character flaws easier to overlook.
They were used to living in eight thousand square feet of space—plenty of room to get away from each other. The carriage house, with its cozy kitchen/living room and single bedroom, was too small for them now. They were tripping over each other, constantly in each other’s way. Abigail thought that she was just as much a prisoner of this space as Emma was—wherever that may be.
What she really wanted to do was grab him, punch him, do something to punish him for letting this terrible thing happen to Emma. Paul had broken their silent deal and she was furious with him for his transgression. He could fuck around with his women and spoil their daughter to within an inch of her life, but at the end of the day, the only thing Abigail wanted from him, the only thing she expected from him, was to keep their family safe.
And he had failed miserably. Everything had gone so horribly wrong.
Beatrice stroked Abigail’s hand. “You need to be strong.”
“I killed someone, Mother.” She knew she wasn’t supposed to talk about it in front of Hamish, but the words flowed. “I strangled him with my bare hands. Adam Humphrey was the only person here who tried to help Emma, the only person who could tell us what really happened, and I killed him.”
“Shh,” she hushed, stroking Abigail’s hand. “You can’t change that now.”
“I can feel remorse,” she said. “I can feel anger, and helplessness and fury.” She gulped for air, her emotions overwhelming her. How could they expect her to go on camera today, to expose herself to the world? They weren’t even going to let her speak, a fact that had made Paul furious but had secretly relieved Abigail.
The thought of opening her mouth, begging some unseen stranger for the return of her child, made Abigail feel physically ill. What if she said the wrong thing? What if she answered a question the wrong way? What if she came across as cold? What if she came across as hard? What if she sounded too harsh or too needy or too pathetic?
The irony was that it was other women—other mothers—she was worried about. The ones who so easily passed judgment on their own sex, as if sharing certain biological characteristics made them experts on the subject. Abigail knew this mind-set because she had shared it back when she had the luxury of her safe and perfect life. She had read the stories about Madeleine McCann and JonBenet Ramsey, following every detail of the cases, judging the mothers just as harshly as everyone else had. She had seen Susan Smith pleading to the media and read about Diane Downs’s despicable violence against her own children. It had been so easy to pass judgment on these women—these mothers—to sit back on the couch, sip her coffee, and pronounce them too cold or too hard or too guilty, simply because she had caught five seconds of their faces on the news or in People magazine. And now, in the ultimate karmic payback of all time, Abigail would be the one on the cameras. She would be the one in the magazines. Her friends and neighbors, worst of all, complete strangers, would be sitting on their own couches making snap judgments about Abigail’s actions.
Beatrice said, “It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right.” Abigail stood up from the couch, snatching her hand away from her mother. “I’m sick of everyone walking around on eggshells. Somebody needs to mourn Adam. Somebody needs to acknowledge that I fucked everything up!”
Beatrice was silent, and Abigail turned around to look at her mother. The harsh light did her skin no favors, picking out every crevice, every wrinkle that the makeup could not hide. Her mother had had work done—a lift of the brow, a sharpening of the chin—but the effect was not drastic, more a softening of time’s ravages so that she looked young for her age rather than like a silicon-lipped, plastic figurine.
She spoke quietly, authoritatively. “You did fuck up, Abby. You misread the situation and you killed that boy.” Her mother didn’t like to use such language, and it showed on her face. Still, she continued, “You thought he was attacking you, but he was asking you for help.”
“He was only eighteen years old.”
“I know.”
“Emma may have loved him. He had her picture in his wallet. He might have been her boyfriend.” She thought about what that meant—holding hands, their first kiss, awkward fumbling and touching. Had her daughter made love with Adam Humphrey? Had she experienced the pleasure of a man holding her, caressing her? Was that first love the memory she would have, or would Emma only recall her abductor hurting her, raping her?
This time yesterday, the only thing Abigail had thought about was Emma’s death. Now she was finding herself wondering what would happen if Emma lived. Abigail was no fool. She knew that money was not the only reason a grown man would steal a seventeen-year-old girl from her family. If they got her back—if Emma was returned—who would that child be? Who would that stranger be in the place of their daughter?
And how would Paul deal with it? How could he ever look at his little angel again without thinking about what had been done to her, how she had been used? After yesterday’s fight, Paul hadn’t even been able to look at Abigail. How could he face their daughter?
She spoke the words that had been choking her since they had realized Emma was not dead, but taken. “Whoever has her … he’ll hurt her. He’s probably hurting her right now.”
Beatrice gave a curt nod. “Probably.”
“Paul won’t—”
“Paul will handle it, just like you.”
She doubted that. Paul liked for things to be perfect, and if they couldn’t be perfect, then he liked the appearance of perfection. Everyone would know what had happened to Emma. Everyone would know every single detail of her damaged life. And who could blame them for their bloodlust, their curiosity? Even now, the smallest part of Abigail’s brain that remembered details from movies of the week and sensational magazine cover stories threw out the names of abducted and returned children: Elizabeth Smart, Shawn Hornbeck, Steven Stayner … what had become of them? What had their families done to cope?
Abigail asked, “Who will she be, Mama? If we get her back, who will Emma be?”
Beatrice’s hand was steady as she tilted up Abigail’s chin. “She will be your daughter, and you will be her mother, and you’ll make everything fine for her, because that is what mothers do. You hear me?”
Abigail had never seen her mother cry, and that wasn’t about to change now. What she saw in her eyes was Beatrice’s strength, her calm in the storm. For just a moment, the certainty in her voice, the sureness of her words, brought something like peace to Abigail for the first time since this waking nightmare had started.
She said, “Yes, Mama.”
“Good girl,” Beatrice answered, patting her cheek before she walked toward the kitchen. She rummaged through the cabinets,
saying, “I told your father you’d have some soup before he got back. You don’t want to disappoint your daddy now, do you?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Will had always been a good sleeper. He supposed it came from sharing a room with a handful of strangers for the first eighteen years of his life. You learned to sleep through the coughs and the cries, the passing of wind and the one-handed lullabies every teenage boy practiced from a very young age.
Last night, the house had been quiet except for Betty’s soft snores and Angie’s occasional groans. Sleep, on the other hand, had been an impossibility. Will’s brain would not shut down. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind had shuttled through what little evidence they had on the case until the sun had come up and Will had finally forced himself out of bed. He’d done his usual routine—taken Betty for a stroll, then taken himself for a run. Even as he jogged, the predawn heat pressing out every drop of moisture in his body, all he could do was think about Emma Campano. Was she being held somewhere in the air-conditioning or was she exposed to hundred-plus temperatures? How long could she survive on her own? What was her abductor doing to her?
It did not bear thinking about, but as Will stood on the loading dock behind City Hall East, waiting for Emma’s parents to show up, all he could think was that for the first time in his life, he was no longer envious of Paul Campano.
Will wondered how Amanda had broken it to the man that he was not to open his mouth during the press conference. Paul would not have taken the order lightly. He was used to bossing people around, controlling the situation with his anger—or the threat of it. Even when he didn’t speak, Paul managed to convey his displeasure. Will knew that the kidnapper would be watching the parents for any indication that he should just kill the girl and move on. Keeping a lid on Paul would be an uphill battle. He was glad it wasn’t his job.
Amanda had obviously not been pleased that the press had basically forced her into calling a conference. She had scheduled it at a time when most reporters were sleeping off the night before. They weren’t as savage at six-thirty in the morning as they were at eight or nine, and, as usual, she liked exploiting the advantage. In a fit of compassion, Will had not bothered Faith with the early call. He thought it best to let her sleep in. He didn’t know her well, but he guessed the detective had spent her night tossing and turning over the case just like he had. Maybe the extra two hours would help clear her mind this morning. At least one of them would know what they were doing.
A black BMW 750 pulled up to the loading dock. Of course, Paul had refused to let a cruiser bring him in. Amanda had told the Campanos to meet Will on the North Avenue side of the building because a couple of photographers were already milling around the front steps of City Hall East. The back was restricted to police vehicles and various support vehicles, so the vultures couldn’t get in without risking arrest.
Paul got out of the car first, his hand smoothing back the flap of hair that covered the top of his balding head. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and blue tie—nothing flashy. Amanda would have coached them not to appear too wealthy or too well dressed; not for fear of the kidnapper, but because the press would be scrutinizing every inch of the parents to find a vulnerability that could be exploited for their lead paragraph.
Abigail opened her car door just as Paul reached for the handle. Her long, shapely legs were bare, her shoes modestly heeled. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and an off-white cotton blouse of the sort Faith Mitchell seemed to favor. The overall look was understated, reserved. Except for the ninety-thousand-dollar car, she could be any soccer mom within a five-mile radius.
Yesterday’s fight was obviously still fresh for the couple, or maybe there had been some new ones in between. There was a distance between them. Even as they walked up the stairs to the loading dock, Paul did not offer his arm, nor did his wife reach to take it.
“Agent Trent,” Abigail said. Her voice was thin, her gaze almost lifeless. He wondered if she was still medicated. The woman seemed to have trouble standing upright.
Paul, on the other hand, was almost bouncing on his toes. “I want to talk to your boss.”
“You’ll see her in a minute,” Will said, opening the door to the building. They walked down the narrow hallway to the private elevator that serviced the police station. Will could not help but put his hand at Abigail’s back as she walked. There was something so fragile about her. The fact that Paul was oblivious to this was not surprising, but Will was taken aback by the renewed anger he felt at the man. His wife was falling apart in front of him and all Paul could think to do was demand to talk to the person in charge.
Will kept his pace slow so that Abigail would not have to struggle to keep up. Paul bounded ahead of them toward the elevator, as if he knew where to go.
Will kept his voice low, telling the woman, “This won’t take long.”
She looked at him, her red-rimmed eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll get you back home as soon—”
“I’ve got a statement to make,” Paul told Will, his loud voice an intrusion in the small space. “You’re not going to stop me.”
Will tried to temper his anger, but the other man’s smug certainty was grating. “What exactly do you want to say?”
“I’m going to offer a bonus.”
Will felt sucker punched—again. “A bonus for what?”
“I’m going to tell the kidnapper we’ll double the ransom money if Emma isn’t harmed.”
“That’s not how these things—”
“Let me talk to your boss,” he interrupted, pressing the call button for the elevator just as the doors opened. “I don’t have time to fuck with you.”
A crowd of cops filled the ancient elevator. They all recognized the Campanos and gave them a wide berth, vacating the car as quickly as possible.
Paul got on. Will pressed his hand to Abigail’s back, gently persuading her to move. He entered his code on the grimy keypad, then pressed the button for the third floor. There was a rumbling somewhere in the bowels of the building, then the doors creaked closed and the car jerked as it slowly started upward.
Among other things, Will had discussed the press conference with Amanda last night. The Campanos were not going to talk to the media because Abigail was too vulnerable and Paul was too volatile. Once they opened their mouths, the press would attack. Even the most innocuous statement could be spun into a damning indictment.
Will told Paul as much now. “This isn’t like what you see on television. We don’t need you to make a statement. We just need you to be there to remind the kidnappers that Emma has parents who love her.”
“Fuck you,” Paul barked back, his fists clenching. “You can’t stop me from talking to the press.”
Will’s nose still ached from yesterday. He wondered if he was about to get punched again and how much it would bleed. “I can stop you talking at this particular press conference.”
“We’ll see what your boss says,” Paul told him, crossing his arms. Maybe he wasn’t ready to get hit again, either. “I told you yesterday, I’m not fucking around. This guy wants money and we’ll give it to him. Whatever he wants. I’m not going to let my baby get hurt.”
“It’s too late,” Abigail said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but she still managed to be heard. She told her husband, “Don’t you know that the worst has already happened?”
Paul looked as if he’d been sucker punched. “Don’t say that.”
“The only reason he’s giving her back is because he’s finished with her.”
Paul jabbed his finger in her face. “Don’t you talk like that, God dammit!”
“It’s true,” she said, unfazed by the sudden flash of fury. “You know it’s true, Paul. You know he’s used her every way—”
“Stop it!” he screamed, grabbing her by the arms, shaking her. “You shut up, do you hear me? Just shut up!”
The doors slid open, t
he bell dinging to indicate they had reached the third floor. A tall man with steel gray hair and bronzed skin stood in front of the open doors. He looked like something out of Garden & Gun, and his face was familiar to Will from the newspaper reports: Hoyt Bentley, Emma Campano’s wealthy grandfather. Amanda was beside the man. If she was surprised to find Paul Campano threatening his wife, she didn’t show it. She took in Will, her eyes traveling over his bruised face. Her eyebrow lifted, and he instantly understood that they would be having a conversation about how he’d gotten his face punched at a more convenient time.
Hoyt spoke like a man used to being obeyed. “Let go of her, Paul.”
“Not until she says it’s not true,” Paul insisted, as if this was some kind of pissing contest he knew he could win by bullying his wife.
Abigail had obviously dealt with this before. Even in her grief, a hint of sarcasm crept into her tone. “Okay, Paul. It’s not true. Emma’s fine. I’m sure whoever took her hasn’t hurt her or abused her or—”
“Enough,” Amanda said. “This is why you’re not talking to the press—both of you.” She held out her hand, stopping the elevator doors from closing. She directed her words to Paul. “Unless you want your wife to take questions about killing Adam Humphrey? Or perhaps you’d like to talk about your extramarital affairs?” She gave one of her icy smiles. “This is how it’s going to work: you’re both going to sit there on the dais and let the cameras roll. I am going to read from a prepared statement, while the press takes photographs, then you are both going to go home and wait for the second call from the kidnapper. Is that clear?”
Paul dropped his hands, fists tight. “Emma’s okay,” he told his wife, unable to let her have the last word. “This is a ransom, not a kidnapping. Kidnappers don’t hurt the victims. They just want money.”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 63
