Little Girl Lost: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery- Book 1

by Alexandria Clarke

  After hours of trying, I’d only succeeded in giving myself a hammering headache, so I pulled the cool bedsheets over my head and dozed until mid-morning. Experimentation clearly wasn’t the answer. I needed concrete research on the possibilities of a telepathic link between sisters, but that sort of thing was difficult to come by when the science behind it was more fantastical than, well, scientific. It would be simpler if I could talk to someone with similar experiences, yet I doubted a visit to the local palm reader—whose store always smelled faintly of marijuana and lavender incense—would do me much good. No, I needed something real to hold on to. Someone who—

  I sat straight up in bed, the epiphany hitting me like an anvil to the head. I knew someone who heard voices. Aunt Ani, my mother’s sister, had been declared unable to care of herself after my parents’ deaths. She’d claimed that she heard my mother calling out to her from beyond the grave. No one believed her. They told her that she was suffering from emotional trauma as a result of her sister’s death. Then they pumped her full of antipsychotics until she stopped functioning like a human being. Now, she resided in the assisted living facility meant for Belle Dame’s elderly residents, but she wasn’t as unresponsive as the staff thought. She and Holly had spoken through coded messages, and once I discovered their methods, I’d broken through to Ani too.

  I rolled out of bed and tugged open the dresser drawers, where my clothes were piled in messy heaps. I desperately needed to take advantage of the motel’s laundry room, but there was no time. I sniffed at a T-shirt, blanched, and found one that smelled less repulsive to pull over my head. Then I braided my hair back, put on my shoes, and headed out, but another postcard had been shoved under the door sometime during the night.

  The glossy picture showed the Statue of Death, a grim reaper dressed in white robes that stood in the courtyard of the University of Medicine in Paris. Death’s open mouth laughed at passers-by, reminding everyone that we would all meet at the end someday. On the back of the postcard was another message, and a surge of relief rushed through me at the sight of Holly’s writing. At the very least, she was being kept alive to keep the game going.

  Get Emily on your side, the postcard read. You know how.

  I swayed on the spot, deliberating, then deposited the postcard in the motel safe before leaving the room. For once, the sun didn’t beat down on the pavement. It was a rainy Sunday morning. Puddles gathered in potholes, lying in wait for unsuspecting drivers to splash through them. The steady drizzle pattered on the overhang of the motel hallway as I walked toward the reception office at the front of the parking lot. Gray clouds washed out Belle Dame’s usually vibrant colors. The gloomy day matched my solemn mood, so the damp shoulders of my T-shirt bothered me less than they should have.

  I hopped over a puddle and pulled open the door of the reception office. I’d already made the acquaintance of Grant—the stringy recent high school graduate that manned the front desk—when I’d checked into the motel a couple weeks ago. He snoozed in a rolling chair with his muddy boots propped up next to the motel’s computer.

  “Grant,” I said. “Hey, Grant!”

  He snorted and came to, his boots thumping to the floor. “Welcome to the Star Motel, where we make you feel like a star.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s just me, you dork.”

  “Oh, Bridget.” Grant rubbed his eyes. “What can I do you for?”

  “Do you have access to the security footage from outside my room for last night?” I asked him, drumming my fingers on his desk. “The motel has to have cameras, right?”

  “Yeah, we got cameras,” he said. “I don’t have access to the tapes though. That’s more of a manager thing. Why? Is something missing from your room?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I told him. “I had a visitor that I’d like to identify. Can you ask if it’s possible to get those tapes?”

  “Sure thing. Here, grab an umbrella before you go.”

  “Thanks.” I took the offered umbrella, which was printed with Star Motel’s amateur logo, from the stand by the door.

  “Have you heard any news about Holly?”

  I pushed through the door, out into the rain. “Not yet.”

  Belle Dame’s collection of churches lined a street perpendicular to the neighborhood at the top of the hill, starting with the Baptists at one end and ending with the Catholics at the other. I waited on the steps of the Lutheran church with the umbrella perched over my shoulder, listening to the muted mass filter through the oak front doors. It was the calm before the storm. All of the churches followed the same schedule. In a few minutes, the congregations would disperse, and the people who claimed to be good Christians in the house of God would filter out to fight over who got to drive out of the parking lot first, flipping each other the finger as rosaries swung from their rearview mirrors.

  I reined in my cynical thoughts. Not everyone in the world was out for themselves. There had to be some good people left. It was heartbreaking to think otherwise, and it made me feel empty inside to consider it. My parents were a prime example. They, like most people from the South, had been Christians too. I’d been baptized as a baby, brought forth into the Kingdom of God. I learned the prayers and went to Sunday school and dressed all in white for my First Communion. I sat in Confession without knowing what to say, and after my parents died, I lit votive candles for each of them in the hope that it might alleviate some of the unbridled rage that I carried in my chest. It hadn’t helped. My parents were good people, and as a child, it had been easiest to blame God for taking them. But that was life. Good things and bad things happened, and I quickly learned that you couldn’t thank or blame an invisible man for either.

  Inside, the church filled with the voices of the choir and congregation as they sang a closing hymn. The less devoted attendees snuck out before the recession, crossing themselves hastily as they hurried toward the parking lot to beat the others out onto the street. I watched them go, knowing better than to expect Bill and Emily anytime soon. They were the type to file out dead last, which as a sixteen-year-old delinquent had been absolute torture, so I settled in as the floodgates opened, releasing all denominations from their obligatory weekly meeting.

  The Millers were easy to spot once they exited the church. Bill led the charge, followed closely by Emily and the four foster kids that currently lived with them. Holly’s tall figure was missing from the lineup. Ryan, the current eldest, spotted me on the steps right away, giving me no time to prepare myself for the forthcoming conversation.

  “Hi, Bridget!” He waved merrily, sprinkled donut in hand. The stiff sleeve of his too-small button-down shirt rode up toward his wrist. At the head of their pack, Bill stiffened, and Emily rested a comforting hand on his forearm. I clenched my teeth into a grin and waved back, weaving in and out of the other parishioners to reach the family.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t bring me a donut,” I told Ryan, covering his post-mass treat with the umbrella to protect it from the rain. The other kids, two girls and a boy, stared up at me in awe. It wasn’t hard to grasp why. I was essentially an older, but otherwise identical, version of their missing foster sister.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” Ryan protested.

  Bill forced Ryan behind him. “I thought I made myself clear yesterday,” he said, keeping his voice at a low rumble in order to not draw attention to my foray. “I told you to stay away from my family. Looks like I’ll have to arrange that restraining order sooner than I thought.”

  “I need to talk to Emily,” I replied, guilt and anticipation churning in my stomach.

  “The hell you do.”

  “Bill, not here.” Emily took her husband’s elbow, encouraging him to nudge the younger children toward the parking lot. “What do you want, Bridget?”

  I eyed Bill, who waited a few steps down, his face now level with mine. “Can we talk in private?”

  The youngest girl whined as Bill’s fingers tightened around hers. He glowe
red at me. “Whatever you have to say to my wife, you can say to me too.”

  Emily’s eyes drifted toward the sky, but she kept her cool. “Sweetheart, it might be best—”

  “I’m not leaving her alone with you,” Bill declared.

  “You don’t want him to hear this,” I told Emily in an undertone. “At least, not right away. You might need some time to think before—”

  “Just tell me, Bridget. What’s this all about?”

  “It’s about Bill,” I warned her.

  Emily’s gaze flickered toward her husband, whose beard had separated between his lips to indicate a slack-jawed expression. The last lingering parishioners stepped around him and the brood of children, leaving me and the Millers alone on the church steps.

  “Bridget,” Bill said. “Don’t do this.”

  “I have to.”

  “What are you talking about?” Emily asked.

  I stepped closer to her, lowering my voice as much as possible. “Emily, I don’t know what Bill’s told you about me. Nothing good, I imagine. I’ll admit I was a pain in the ass when I lived with you two, but the rift between me and your husband wasn’t entirely my fault. You see, I saw him do something that he wanted kept quiet, and he reminded me of it every chance he got.”

  “Bridget—” Bill said again.

  “Shh!” Emily crossed her arms and trained her eyes on me. “Go on.”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you remember Gretta Marshall? She taught history at Belle Dame High. Blonde, tall, pretty.”

  “Yes, I remember Gretta.”

  I caught sight of Bill over Emily’s shoulder, furiously shaking his head, and plowed ahead. “I had detention after school one day. Bill was supposed to pick me up. His truck was parked in the car loop, but he wasn’t in it. I wanted to go home, so I went to go look for him.”

  Emily’s face had fallen, as if she already knew where this recollection was headed. Ryan ping-ponged between Bill and Emily, studying their reactions, as the younger kids grew restless, pulling at their foster father’s hands. He stood like a rock, thunderstruck, as I continued on.

  “I found him in the supply closet near the history classroom,” I said. “With Gretta. He threatened to kill me if I ever told you, so I kept my mouth shut. That’s why Bill hated me so much. That’s why I burned down the barn and caused so much trouble. I just thought you deserved to know what kind of man your husband really is.”

  Silence fell over the steps of the church. The rain picked up, drenching Bill’s thin hair and hammering on the top of my umbrella. Emily tightened the hood of her pink floral slicker and turned to her husband.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  And Bill, much to my surprise, gave one curt nod.

  Emily left me near the church doors to step down and free the children’s hands from Bill’s grasp. She straightened her shoulders and looked her husband square in the face. “Don’t come home,” she told him. “Find a friend to stay with. Mick or Kurt. I don’t care, but don’t you dare set foot in my house until I’ve decided what to do about this.”

  “Emily—”

  “How could you?” she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “Years of marriage ruined for one pretty girl. How could you do that to me?”

  “Baby, I’m so sorry,” Bill insisted.

  Emily pushed past him. “Let’s go, kids. Bridget?”

  “Yes?”

  The wind blew Emily’s hood off, and the rain plastered her bangs to her forehead. “Would you mind helping me get the kids home? I can offer you a nice lunch.”

  “I can do that.” Without making eye contact with Bill, I joined Emily on the sidewalk. I took the youngest girl’s hand in my own and gave my umbrella to Ryan, who held it above all three of us as we walked toward the parking lot. Bill remained on the church steps, unmoving, the weather seeping through his workman’s jacket.

  The ride in the passenger seat of Emily’s red minivan from the church to the Millers’ house was silent. Somehow, the kids could sense the gravity of the situation. They sat quietly in the back seat as Emily drove through town. Ryan’s napkin-wrapped donut lay forgotten in a cupholder. When we trundled up the dirt driveway of the Millers’ farmhouse, he got out first, unlatched the car seat next to him, and wiggled the littlest girl free of her restraints.

  We followed the four kids up to the porch, where they robotically kicked off their muddy boots then shed their coats and laid them out to dry across the rickety swinging bench. One by one, they filed inside. I shook out the umbrella and propped it against the door before heading in after them. As the kids retreated to the second level of the house, Emily opened the fridge to gather ingredients for the promised lunch. She stared at the cramped shelves of food but didn’t move otherwise.

  “Emily?” I rounded the island counter to stand behind her. “Do you need help?”

  “Why now?” she asked.

  The chill from the fridge crept past her, frosting the raindrops on my skin. “Sorry?”

  She closed the refrigerator with a snap and pivoted toward me. “Why tell me about Bill now? You could’ve said something years ago, and you never did.”

  I looked down at the black and white checkered floor, unable to match Emily’s keen gaze. “He was adamant about it, and I was scared of him. When I left Belle Dame, I didn’t see the point. I didn’t expect to talk to you or Bill ever again.”

  “You owed me the courtesy—”

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Honestly, I’m sorry I had to tell you now, but Holly’s disappearance has really put things in perspective for me. You’ve been really good about all of this—not blaming me for the past and letting me see Holly’s room—and I couldn’t lie to you anymore.”

  Emily threw herself at me, knocking the breath out of my lungs with an intense hug. She squeezed tight. “Oh, Bridget. I’m so sorry. No wonder you and him were always on edge. If I had known what he’d said to you, I would’ve put a stop to it right away.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I gasped.

  She drew away, wiping her eyes. “I always felt so terrible for you. Every time the police picked you up, I wondered if there was anything else I could do to help you.”

  “Emily, it was never your fault.”

  “I could’ve done more.”

  “You tried your best,” I told her. “Did, uh, did Bill tell you that I saw him yesterday at the supply store?”

  Emily returned to the fridge, this time extracting all the fixings for sandwiches. “He mentioned it. Why?”

  “Did he tell you what we talked about?”

  “Just that you seemed upset.” She set down a packet of cheese, a loaf of white bread, and an entire roast on the counter. “Is there something else I need to know?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. Never mind.”

  Emily blotted her eyes with a kitchen towel then filled the kettle and set it on the stove. “Would you like some tea? I find tea quite comforting on crappy days like this.”

  “Sure.”

  She shaved the roast and lined up a row of bread slices for sandwiches, decorating each one with a layer of meat and cheese. I wasn’t used to making casual conversation with Emily, and I expected that she wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat after the bomb I’d dropped on her marriage anyway.

  The kettle whistled, shrill against my eardrums.

  Holly’s voice called out. “Bridget? You there?”

  “One second,” I mumbled. To Emily, I said, “Bathroom. Be right back.”

  I hurried out of the living room and locked myself in the bathroom at the end of the hall. “Holly? Still with me?”

  “Check my car,” Holly said. I couldn’t see her like I had during that night at The Pit, but her voice came in clearer than a telephone call.

  “What for?”

  “Clues.”

  “Holly, the police already searched your car.” I sat down on the closed toilet lid. “They didn’t find anything.”


  “They missed something,” she replied. “Go look.”

  A fuzzy static filled my head, a sign that the connection was fading. “Okay, I’ll look. Hold on, Holly. Just hold on.”

  The connection died, and Holly was gone. I squeezed the bridge of my nose, fighting off the ache that accompanied our telepathic calls and praying for her to be okay.

  In the living room, Emily decorated six plates with roast beef sandwiches, apple slices, and a heap of potato chips. “Oh, good. I hope you’re hungry. Can you grab the kids?”

  “Actually, do you mind if I have a look at Holly’s car?”

  Emily paused with a bottle of orange juice poised over the lip of a glass. “I guess so. I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find though.”

  “Me either.”

  She set down the orange juice and tossed a pair of keys at me from a tray on the counter. “There you go. It’s in the garage out back.”

  I jogged across the yard through the drizzle and manually lifted the door to the old garage. Holly owned an outdated tan Jeep with a black soft top. Somewhere, I had pictures she’d sent me of the day she bought it off of one of the locals in town. The back seat was full of her fastpitch gear, piled high with spare cleats, bats, practice jerseys, and several neon green softballs. I rummaged through it, looking for anything out of place, but the mess was distinctly Holly’s. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The front seat was much cleaner, aside from the layer of infield clay beneath the pedals on the driver’s side. A half-empty Gatorade bottle sat in the console cupholder, as well as a ripped wrapper of a POWER PUNCH protein bar. I picked up the bright pink wrapper, wrinkling my nose, and tossed it into the garbage bin along with the leftover energy drink.

  “What are you talking about, Holly?” I murmured, checking under each seat in case I missed something. Nothing. For good measure, I did another pass of the entire vehicle before giving up. Whatever Holly expected me to find was long gone.