Somebody's Daughter

by David Bell

  “What is?”

  “Well, when she was recovering, the two of us got closer in a way we hadn’t before. We just talked more, let down our guard a little bit. She was sick and vulnerable, so maybe that helped. Lynn told me that she didn’t really feel comfortable with me when I first started dating Michael. I guess she and Erica got along pretty well. They were both the outspoken ones in the family, and Lynn saw me as a little uptight. I guess I could come off that way. I think about my career a lot.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Griffin said.

  “No. And she certainly thought about her career too. But I sell pharmaceuticals, and she’s an artist.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, I appreciated that honesty. We got over a hump then, she and I.” Angela nodded. “I like her. She’s really smart. And loyal to her family.”

  “She must be. Loyal, that is,” Griffin said. “She could live anywhere, but she’s here in Cottonsville.” The detective smiled. “Sorry, I’m being gossipy.” Griffin continued to study the wall of photos. She raised her index finger. “So, this childhood photo shows three kids, but none of the others do. Why is that?”

  Angela looked at the photo again. It showed the three kids at their small house on Cravens Lake. Michael stood in front, his hair wet, his smile big and cheesy. His two sisters stood on either side of him, both of them in bathing suits and dripping water. Their skin was glowing from the sun, their eyes dancing with happiness and light. Michael always spoke of those times at the lake almost reverently, as if the house and the water possessed a magic that had evaporated from the world after Robyn’s death.

  Angela knew the photo was taken just a couple of weeks before Robyn died. She sometimes wondered if the photo should be put away instead of serving as a constant reminder of the tragedy that crushed them all. But Angela deferred to Michael. He lived with the photo there. He lived with the memories, the good and the bad.

  The family rarely went to the lake anymore, and Angela almost wished she could have participated in the happy times they all shared there, even though it was long before she met Michael. It felt like a part of his life she would never fully grasp. It belonged to the immediate family, especially Michael and Lynn.

  “Michael and Lynn had another sister. Robyn. She died in an accident on a swing set when they were kids. She fell off the very top.”

  “Oh.” Griffin lifted her hand to her chest, the corners of her mouth turning down. “I’d never heard that.”

  “She didn’t talk about it in interviews or anything.”

  “It must be awful for all of them.”

  “It is. Michael’s mom never really talks about it either. Michael has never said too much, but I know he feels guilty. He was watching Robyn that day. He’s the oldest.” Angela scratched the side of her face. “Both Michael and Lynn went to therapy for it after the accident. Lynn saw it happen, you know. But they were both shaken. Michael still occasionally has nightmares about it. He won’t really admit what they’re about, but I know. He feels guilty.” She paused. “He says her name in his sleep sometimes.”

  Griffin made a low grunting sound in her throat, another expression of sympathy and concern. Angela saw something else cross the detective’s face, a look that suggested a deeper emotion she didn’t give voice to. Angela almost asked her about it but held her tongue.

  “I sometimes wonder if they both became such high achievers to try to ease their parents’ pain,” Angela said. “That the two of them were doing the work of three and making up for Robyn’s loss.”

  “That’s quite a burden to carry.”

  “The house they grew up in, the one where Robyn died, came up for sale about four months ago,” Angela said. “His family moved away from there not long after Robyn died, and who knows how many times it’s sold since then. I swear Michael seriously talked about buying it just so he could have it torn down. He couldn’t stand thinking about that house and what happened there. It’s five miles away from here, so it’s kind of a permanent reminder, even after all these years. You know, you asked why Lynn lives here. I think both of them also feel a certain sense of responsibility for their parents. Now, it’s just their mom. But they were both so deeply affected by the loss of their child that Michael and Lynn want to, I don’t know, just be there for their mom. Be around her.”

  Griffin nodded, the sympathy on her face clear and vivid.

  “I’m not sure, Detective,” Angela said, “but I think Lynn, Michael’s sister, might have bought that childhood home. She talked about buying it. And she has the money.”

  “But you don’t know if she did?”

  “No, I don’t. She might have and kept it from the rest of us. I’m sure she’d think her mother would worry about her if she bought it. You know, that sense that she hasn’t moved on.”

  “Has she?” Griffin asked.

  “Could anybody? The house sold, but I don’t know who bought it.” Angela rubbed her chin. “If Lynn had bought it, she’d have torn it down too. She wouldn’t want her mother to know that house existed anymore.”

  “I guess it is the kind of place that would be loaded with memories. Good and awful.”

  “I’ve always hoped the family would go back to the lake more, maybe create some new memories. Really only Lynn goes now. If we have a child, I’d like to bring her there. Or him.”

  “Maybe that will get the family back there. A child.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Angela said. “I hate to be harsh. Do you think this kid, Felicity, is still alive? I mean . . . when she’s been gone so long, and they say the longer a child is gone . . .”

  “Until I see otherwise . . . it’s all about bringing the kid home safe. That’s all I can think about.”

  “I saw a video online, the one where she’s singing.” Angela felt the tears pushing against her eyes again. Why did she feel so much emotion for a child she didn’t know? Did everyone feel that way over a missing child? “It’s heartbreaking.”

  “I agree. Completely.”

  Twitchell came back into the room. He nodded at Angela, but then turned to Griffin. “That was the boss. If we’re finished here, we need to get moving.”

  “I think we are,” Griffin said, knowing that “the boss” meant the chief of detectives, Louise Reddick.

  “You know,” Angela said, “Erica told Michael that her daughter, Felicity, looked like Robyn. That’s how she tried to convince him that she is his daughter.”

  “And you think that’s why he went?” Griffin asked. “Guilt?”

  “And a sense of duty,” Angela said. “If there’s a chance that kid really is his, if there’s a chance he can help, Michael would have a hard time saying no. He’d have a hard time saying no even if the kid wasn’t his. He cares about children; he really does. That’s why it’s been so tough that we haven’t had one yet. And, maybe because of Robyn, when a child is in harm’s way, it really gets to him.”

  “You should keep calling him,” Griffin said. “And if you hear from him, or if anything else happens, let us know. Okay?”

  “Do you think Michael’s in danger?” Angela asked.

  The two detectives exchanged a look again. Then Griffin said, “We’re really not sure what we’re dealing with yet. That means anything’s possible.”

  chapter

  twenty

  9:47 P.M.

  Michael followed the sound of Erica’s voice. He went down a short hallway, past a bathroom with pale blue tile, to a bedroom on the right. Erica stood at a refinished, antique dresser, both hands full of clothing.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Will you look at this?” she asked, holding the clothes out toward Michael.

  It took him a moment to understand what she was showing him. Clothes? Who cared? But then he saw that the clothes were for a young girl. A yellow dress. A hoodie. Socks and
shorts.

  Michael’s mouth went dry. The feeling came over him that usually preceded throwing up. “Are they . . . Do they look like Felicity’s things?”

  “No. That’s not the point. Why does he have them here, Michael? Why does a grown man have kid things in his house? Whether they’re Felicity’s or not, it’s weird.”

  “Why were you back here? We want to get moving.”

  “I’m looking around. Trying to find evidence. Anything.”

  “Maybe he has a kid, a daughter or some other relative who stays with him.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of, Michael. Admit this is bizarre.”

  He knew accidents could happen. To anyone. Michael knew they couldn’t be avoided. But the thought of someone intentionally harming a child, of purposefully bringing the pain his family felt over Robyn to someone, took Michael from cold fear to white-hot anger.

  His hand darted out and worked its way into the pocket of Erica’s coat.

  “Michael?”

  He brought out the stun gun, felt the unfamiliar hard grip in his hand. He retraced his steps to the front of the house where he expected to find Tolliver waiting. Instead he saw the man’s back disappearing through the front door.

  “No,” Michael said.

  Michael crossed the living room in just a few strides. He caught up to Tolliver on the front porch, taking hold of the man from behind by grabbing a handful of his shirt. Michael forced Tolliver to the ground, landing on top of him. Tolliver made a whooshing sound as the air went out of his body.

  “Just stop,” Michael said. “Stop right there.”

  Tolliver huffed and puffed again, and Michael’s own breathing grew heavy from the quick run he’d made through the house as well as the adrenaline. He looked at the stun gun in his hand, wondering if he really would have had the guts to use it. He was glad he hadn’t found out.

  “Why are there a little girl’s clothes in the dresser back there?” Michael asked. “Who do they belong to? Huh? Who? Felicity? Is that why you ran away?”

  “No, no,” Tolliver said. “Are you crazy?”

  Erica came out of the house and crossed the lawn to the two men. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at them to where Michael kept Tolliver in place by resting his knee against the teacher’s body.

  “They belong to my niece,” he said. “She comes and stays with me sometimes. My sister comes with her. They left some stuff here.”

  Michael looked back at Erica, seeking confirmation.

  “He’s never mentioned a niece,” she said.

  “Her picture is on my refrigerator, for God’s sake.”

  Michael eased off, relieving the pressure he’d been applying to Tolliver’s body. But he didn’t back up so far that the man could stand. And Michael still held the stun gun, keeping it visible as a silent threat against Tolliver.

  “What do you know?” Michael asked. “Tell us something. Anything.”

  Erica came up next to them. She started to reach for the stun gun, but Michael pulled it away. He didn’t want to see it used again. Not yet.

  But something seemed off about the man. Why did he run? When they were in the other room, he could have dialed 911 and had the police come. Instead he’d bolted.

  “We’re waiting,” Michael said.

  Tolliver’s eyes were wide in the dark night, the whites visible. He looked pathetic and disheveled, and Michael wanted nothing more than to be finished with him.

  “You shouldn’t be bothering me,” he said. “I’m not telling you anything else without a lawyer. Or the cops. You can’t be doing this to me.”

  “Are you sure you want it that way?” Michael asked.

  “Yes. You’re both crazy.”

  “Fine,” Michael said. “Let’s go to the cops. We’ll bring those clothes. Maybe they’ll want to come and search here this time.”

  “No. Wait. You’re really going to make me go?”

  Michael stood up, the stun gun still in his hand.

  “Car’s right there,” he said. “I’m going to deliver you in person instead of waiting for them. Or risking you running away again. You can ride up front with me.”

  chapter

  twenty-one

  9:55 P.M.

  Twitchell drove while Griffin sat in the passenger seat, observing her partner. He always kept two hands on the wheel, like a student driver, and his glasses, oversize and out-of-date, perched crookedly on his face.

  “What do you make of all that?” she asked.

  They’d worked together for just over a year, and she respected him. He affected an air of cluelessness at times, a goofy-dad type who acted as though he couldn’t tell the difference between Beyoncé and Barry Manilow. But Griffin knew it was all an act, a way of lulling suspects into a false sense of security and convincing witnesses and victims that he meant no harm and could be trusted. It worked every time. She liked to pick his brain, to ask open-ended questions about their work and sit back while he offered his opinions.

  “We’re not the leads,” he said. “I’m just a water boy on this one.”

  “Come on. What do you think?”

  “I think when Michael Frazier comes home, he’s going to get an earful about his social media accounts.”

  “And his changed passwords?”

  “Yup.”

  “What would Peg say if you did that?” Griffin asked, teasing her partner.

  “I wouldn’t do it. I like to breathe too much.” He sighed and shook his head. “This is every man’s worst nightmare.”

  “What is?”

  “A former girlfriend or wife showing up and saying, ‘Happy Father’s Day.’ That’s bad. Really bad. A kid your wife didn’t know about. Yikes.”

  They left the neighborhood where the Fraziers lived. The night was dark, the oncoming headlights glowing in their faces. Twitchell tuned the radio to the Reds game, the comforting voices of the announcers, the soft cheers of the crowd providing a sense of ease and warmth, even as they investigated a horrible crime.

  “Still,” Twitchell said, removing his left hand for just a moment to scratch his scalp, “there’s something not right there.”

  Griffin could tell he was warming up, putting his thoughts together and getting ready to share them.

  “Michael Frazier has had some interest and maybe even some contact with his ex-wife that his current wife doesn’t know about. Hell, maybe he knew about the kid already. Maybe he’s been talking to her all along.”

  “That could really set Angela off, couldn’t it?” Griffin said. “Finding out he was still talking to his ex-wife? She already went up there and confronted her once before.”

  “So you think she did more than that?” Twitchell said. “Maybe she really crossed a line and harmed this child?”

  “We checked her out,” Griffin said. “No record. No violent history.”

  “Besides getting in the face of her husband’s ex-wife. And then not telling her husband about it. Not good, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And just because somebody doesn’t have a record doesn’t mean they wouldn’t commit a crime. There has to be a first time for everything.”

  Griffin looked out the window, took in the lights of the passing houses. She pictured the missing girl, Felicity Frazier. So pretty, so innocent. Something stirred inside her, a protective instinct. She wanted to wrap Felicity in a protective hug and shield her from whatever pain or fear was being inflicted on her. She felt like a mama bear, could imagine fangs and claws springing from her body. She knew she’d have no problem slashing and lashing at someone who would hurt a child.

  She worried she’d never get the chance to do the same thing with a child of her own.

  “I can tell you’re feeling all . . . melancholy or whatever,” Twitchell said.

  She
smiled despite her mood. He knew her too well. “Melancholy?”

  “You’re only thirty-one. You can get married again . . . and still have time for kids. Just because you married a jerk the first time doesn’t mean you’re doomed to a life alone.”

  “Thanks, Doctor Phil.” But she appreciated his concern. It had been a rough time in her personal life. A divorce from her husband, John, a free-floating examination of where she was in her life, both personally and professionally. A third-of-a-life crisis? Is that what it was? “I guess plenty of people have a case of heartbreak. I’m not the only one.”

  But it did make her empathize with Erica Frazier more than she wanted to. How could she not? Michael Frazier left her, possibly when she was pregnant. He may not have known about the pregnancy, but Michael appeared to be living pretty well with his second wife, glorious minimansion, and successful family business. Was she wrong to feel a measure of solidarity with the woman left behind?

  But what about Angela Frazier? Wasn’t she getting blindsided too?

  Or had she taken matters into her own hands?

  She recalled what Angela said about her husband: He’d mostly stopped talking about the marriage to Erica, sometimes not even admitting it happened. Was that who she would be for John? The person from his past he pretended didn’t exist?

  “And don’t forget,” he said, “Angela Frazier went up there and got into it with the ex-wife and never told her husband. So he’s not the only one keeping a secret.”

  “That’s different.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. I can tell the kind of woman Angela Frazier is. She’s strong and independent. She doesn’t want to come off like a needy little wife. But she’s still going to get her back up if she thinks someone is encroaching on her territory. Especially an ex-wife.”

  “So you’d do the same thing?” Twitchell asked, obviously baiting her.

  “I’m a cop. I’d shoot her.”

  Twitchell laughed and rolled his eyes. But then he quickly grew serious as the conversation turned back to the case. “Reddick says they still don’t have anything. No sign of the kid. The volunteers knocked off when it got dark, but no one found anything useful. They’re going to get back to it again tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises.”