by Lisa Harris
Men and women, some uniformed, others in suits, crowded around the family on the stairs of the old brick building. While a few seemed eager and sure of themselves, most looked worn and haggard, having lived long enough that hope felt as elusive as vapor.
Or maybe Cassidy was projecting.
Reid stepped up to the microphones.
Cassidy couldn’t hear her former friend’s words, but she could imagine them—pleas for the return of his five-year-old daughter, Ella. His and Denise’s daughter. Cassidy had learned that much from the newspaper articles, but Denise was nowhere to be seen. There must be a story there, one Cassidy didn’t know and probably never would.
Watching the scene were mothers with hands over their mouths, eyes wide. Fathers with clenched fists, looking ready to take on the world to protect their own. As if they could prevent danger and violence by sheer will.
That protectiveness had always hummed beneath the surface of this little New Hampshire town. Cassidy had felt it keenly, especially when people learned where her mother was and why. Many of the residents had looked at Cassidy as if she were her mother, not one of Mom’s victims. It was unfair, and they’d probably all admit that if pressed. But when it came to safeguarding their families, fairness was irrelevant.
Finally, traffic moved. Lifting a prayer—one of the many she’d uttered since she’d learned of the girl’s disappearance—Cassidy left downtown behind. This would be her third attempt at finding that hidden cave on the mountain. Third attempt, but, unless she was successful today, not the last. She’d keep looking until she located it. That was the only way she could save that missing child.
By the time she parked in a small gravel parking lot on the outskirts of town, it was almost nine-thirty, and the sun was warming the mid-July morning. With the humidity, it would be a scorcher. She climbed from the car and grabbed her backpack. Inside were water bottles, sunscreen, bug spray, granola bars, a rope, a first-aid kit, a lighter, a flashlight, and extra ammo—everything she thought she might need.
The only thing she carried that wasn’t in the backpack was her Glock 19. The guy at the gun shop had talked her into it. Knowing next to nothing about guns, she’d trusted his judgment, and he hadn’t steered her wrong. The Glock felt manageable in her hand, and she’d hit the target on her first try. Granted, the target had only been about ten feet away. With more training, she’d gotten better, more comfortable. She could shoot a man if she had to. She would, if she had to.
After she got the backpack settled, she checked the Glock. It was loaded and ready.
So was she.
Or as ready as she could be for mountain-climbing. She slipped the gun into its holster on her side, dreading the day ahead. More than once, she’d described herself as indoorsy. Hiking, backpacking, camping… Those weren’t her scene. She should’ve known she’d be back here. She should’ve prepared. Truth was, she’d avoided anything that reminded her of that day ten years prior. She’d stayed happily surrounded by high-rises and concrete instead of trees and mountains. Any love she’d once had for the wilderness had died that night ten years before on Mt. Ayasha. When she ran away, she swore she would never return—not to Coventry, not to the forest, certainly not to this mountain.
She started on the trail that had become familiar. If she could start higher up, this would be so much simpler. If she could camp overnight on the mountain, she’d surely have found the cave by now. But the ghosts were too close.
What she needed was help. As with everything else she’d ever done, Cassidy would have to do this alone.
She hiked through the forest until she caught sight of the campground on the edge of the lake. Pulling the bill of her cap low and pushing her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose, she made her way along the narrow path that led past the tents and RVs. James’s old familiar house was on the other side, but the forest was too thick to see it, the trail that led there overgrown. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t see the property, but who could blame her for wanting a glimpse of the one place she’d ever felt loved?
She kept her shoulders back, pretending to belong.
The story of her life. Though, to be fair, Cassidy had found a place to belong. She’d built a life for herself in Seattle, far from the memories and accusations. She’d graduated from high school, earned a bachelor’s degree in counseling, and gotten a job helping at-risk youth, girls like the one she’d been. Young women who’d run away or been discarded by their families, who had nothing and nobody. Ever since little Hallie’s death, Cassidy’s life had been about finding and saving lost girls.
A few children played on the playground while four preteens smacked a volleyball on the sand court. Adults occupied benches and picnic tables, some sipping from mugs or picking at muffins. Beyond the little building that housed the communal bathrooms, a few kids already splashed in the lake. The sandy beach was busy with walkers, joggers, and early sunbathers. Laughter, chatter, and a faraway motorboat created the perfect soundtrack for the vacation day. One would never know a child had been snatched from a home just a few miles down the road.
Cassidy left the vacationers behind and hiked the trail she’d climbed the previous two days, trying to focus on the here and now and not the fears that haunted.
Thirty minutes into the hike, she left the marked trail, relying on old memories she’d worked so hard to bury. All she had to do was steer clear of anybody who might recognize her and keep hiking, keep searching. Little Ella was out here somewhere. Maybe today would be the day Cassidy would find her.
Chapter Three
James Sullivan stayed at the edge of the crowd, watching the press conference and battling memories best left buried. Memories of his parents standing on those same steps while James hovered off to the side, trying to be invisible. Dad saying the same things then that Reid was saying now.
James hoped that, this time, the outcome would be different.
When Reid finished talking and the police chief stepped up and fielded questions from reporters, a lot of the onlookers wandered away.
People James had known most of his life were interspersed with newcomers and curious tourists.
A few faces jumped out at him, mostly because, though they were trying not to be obvious about it, they were watching him. The high school principal, Mr. Flores, who’d been the vice principal back then, averted his gaze the instant James noticed him.
Tip Dion, the manager at the restaurant James owned but rarely visited, lifted a hand in greeting but wore no smile. Tip should be behind the coffee counter at The Patriot, not standing on the sidewalk out front.
James had gone to school with others in the crowd, and there were parents of old friends, people who’d known his family for years. Some waved, some just nodded. What did they expect of him? To dissolve into tears? To raise his fist in anger?
The urge to turn and walk away was strong, but he tamped it down. This wasn’t about him, despite all the looks. This was about Reid and his missing daughter.
Sweet little Ella, who kissed James’s cheek and made him play with dolls whenever he went to Reid’s house. Ella, who loved to be swung around in the yard like a monkey. Ella, who trusted James and Reid and her grandparents to protect her. Who’d learned too young that the world was a very dangerous place.
Please, let her still be alive.
The prayer slipped from his heart before he could stop it. He’d been doing that a lot lately—accidentally praying, forgetting that God didn’t answer his prayers.
On the far side of the crowd, Wilson Cage hung on the police chief’s words. Both Wilson and his son Eugene had been suspects in James’s sister’s disappearance ten years earlier, mostly because their campground abutted James’s land and the trails. But there’d never been any real evidence linking them to the crime. At least none that James knew of. Of course, he hadn’t known everything. His parents had tried to shield him, as if more pain would have pushed him over the edge.
James didn’t flinch
when a hand clamped on his shoulder. Lots of people had touched him that morning, spoken words of encouragement and solidarity. It should have helped.
Beside him, Vince Pollack dropped his hand. “How’s Reid holding up?”
“How do you think?”
Vince said nothing, his gaze scanning the crowd around them. Something snagged his attention, and James turned to see a little girl, about four years old, holding her mother’s hand.
So vulnerable. So innocent. Would she, or a child just like her, be the killer’s next victim?
A look of anguish crossed Vince’s features.
The police chief stepped away from the mic, and the mayor took center stage with a prepared speech.
“Why aren’t you up there?” James asked.
“You don’t think there are enough spotlight-loving windbags already?”
“What’s one more?”
Vince chuckled. “Been studying the crowd. Sick people who do stuff like this, they like to see the results of their evil, you know?”
James tore his gaze away from the press conference, though the scene was magnetic, like all great tragedies are.
On TV, police detectives wore suits, but Vince had on khakis and a golf shirt. Blending in. “See anything interesting?”
“Just locals. Some families on vacation who couldn’t get away fast enough. Nobody noteworthy.”
“How’s the investigation going?” James asked. “Anything new?”
“Nothing. Kid was playing in her grandparents’ backyard one minute, gone the next. Just like the girl last month.”
“But you think she’s still close?”
He shrugged. “Normally we wouldn’t, but last time, if the kidnapper’d taken her away, why come back to dump the body? She’s gotta be nearby.”
James wondered if by “she,” Vince referred to the child or the kidnapper. He wondered, but he didn’t ask.
Dylan O’Donnell approached, his red hair bright in the morning sunshine. He shook both men’s hands. “What can I do to help?”
O’Donnell was a private investigator who specialized in finding lost people. But not kidnapped people, as far as James knew. Runaways and homeless loved ones. Addicts, alcoholics, the mentally ill.
Vince said, “Nothing at the moment.”
“Chelsea thought she might offer a reward for the kid’s safe return.” Dylan’s wife was the president and CEO of Hamilton Clothiers, the town’s largest industry and the state’s largest single employer.
A reward seemed like a good idea to James, but Vince said, “Take it up with the chief, but I don’t think that’s the way to go. This person’s a serial kidnapper and murderer. We gotta catch her”—Vince’s gaze flicked to James—“or him. Not fund the operation.”
Her.
Everyone thought it was her.
Even though he was a newcomer to town, Dylan knew the story, and he glanced at James too. “Let me know. Money, time, expertise. We’re happy to help however we can.”
“Will do.” Vince waited until Dylan was a good distance away before he spoke again. “I’d take him more seriously if his hair weren’t the color of a firetruck.”
“I hear he’s good, though.”
“I wish I could put him to work. Truth is, we got nothing. The kid just vanished.”
They listened to the mayor drone on for a few minutes. There wasn’t much else to say, but he managed to use a lot of words to say it.
James asked, “How’s Lorelai doing?”
The hard lines in his friend’s face softened. “Good. Real good. I don’t know what she sees in a guy like me.”
“I always figured she’s slow-witted.”
Vince liked that.
“You gonna make it official?”
“I hope. She thinks it’s too soon, but I’m ready.”
Vince’s mother had died a few months before. As far back as anybody could remember, it had only been Vince and his mom. Vince had taken the death hard.
“You doing okay?” James asked. “Anything I can—?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
James didn’t press. He knew better than to think there was anything he could do to help.
Vince had hardly aged since James first met him. Or, more likely, James had always thought of him as older than he really was. Put a uniform on a guy, give him a sidearm, it makes him look mature. James had been about fifteen the first time he’d seen Officer Pollack. He realized now that the badge had been freshly minted, the uniform starched to sharp edges. Vince had stood front and center at the school assembly once a year to tell the kids not to do drugs.
Like his classmates, James had snickered at the straightlaced cop. Other than that, he never thought about Vince or anybody else in law enforcement. James wasn’t one to get involved in drugs or underage drinking. Only time he ever broke the law was when he and his friends would sneak past the No Trespassing sign and prowl the campground on summer evenings to play volleyball and swim at the beach. As they’d slipped from childhood into teens, they went not to play but to prowl for pretty girls.
Officer Vince had been an hour-a-year distraction almost all the way through high school.
Until James’s sister went missing.
Vince had been the first on the scene when Hallie’s body was found.
The chief had been around back then, the lead detective, lots of other cops, but it was Vince whom James remembered most from those days. An arm slung around his shoulders when James was too overwhelmed by grief to speak. A kind word for his mother. A shoulder-clasp for his father. Vince had been there.
What James learned back then, the truth that had gotten him into town this morning, was that even if you could do nothing else, even if you had no idea what to say, you could be there.
He was trying to be there for Reid now. God knew Denise wouldn’t be. She’d filed for divorce and taken off just months after Ella’s birth.
James had caught Reid’s eye before the press conference, but Reid had hardly acknowledged him. Too much terror in there for much else. Would Reid ever be the same?
If Ella didn’t return, James knew the answer already. His own life was marked by one glaring before-and-after moment.
Before Hallie’d been kidnapped, James had been one of the popular kids. He’d played sports well enough that colleges had been talking scholarships. James’d had a lot of friends, good friends, or so he’d thought. He’d made good grades and goofed off. He’d been happy.
The kid he was before, that dumb arrogant jock, died the night his sister disappeared.
Most of the friendships he’d have sworn were strong fell apart. It wasn’t that his classmates and teammates didn’t care. But ever since Cassidy had started at Coventry High, rumors had swirled around her. With her mother in prison for beating her little sister to death, Cassidy had borne more tragedy than anybody else at the sheltered little school, and their classmates loved to speculate about the events surrounding the little girl’s death. Because Cassidy had been the one to call 911. She’d claimed their mother was abusive, and her testimony had sent the woman to prison.
Such juicy details for a bunch of teenagers with no real drama in their lives.
They hadn’t known the Cassidy he knew, the girl who was tender and gentle. Once Hallie died, the rumors had been too meaty, too tasty, to ignore.
High school was a time for hyperbole and melodrama. Everything seemed so big and so important, but James—and his friends, he thought—had believed, deep down, that the worries they dealt with were just kids’ stuff. Despite the vicious stories about Cassidy’s mother, nobody’d ever really believed Cassidy capable of violence. Their lives were too insulated for that.
James and those he’d gone to school with for twelve years had been fortunate. No suicides, no drug overdoses, no major crime. Sure, there were drugs, but no serious addictions, no runaways. There were a handful of teenage pregnancies and rumors of more. But, for the most part, life was simple.
Which was why Ca
ssidy had been so intriguing.
When Hallie disappeared in the spring of his senior year, the fantasy of safety was snatched away.
The other kids hadn’t known how to deal with it. What was there to say to a guy whose girlfriend kidnapped and killed his little sister?
There were no pithy lines for that.
Only Reid had stuck around.
Every evening after baseball practice, Reid would come and knock on the door. James would tell him to go away, but Mom would welcome him in, offer him a Coke. No matter how painstakingly James ignored him, Reid would stay. Plop down on the couch beside him, tell him what he’d missed at practice, give him a rundown of every game James no longer cared to play. Tell him all the latest gossip—all that hadn’t been related to Cassidy, anyway.
They’d play video games, mostly in silence, for hours.
No matter how rude James was, Reid kept coming. Kept coming until, one day, James said, “Wanna go hit some balls?” And just like that, things started toward a new normal.
That was the thing about life’s befores and afters. There was an after. No matter how impossible it seemed, life went on.
Most of his before friendships had fallen away. But the after friendships were stronger. The old life was gone, but, no matter how little James wanted it to, a new life was formed.
A new James had emerged. Not better, necessarily, but wiser and more compassionate.
He never played another baseball game. Instead, he attended Plymouth State, right down the road, where he could be close to his parents. Reid went with him, and Vince had checked up on him often over the years.
James didn’t know if he’d have survived without Vince and Reid, especially after his parents passed.
Vince slapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. “This has gotta be killing you.”
