Making Her Way Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  He ignored a jolt of lust and followed her through the living room into a kitchen that was open to a dining room. Again, he was struck by the hominess of cabinets painted a soft cream, walls a pale shade caught between peach and rust—maybe the color of clay pots that had aged outside. A glossy red ceramic bowl held fruit on the counter. A copper teakettle was on the stove. In the middle of the table, a cream-colored pitcher was filled with tulips, mostly striped in interesting patterns. A few petals had fallen onto the shining wood surface of the table.

  Ms. Greenway had stopped in the middle of the kitchen and was standing there as if she had no memory of her original intentions. After a minute he went to her, gripped her shoulders to turn her around and steered her to one of the chairs around the table. When he pushed, she sat, staring up at him in bewilderment.

  “You’re in no shape to be doing anything,” he said, more brusquely than he’d intended. He was mad at himself for letting her drive. She’d been a danger to everyone else on the road. “Stay put. I can heat some soup if you have any.”

  Of course she tried to pop right back up. Her knees must not have been any too steady, because she fell back when he applied a little pressure. This time she stayed, not so much obediently, he suspected, as because she’d forgotten why she wanted to be on her feet.

  He found cans of Campbell’s soup as well as some boxed macaroni and cheese and the like. The usual kid-friendly foods. He chose tomato, and added milk to make it cream of tomato. The milk was two percent, not skim; maybe because she thought her niece needed it? After a minute he decided to feed himself, too. He assembled and grilled two cheese sandwiches with sliced tomatoes, the way his mom had made them, then brought plates and bowls to the table. Instead of making coffee, he poured them both glasses of milk.

  Ms. Greenway stared at what he’d put in front of her as if she didn’t know what to do with it.

  “You need to eat,” he told her again, and watched as she finally lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth. “Good.”

  He ate hungrily and went back to start coffee in the machine she had on the counter. She was eating way more slowly, but sticking to it with a sort of mechanical efficiency.

  It bothered Mike that he couldn’t get a more certain read on her now than when he first set eyes on her. Initially he’d tagged her as a cold bitch. Beautiful, but unlikable. Fully capable of disposing of a kid she didn’t want and lying to cover up her crime. But he’d come to believe her shock was genuine. Unless she was an Oscar-worthy actress, it almost had to be.

  But there were people who lied that well. He’d met a few. He couldn’t be sure about her.

  And the one didn’t preclude the other. She could have killed the kid. Perhaps in a burst of rage or only irritation—planned the cover-up, and now was suffering a physical reaction to what she’d done. Or she could be frightened, after discovering that everyone didn’t totally buy into her story.

  He wished he wasn’t attracted to her. That made him second-guess everything he did and said. Was he being nice because that was a good way to lower her guard, or because she was getting to him? Should he have gotten aggressive, in her face, hours ago?

  Mike poured their coffee, put one of the mugs in front of her and took a sip of his own. Then he said, “I’d like to look at Sicily’s bedroom, but first I need to see any photos you have of her.”

  Ms. Greenway carefully set down what remained of her sandwich. Her expression was momentarily stricken. She gave a stiff nod and stood. Mike let her go, managing only a few more swallows of coffee before she returned with a framed five-by-seven photograph.

  “This is the most recent,” she said. “It was her fourth-grade school picture.”

  So, over a year old. Kids changed a whole lot in a year.

  He took it, both wanting to see her face and reluctant because now she’d become real to him. An individual.

  There she was, a solemn-faced little girl who had apparently refused to smile when the photographer said, “Cheese!”

  Sicily had a thin face and blond hair with straight bangs across her forehead, the rest equally bluntly cut above her shoulders. Her eyes were, he thought, hazel. She had her aunt’s cheekbones, which made her almost homely now, before she’d grown into them. No one would call her pretty. Her grave expression was unsettling, probably only because of what he knew about her family, but he couldn’t say she looked sad or turned inward. More as if she were trying to penetrate the photographer’s secrets. This was a child who tried hard to see beneath the surface.

  After a moment he nodded. “May I borrow this?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Okay. Her room?”

  She didn’t ask why he wanted to see it, which meant she’d guessed that he was suspicious.

  “This way,” she said, voice polite but remote.

  He was able to glance in rooms to each side as he followed her down the short hallway. The house was a three-bedroom two-bath, although none of the rooms were large. The first seemed to be a home office. Across the hall from it was a bathroom, tiled in white up to waist level and wallpapered above that. Beyond it had to be her bedroom and through it a doorway leading into a second bath. Next to the home office was Sicily’s room.

  Ms. Greenway stood aside and let him go in. He was worried more than relieved to see signs of a young girl’s occupancy. He’d have been pissed if this whole thing was a hoax and Sicily Marks didn’t exist at all, but at least he wouldn’t have had to worry about her being dead in a shallow grave, either.

  He wondered what this room had been used for before Sicily came to stay. Maybe nothing. The walls were white. The only furniture was a twin bed and a dresser. No curtains to soften the white blinds. No artwork. Only one throw rug, right beside the bed, and it was one of those hooked ones that might have been moved from elsewhere in the house. One of the sliding closet doors stood open, letting him see a few pairs of kid-size shoes in a neat row and exactly one dress hanging on a hanger beside a pink denim jacket. He crossed the room and opened each drawer on the dresser in turn. The contents were startlingly skimpy.

  “She didn’t come with much.” The words were soft. Ashamed? “Mostly she’d outgrown what she did have.”

  Sicily Marks still didn’t have much, he couldn’t help thinking.

  “I didn’t use this room.” Ms. Greenway still hovered in the doorway. She was looking around. “We’re going to paint or wallpaper or something, but she hasn’t decided yet….” She didn’t finish.

  That was believable, he supposed. “She into pink and purple? All that girly stuff?”

  “I’m…not sure.” At least she hadn’t said “I don’t know.” “She seems to like red. But she did pick out a pink jacket. And some pink flats.”

  Flats? His gaze fell to the shoes and he saw a pair of pink leather slip-ons.

  “I think—” and she sounded sad “—Sicily hasn’t ever been able to buy new or really pick out what she liked. The whole idea that she can is taking her some getting used to. I wanted to buy her a whole new wardrobe in one outing, but she had to think so long about every single thing we bought, we haven’t gotten that far.”

  She was talking about her niece in the present tense, which was good. People sometimes slipped up that way, when they were talking about someone they knew was dead.

  Yeah, but he’d already concluded Beth Greenway could be one hell of a liar.

  “Does she have a school bag?” he asked. “A binder where she might have written down her thoughts? Or does she keep a diary?”

  “A diary?” She sounded slightly uncertain. “Not as far as I know. I’m sure she didn’t bring anything like that. Everything she owned was in one small suitcase that had lost a wheel. Her book bag is probably in my office. She usually does her homework there or at the dining-room table. We’re going to get her a desk for in here eventually�
��.” Again her voice trailed off. She backed into the hall and turned toward the office.

  Sicily was in fifth grade, she told him. Flipping through the girl’s binder, he learned that she was organized, had careful handwriting with generous loops but no flourishes, and was getting top-notch grades. Excellent! the teacher had scrawled on returned assignments. 99%. 100%. Fine work.

  Behind him, Ms. Greenway said, “She’s been in eight schools so far. Rachel kept moving. Mostly around here, but she went to L.A. for a little while, then San Francisco. Somehow Sicily managed to do well in school everywhere she went.”

  He caught the note of sadness in her voice. Something else, too. Guilt? Or was it grief, because she knew damn well Sicily wasn’t going to have a chance to do well in school ever again?

  What he didn’t find was anything personal. No diary, no notes that might have been passed to or from another girl. Nothing helpful.

  “Does she have friends?” he asked.

  “I…” Ms. Greenway stopped and he saw that she’d closed her eyes. “I don’t think so. She says she has other kids to sit with for lunch, and another girl asked her to partner in badminton during gym class, but as far as I know no one has invited her over to play or anything like that.”

  “You said she didn’t know how to play.”

  “No.” Brown eyes that were both bleak and dazed met his. “She’s determined to help me. She wants to clean house and cook dinner. I feel like…like…”

  “She’s trying to make you want to keep her?”

  “Maybe.” She heaved a sigh. “Mostly, I think that’s what she’s used to doing. Taking care of her mom.”

  He nodded. Mike had seen plenty of that kind of role reversal in families with a parent who was mentally ill, a drug addict or a drunk. Their kids grew up too fast. They learned quick that if there was going to be food on the table, they had to put it there. They also learned excellent cover-up skills; most kids were afraid of losing whatever family they did have. It was up to them to make sure school counselors, neighbors and social workers didn’t notice how dysfunctional their home situation really was.

  He wondered what Sicily Marks had made of this house.

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll need your parents’ phone number.”

  She looked almost numb. With a nod, she turned and walked away down the hall. Turned out she had to get her smart phone, which she’d had on the table right beside her as she ate, so she could look up her own parents’ phone number.

  He remembered already having jotted down their names. Laurence and Rowena Greenway. After adding the phone number, he remarked, “Your father’s name is familiar.”

  “He’s in the financial news regularly,” she said with an astonishing lack of expression. “He was a big contributor to Governor Conley’s campaign.”

  “Your parents have money, and your sister and her kid lived without?”

  “I doubt they ever offered help, or that she would have taken it if they had.”

  “Did they help you get started in your business?”

  “No.” Flat. Final.

  “Put you through college?”

  She hesitated. “They did do that.” Then her eyes met his. “My relationship with them is hardly the point, is it?”

  “Not if this turns out to be a stranger abduction.” Her flinch made him feel brutal. “More kids are snatched by members of their own families than by strangers, Ms. Greenway. I need to keep that in mind.”

  Her lashes fluttered a couple of times. “I see,” she said, ducking her head.

  He needed to talk to Sicily’s grandparents, start a search for her father. Find out more about her mother’s death. Part of him wanted nothing so much as to get away from this woman. But seeing how utterly alone she looked, he frowned.

  “Is there someone you can call to be with you tonight?”

  Her chin lifted. “That’s not necessary.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m always…” She stopped. He couldn’t help noticing that her hands were fisted so tight her knuckles showed white. “I’m comfortable by myself, Detective. Please don’t concern yourself.”

  He’d been dismissed. Mike gave a brusque nod, said, “I’ll call in the morning, Ms. Greenway,” and left.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SICILY GROANED. OH, HER HEAD hurt so bad. Instinctively, she lifted a hand up, but her elbow banged something and she cried out.

  Once the pain subsided a little, she tried to think. It was dark so she must be in bed. First she thought she was at home—well, at the apartment Mom had rented in the Rainier Valley, which was kind of a pit and they hadn’t been here that long… Except then she remembered Mom was dead. Images flickered through her mind: the police coming to the door, the tense hour waiting for the aunt she didn’t know to come for her. The funeral and the night she spent on Aunt Beth’s couch before the twin bed was delivered the next day. A new bed! Only it didn’t even have a headboard, so what had she banged her elbow on?

  Something hard pressed into her hip, too. And her shoulder, and even her thigh. Sharp edges and weird bumps.

  She heard herself panting. She was suddenly scared. Really scared. Her instinct was to huddle and be really, really quiet, except she’d already made sounds. Still, she tried to stifle her breathing and listened hard. After a minute she realized she was hearing traffic. Not like the freeway, these were city streets. And someone a long ways away yelled, and then another voice answered. There was a siren even farther away. It sounded…like what she’d have heard from practically any apartment she and Mom had lived in. Regular city sounds. Aunt Beth’s was different. Especially late at night, it was quiet. Once in a while she’d hear a car, some neighbor coming home, but hardly ever sirens or loud voices or stuff like that.

  Finally, timidly, she stretched out her hand and felt around her. If only it weren’t so dark. First she found a wadded something that was soft, like clothes, but when she brought it to her nose it stunk like gas or oil. There was a crumpled bag that smelled like French fries. All the surfaces were hard and angular except for…whatever was under her hip. She felt her way along it, remembering the story a teacher had told about the three blind men groping an elephant. Beth got the point, but she’d been able to tell that most of her classmates didn’t.

  A tire. She was lying on a car tire. Why was there a tire under her?

  A weird sensation swelled in her chest. It felt hot and scary and she finally recognized that it was fear. She lifted her hands above her, knowing what she’d find.

  She was inside the trunk of a car. A car that wasn’t running, that was parked somewhere in the city. And it had to be night, because there’d have to be cracks, wouldn’t there? And she could see light, now that she was concentrating, but only a little, leaking around or through taillights.

  Now her breath came in whimpering little shudders. Mommy, Mommy. Aunt Beth. Please somebody come and get me.

  What if I scream?

  She was curled into a tiny, terrified ball now, containing that scream behind chattering teeth. Because, really, she’d maybe rather not find out who’d unlock the trunk and lift the lid.

  * * *

  MIKE TOOK A CHANCE THAT HE’D catch the grandparents at home and drove straight to Seattle, checking his computer on the way for Laurence Greenway’s address. Somehow he wasn’t surprised to find the Greenways lived in Magnolia, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. When he got there, he found the enormous brick home was a waterfront property.

  An eight-foot brick wall fronted the property and iron gates kept out the hoi polloi. He rang a buzzer and when a voice inquired who he was, he said into the speaker, “Police. Detective Mike Ryan.”

  After a pause, the gates slowly swung open. He followed the circular drive and parked beside the f
ront porch.

  He recognized the man who opened the door to him. He’d seen Greenway on the news or in photos in the Seattle Times, he realized.

  Beth Greenway’s father was handsome in the way wealthy men often were. His slacks and polo shirt were casual but obviously expensive. At maybe five foot ten, he was lean and fit for sixty years old. He undoubtedly belonged to a club, played racquetball, probably had a personal trainer. His hair had been allowed to go white but had a silver gleam to it that didn’t strike Mike as natural. He had the tan of a man who spent time on his sailboat.

  He stood in the open doorway and said, “May I see your identification, Detective?”

  Mike flipped open his badge and handed it over.

  “Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”

  “Yes, I am.” Mike met his gaze stolidly. “May I come in, Mr. Greenway? I’d like to speak to you and your wife.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Your granddaughter, Sicily.”

  After a moment he nodded. “Very well.” Shutting the door behind Mike, he led him to an elegantly appointed living room, where the ten o’clock news was playing on a flat-screen television that would be hidden within a gilt-trimmed armoire during the day.

  The woman who’d been watching it turned her head, saw him and rose gracefully. He knew she was fifty-eight, but she sure as hell didn’t look it. His first reaction was to her looks; Rowena Greenway was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She’d gifted her daughter with those magnificent cheekbones and gold-flecked eyes. He saw money here, too. Her hair was still dark, short and beautifully cut. She could have been in her thirties, which made him suspect a facelift.

  “Laurence?”

  Greenway introduced Mike and said, “He says he wants to talk to us about Sicily.”

  Her eyebrows rose. After a moment, she said, “Please have a seat, Detective.”

  He chose a wingback chair that was bloody uncomfortable. The Greenways sat on the sofa facing him, the middle cushion between them. He found himself irritated by the flicker of the television, which neither of them reached to turn off. The sound wasn’t loud, but he still had to raise his voice slightly.