by David Bell
But they hadn’t moved forward yet. A few cars streamed by in the other lane, on their left. One even honked as it went past because they were blocking the road.
Angela yanked against the door handle a couple more times, even though she understood the gesture was futile. Unless she could reach over, across Jake’s body and trip the child-safety feature, she couldn’t get out. And she knew she couldn’t manage to do that as long as he sat in her way.
But Jake reached across her body and took hold of her right hand, the one trying the latch. He grabbed it with some force and pulled, placing it roughly in her lap and then patting it. He shoved her hand between her thighs until it pressed against the material of the seat.
“Stop it,” he said, his voice firm and quiet. “Just stop it.”
His face hovered about a foot from hers, putting them practically nose to nose. Angela refused to be bullied, refused to show any sign of weakness just because some guy possessed greater physical strength and control of the car.
For a brief moment, she considered lashing out, striking him in the face, aiming for the eyes, just as she’d learned in a self-defense class years before. But she knew if she did that, if the two of them became embroiled in a physical altercation in the car, she’d likely lose. She held no weapons. No sharp keys, no mace. She had only her own fists and desire, but that wouldn’t be enough against a stronger man.
Jake seemed to sense that her anger and resistance had crested. He moved back, settling into his seat but still not hitting the accelerator and moving forward. Angela took a quick glance out the window, saw the traffic light cycle from green to yellow to red.
“Look,” Jake said, “just cool it. We’re in this together right now. When this is over, we don’t have to see each other again. And maybe you’ll have your husband back. And I’ll have my kid.”
“Your kind of stepkid,” Angela said. “If you can even call her that.”
“I didn’t hear the pitter-patter of little feet in your house. Why is that? Do you and hubby not want them? Or . . .”
Angela’s face flushed. She hoped it didn’t show, but it did.
“You can’t have them?” he asked. “But he might have a kid with Erica? Wow. That stings, right?”
“I doubt the kid is Michael’s,” Angela said, her voice lower.
“He has problems? Sperm problems?” Jake smiled. “That just bolstered my case. Come on. Let’s get going.”
Angela looked over at the locked door and then back at Jake. “It doesn’t seem like I have much choice, does it?”
“You want to know the same thing I want to know,” he said.
“Can I have my phone?” she asked.
Jake smiled a little, but Angela couldn’t tell exactly what the smile was saying.
The light changed again. Red to green.
“No,” he said.
He hit the accelerator hard, jerking them both back against their seats.
They were on their way again.
chapter
sixty
3:52 A.M.
It took a moment for the woman’s words to cycle through Michael’s brain and begin to make any kind of sense to him. He actually shook his head, like someone who had just received a strong blow.
Is she really saying what she appears to be saying?
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “You’re accusing her of kidnapping her own child? Her child is missing.”
A change came over the younger woman’s face as she stood there. The anger and the defiance melted away. Before their eyes, time seemed to reverse itself, and the woman started to appear younger and more vulnerable, like a hurt and deeply troubled child, one who couldn’t face what stood before her. A low, whining sound escaped from her mouth.
But her mother had lost none of her fire. She moved closer to Erica, her right hand extended, the index finger pointed like a gun. “You’re running around saying that missing girl is yours. But we know who she really belongs to. And the police think the same thing. A detective has figured it out. She’s coming after you. It’s true. Whether they find that missing girl alive or not, they’re going to nail you for the kidnapping ten years ago.”
Michael looked over at Erica. She remained on the floor, her eyes wide. She appeared to be every bit as confused and disturbed by the actions and words of the two women in front of them as he was.
“Do you know these people, Erica?” he asked.
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“Then I’m going to call the police and get them out of here,” he said.
“Go ahead,” the older woman said. “Call them. They’re looking for her.” Again she pointed as though she wanted to shoot lasers out of her finger and into Erica’s face. “Let them drag her away in handcuffs. They came to our house tonight asking questions. They’ll arrest her. I don’t care what happens to me.”
Michael’s hands shook as he picked up his phone and dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, he said there was an intruder in the house, two intruders, and they were acting in a threatening manner. The woman asked Michael for his address, and he admitted he didn’t know it.
“Where are we?” Michael asked.
“Nine one nine Arrowcrest Lane,” Erica said. “Or you can just tell them Erica Frazier’s house. They’ll know. Hell, they’ll probably rush over here.”
Michael relayed the information.
Then Erica added, “Phillips is the detective. And Woolf. Tell them. They know who I am.”
Michael repeated the names into the phone, and he heard a change in the dispatcher’s tone.
“We’ll send someone right there, sir,” she said.
Michael felt like a fool when he realized he was still sitting on the floor of the foyer with an angry woman looming over him. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, taking care not to make any sudden movement or give anyone the indication he was about to launch an attack. He kept his hands out in front of him so the women could see—he hoped—that he meant them no harm.
The mother stared at him for a moment, her eyes focusing on his pants. “Give me that.” She snatched the monogrammed pink handkerchief out of Michael’s pocket. “It’s mine. ‘F’ for ‘Flowers.’” Then she turned, her eyes boring in on Erica who adjusted her position on the floor so that she sat cross-legged. She looked almost placid amid the chaos.
“Do you deny you followed her around the neighborhood, over there in east Trudeau?” the older woman said, still pointing. “That you came up to her when she pushed that baby in a stroller and acted all interested in her, like you wanted to grab her?”
Michael expected a vehement denial to come out of Erica’s mouth, but instead she looked a little chastened, a little stung by the woman’s words, as though they’d registered some measure of truth.
She remained silent.
“Erica?” Michael said. “Tell her it’s a misunderstanding. Tell her, okay?”
Erica’s mouth hung open slightly. She seemed to be formulating an answer, but what was there to formulate? Someone accused her of kidnapping an infant. . . . The denial of the whole thing should be easy.
Unless . . .
“Erica?” he said again, his voice sharper.
“I did sometimes talk to women with babies around that time,” she said, looking at the older woman and not Michael, although the words seemed aimed at him. “It was a difficult time for me. It was after we split up and . . .”
“But you didn’t take one,” Michael said. “Did you?”
“Michael.” She turned to look at him. “There’s so much that was going on—”
“Here.”
The voice of the younger of the two women—the two intruders—cut through their conversation. Every head in the foyer turned to look at her. Even Trixie, who had calmed down and stopped snarling, lifted her snout when she heard the
voice.
“What is it, baby?” her mother asked.
“Look.” She held her phone out, the screen turned toward Michael and Erica. As she stood there, with the phone in her hand, her face crumpled further, and tears started to flow down her cheeks, her body shaking like she was cold. “Look at this picture.”
Michael looked to Erica who remained in place on the floor. He felt he had no choice but to step over to the woman and reach for her phone. When he did, he felt his own hands shaking from the tension and adrenaline of the encounter.
He brought the phone closer to his face and examined the photo. It showed a young girl, about ten years old. About the same age as Felicity. Like the missing girl, this one also had blond hair and blue eyes, a superficial resemblance.
“This is your daughter?” Michael asked, confused.
“My cousin,” the younger woman managed to get out. “Look at her. Doesn’t she look like that missing girl? The one who’s been in the news all day? The one she took from me. Couldn’t they be related?”
“Kind of,” Michael said. “In a very general way.”
“No,” her mother said. “Not in a general way. She looks like her. Like they’re family.”
Michael decided against arguing. He passed the phone over to Erica so that she could see the picture, and as he did, he understood something about the missing child and how her absence affected those left behind.
Erica stared at the photo, her brow furrowed, but didn’t say anything.
“Are you saying your child was kidnapped when she was a baby, and you think Felicity is that baby?” Michael asked them.
“She admitted she had an unhealthy interest in babies back then,” the mother said.
“She didn’t say unhealthy,” Michael said. “But, look, isn’t it possible you’re just seeing a resemblance to your cousin whether one exists or not? You’ve suffered a great loss, and when you see that missing girl, Felicity, you very much want to believe it’s her.” He paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. “Just like when I see her, I want very much to believe she fills a gap in my life.”
Michael thought he’d made a breakthrough, a profound examination of what they were all going through.
But the older woman was having none of it. Her head wagged from side to side, and she pointed at Erica again. “Then why was she stalking women with babies? Why was she doing that? That’s not made up.”
Michael turned and looked at Erica who still held the phone. When all their eyes focused on her, she placed the phone on the floor, her face distant and a little dazed.
“Erica?” Michael said. “Tell them you weren’t stalking women with babies. Tell them.”
“I was. Kind of.” She swallowed. “I wasn’t in my right mind then. Not entirely.”
“What are you talking about?” Michael asked.
“See.”
Erica looked up at Michael, her eyes clear and focused for the first time in a few minutes. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was losing you, and . . .”
“And?” he asked.
“And I’d just had a miscarriage. Our baby. That’s why I went around doing that. That’s why I took such an interest in other people’s children.”
chapter
sixty-one
3:55 A.M.
Griffin looked at Randi, again wondering whether it made sense for Todd’s ex-wife to make a break for it, to dash back across the basement, up the stairs, and out of the house. But Randi wore a determined look on her face, a combination of concern and curiosity, and Griffin could tell she wasn’t going to be able to get rid of her. They were going into that little room together.
So Griffin went first, following Todd.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to see as she turned the corner and walked inside. A dungeon with a small child chained to the wall? A torture chamber dripping with blood? A dead body?
She saw none of that.
Instead she found herself entering a nondescript office with a small metal desk and wooden chair. Along one wall were shelves covered with cardboard boxes, and on the desk sat a computer. Todd Friedman walked behind the desk and bent down, rustling around in one of the drawers.
“What is this, Todd?” Griffin asked. “Why did you bring us here?”
“I wanted you to see,” he said. “I wanted Randi to see most of all, but since you’re here and you’re a cop, you can see as well. You can see what I’ve been doing.”
“Todd,” Randi said, “what if I don’t want to see this? What if I don’t want to know? Let’s just go upstairs and talk to the police.”
“We can’t.” He rustled through the drawers some more and then straightened up. He held what looked like a stack of papers. “We can’t until you see all of this. I don’t want you to have any questions, Randi. You were good to me, and I don’t want there to be any doubts about why we didn’t work. You were right—it’s all me.”
He tossed the papers across the desk. They landed with a splat on the edge closest to Griffin and Randi. Griffin kept her eyes on Todd as he started to pace. He lifted his hands to his head, running them through his hair over and over as though he wanted to yank every strand out. Fear came off him in waves, a sweaty, musky smell that quickly overrode the damp scent of the basement.
“Todd,” Griffin said, “maybe you need to just sit. Maybe Randi’s right, and we need to go back upstairs and talk. You seem agitated, and I’m worried about you and the shape you’re in. And we need to find Felicity.”
“Just look at it,” he said, still pacing. “Look at it.”
Griffin took a quick glance down at the stack on the desk. She caught a glimpse of a girl, a young girl, a photo taken from a distance.
“Are these pictures of Felicity Frazier?” she asked. “Do you know where she is?”
“Just look.”
“Is she hurt?” Griffin asked. “Did you hurt her? We need to know if we can reach her. If we can help her.”
Todd continued to pace but stopped talking.
Randi moved forward, toward the desk, and she scooped up the stack of papers Todd had thrown down.
“They’re pictures,” she said.
Griffin peeled her eyes away from Todd and looked over at the photos in Randi’s hands.
She’d been right about the photo on top. It showed a young girl on a playground, dressed for cold weather. But the girl in the photo had short brown hair. She wasn’t Felicity Frazier. Randi started flipping through the stack while Griffin looked on, unable to turn her head away even as she feared what she might see. The photos all showed different young girls in different places. The mall, a soccer field, even a church. The girls were clothed, always going about their normal lives, but still . . . he had taken the shots from a distance as though he’d been spying on them.
“Wait,” Griffin said. “Go back one.”
Randi did, flipping over the last photo she’d passed.
Griffin took it out of her hand, bringing it closer to her face.
She recognized the girl in this photo. She stood outside a school building, as though waiting for a bus.
Without a doubt . . . Felicity Frazier.
Randi flipped through a few more. They came across five in a row of Felicity, including some that were clearly taken just that summer, likely in the most recent weeks leading up to the girl’s disappearance.
Griffin stared at the photos. She felt her mouth hanging open.
She realized Todd had stopped moving. He was rustling around in the drawer again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and chills shot up and down her arms.
“Did you hurt Felicity, Todd?” she asked. “Where is she? We know her mother tried to, tried to give her to you. Did you take her? Is that what happened? Did you think you were helping them? If you thought you were helping them, maybe we can work something out w
ith the prosecutor’s office.”
Todd still offered no response. But he straightened up from behind the desk, holding a gun.
Randi gasped. Griffin took a step back, extending her left arm and using it to guide Randi gently behind her.
Griffin’s heart accelerated. She thought she could hear it making a whooshing, huffing sound as it pumped blood to her body faster and faster. She hoped that blood didn’t end up getting spilled across the walls and floor.
Todd lifted the barrel of the Glock 17, leveling it at Griffin. She didn’t know whether he wanted to fill her full of holes or just get her out of the way so he could shoot his ex-wife. Either way, she’d be dead. She tried to think of who would care.
Twitchell perhaps. Her mother for sure. A few friends.
The cats.
And John, her ex-husband? What would he do when he heard the news?
“Todd, can you put that down?” she asked, struggling to get the words out with any trace of authority. “If you know where Felicity is, if you can help us find her, then it’s not too late for you. You can get out of this.”
“No,” he said. “No. It’s too late for me.”
“It’s not, Todd,” Randi said behind her. “Todd, just put it down.”
“There’s a little girl’s life at stake here,” Griffin said. “Don’t let that slip away.”
He extended the gun, moving it closer to the two women. His arm looked long, the barrel menacing as it extended across the desk. Griffin felt her bladder fill, knew it would let go when she died.
I’m about to die. . . .
Todd pulled the gun back. He brought it up, placing the barrel under his chin. Before Griffin could say anything else, the sound of the shot filled the tiny room.
chapter
sixty-two
5:15 A.M.
Angela thought she knew her way around Trudeau pretty well. Given the circumstances—stuck in a car with a guy who might intend to do her harm—she decided to watch the road closely, to monitor the twists and turns as they navigated to the destination that remained unknown to her.
