by Skylar Finn
“I think they know more than they’re saying,” I said. “We’ll come back for the other one later on.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He sipped his lemon water.
On our way out, I glanced through the window. The curtains were open, and I could see Dana bringing Harper’s card to Crystal. She held out her hand and took it, examining it. Something was going on with them that they weren’t saying. I resolved that I would find out what it was.
4
The Hayes Household
The Hayes family lived in one of the pretty, historic Victorian homes downtown. It had a clear view of the river and was within walking distance of the library, school, and park. It would be a great place to be a kid—when it wasn’t noticeable that your world was small because you were so small yourself. To an increasingly restless teenager, curious about the world and her place in it, I could see where it might get boring.
Mrs. Hayes was an aggressive decorator. Christmas was long gone, but Mrs. Hayes was determined to express her holiday best. There was a large pink and red heart flag up for February and white fairy lights in the trees. Ornate, swirling calligraphy welcomed visitors on the mat outside the front door.
The woman who answered was similarly well-appointed, decorated not unlike her house. She wore a matching pink twinset, her sweater long enough to justify wearing yoga pants as pants, and her make-up was perfectly applied. Her hair was artificially curled by an iron and held back with a neat black velvet headband like Alice in Wonderland. She wore appliqued flats with little cat faces on them. She made me glad that I’d gone into law enforcement and become emotionally distant and solitary if this was the alternative.
I shook myself of the thought. It had nothing to do with the disappearance of Brittany Hayes—nothing, or maybe everything. If this had been my mother, I thought, I might have run away from home, too. Or maybe wound up chained in the basement somewhere out of sight.
“Thank you for coming by to speak to us,” she said formally, opening the door wider for us to come in. “We so appreciate all that you’re doing to find Brittany.”
She was strangely composed. She bore no trace of the frantic, angry parents who demanded we bring their children home immediately. I felt like she could be on HGTV, giving us a tour of her home before we flipped it.
She led us through the front door and ushered us into the living room. It was as meticulously well-tended as was the rest of the house. The front hall was freshly waxed, the carpeted floor of the living room freshly vacuumed. A row of pictures in the front hallway depicted a Sears family portrait series of the Hayes that appeared to be updated annually. They wore matching lavender polo shirts in each one. I shuddered.
“Just a moment while I get you something to drink,” she said once we were seated on her matching floral furniture. She bustled off into the kitchen even while Harper was saying, “It’s all right, we just ate.” She either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “There’s no stopping her now.”
He gazed around the living room, looking a little dazed. Every surface was taken up by tchotchkes, mementos, souvenirs. Framed photographs filled the walls, the kind with numerous ovals and rectangles in them that contain separate pictures in each one. Copies of TV Guide and Good Housekeeping fanned across the coffee table.
“I like it,” I said with a shrug. “It’s very American.”
“I’m beginning to think maybe she ran away,” he said.
“What was that?” Mrs. Hayes called from the kitchen, on the other side of the closed door. She had ears like a bat.
“Nothing, ma’am,” he called back.
She bustled back into the room, carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a tray with mugs, sugar, and cream. She was the consummate host. It had taken her all of thirty seconds, and she hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Hayes.” I never said no to coffee.
“Please, call me Cynthia.” She sat down in the pink upholstered armchair across from us and crossed her legs primly at the ankle. “I just want to know what I can do to help you bring my little girl back.”
I glanced over my shoulder through the window. The curtains were open to the driveway. “Is your husband here as well? Daniel?”
“Daniel’s at work, I’m afraid.” She pursed her lips, displeased before her composed mask returned. “He’ll be home after five.”
“It’s not a problem,” said Harper politely. “We can always talk to him later.”
“He should really be here, in my opinion. But he needs to work. I understand, of course.” She had an odd habit of seeming more like she was talking to herself than to us. Harper had pulled out a notepad and a golf pencil in order to take notes, but my attention remained wholly fixed on Mrs. Hayes. I didn’t want to miss the show.
“Can you tell us about Brittany?” I asked. “Her school life, friends, extracurriculars?” Given the veritable shrine of pictures around the house, I assumed she was tuned in to every detail of her daughter’s life—excepting only what, if anything, the girl had managed to conceal from her. With a mother as involved as Mrs. Hayes, it would have been doubly challenging (and therefore necessary) to have at least some secrets.
“Of course.” She switched legs, settling into the chair. “Brittany is very popular at school. Always has been. Ever since elementary school when I was her girl scout troop leader. Right now, she’s the lead in the school play. She’s playing Eliza in My Fair Lady.”
I imagined sitting through a high school production of George Bernard Shaw, let alone enjoying it. Her dedication was breathtaking in its scope. She also didn’t blink at the notion that either the play or Brittany’s performance might be at all compromised by the fact that she had vanished. Mrs. Hayes clearly considered it little more than a minor speed bump in the road.
“Who are her friends at school?” Harper’s pencil remained poised over the notepad, his expression frank and open.
“Well, there are her little friends from the Dairy Bar. Dana, whom she’s known all her life—they’ve grown up together—and another girl. Crystal.” She frowned. Mrs. Hayes did not like Crystal. That much was apparent.
“She didn’t grow up with Crystal?” Harper asked.
“Crystal’s family moved to town recently. From Pittsburgh. Who knew what she got up to there? I’m not a fan of her, personally. But Brittany is just the sweetest girl in the world. Of course, she went out of her way to help the new girl fit in and get acclimated.”
“Why aren’t you a fan of hers? Crystal?” I asked.
Mrs. Hayes squinted as she ticked off the mental list of strikes she’d accumulated against Crystal. She was a smoker—Mrs. Hayes had never seen it herself or caught the girl in the act, mind you, but she could smell it on her—she cut school and skipped class, she was “fast” with the boys. Mrs. Hayes had no doubt in her mind that she tried to influence the other girls to do the same.
“Does she have that influence over Brittany?”
“Absolutely not.” Mrs. Hayes got very frosty.
I could practically see icicles form in her eyes and shoot daggers at me. She already preferred Harper to me, I could tell, so it seemed like I might as well be the one to ask the tough questions. I could see who would play who in the good cop/bad cop dynamic that comprised our burgeoning relationship.
“Brittany is a very strong-willed girl,” Mrs. Hayes said firmly. “She would never allow a little heathen like Crystal to persuade her into acting out.”
“Of course not,” said Harper soothingly. “From everything you’ve told us, it’s clear that she’s a remarkable girl.” Mrs. Hayes gave a small, satisfied nod, temporarily mollified. “Cynthia, would it be possible for us to take a look at Brittany’s room? We wouldn’t disturb anything or take anything. We’re just trying to get as much information as possible.”
Mrs. Hayes shot me a sidelong glance, then apparently decided to forgive my transgression of suggesting that Brittany m
ight ever be subject to the outside influence of a known troublemaker.
“All right, then,” she said in a resigned sort of way. “Follow me.”
Brittany’s room was on the second floor, directly across from the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, revealing only the corner of a California king made up with hospital corners. She must have had a hell of a time sneaking out. And I had no doubt in my mind that she probably did. Any rebellious teenager worth her salt—even a slightly rebellious one—would be compelled to slip out from beneath the relentless gaze of Mrs. Hayes.
Brittany’s room had wall-to-wall pink carpeting and floral wallpaper that I was certain had been selected by Mrs. Hayes, given her predilection toward flowered decorative schemes. Posters of movie stars and pop stars were plastered unevenly across the walls, affixed with double-sided tape. There was a white vanity in the corner with a few photographs tucked into the edge of the mirror. I didn’t know girls still did that. I assumed all their pictures were online, but I guess there was something about the novelty of an actual photograph that remained eternal.
I approached the vanity while Harper made a slow circle around the room, careful not to disturb anything. Mrs. Hayes watched us beadily from the doorway like a hawk. I felt certain she would swoop down at the slightest sign that we might be disturbing her baby’s shrine.
There were selfies of Brittany vamping in the backyard in what looked like a cheerleading uniform. There were a couple of shots of her and Dana, and one with both Dana and Crystal. Only Dana was smiling. The other two were attempting to look moody and tough. I studied it briefly, recalling Mrs. Hayes’s observations of Crystal. Was she a bad influence on Brittany? Or was it the other way around?
Harper cleared his throat. He was standing by the window. I glanced up. I joined him next to the pink floral curtain. He gazed out over the lawn. I could feel Mrs. Hayes’s eyes boring into our backs from across the room.
The first thing I noticed was the angle of the roof. It was barely slanted, a gently sloping angle that an especially agile teenager could easily make her way across. The second thing I observed was the proximity of the rose trellis to the window. It would be an easy feat to climb out of the window, make her way across the roof, and to the trellis. If she was light enough—which, based on her pictures, she certainly appeared to be—the trellis could support her weight all the way to the ground.
I followed Harper’s gaze across the lawn. It was an easy run to the street. It would take all of seconds for her to cross the lawn and either make her way up the street and out of her neighborhood—or disappear into a passing car and vanish.
I’m beginning to think she ran away. Based on our interaction with Mrs. Hayes and everything we’d seen in the girl’s house, I was starting to think the same thing.
“Anything?” demanded Mrs. Hayes. “Do you see anything that could help me find my daughter?”
“Is your daughter a cheerleader?” I asked, leaving the window and making my way back to the vanity.
“Dance team,” said Mrs. Hayes promptly, and I was certain she could recite her schedule from memory without having to consult a calendar. “She started it, actually. It was Brittany’s idea. She made it happen.”
“Were Dana and Crystal on the dance team as well?” I saw a picture of Brittany and Dana in their sparkling uniforms, but no Crystal.
“No,” said Mrs. Hayes with a little sniff. “Dana was, of course, but Brittany said Crystal seemed to think there was something silly about it. As if she was above it. She was a little bit wide in the hips to make it onto the dance team, in my opinion.”
Harper raised his eyebrows, obviously startled that an adult would critique a child based on her weight. I was willing to bet that Mrs. Hayes said only half of what she really thought, and what we were hearing was probably the conservative half.
“Do you have a list of names and numbers for her teammates?” I asked. “In case we need to reach out to any of them?”
“Yes, yes, I do.” Like many people who have been affected by crime and left spinning out, she seemed relieved to have something concrete to do. “Downstairs in the kitchen.”
She turned away from the door and hurried off toward the staircase, pausing to make certain we were behind her. I was pretty sure she imagined we’d steal Brittany’s diary and put it in a plastic bag destined for an evidence locker if left to our own devices.
Harper and I followed her down the stairs. Photographs line the wall along the staircase, similar to the hallway by the foyer. School pictures of Brittany updated each year marked her progress from a child to a young woman. By the time we reached the bottom of the steps, I hoped we would find the girl, so there would be more pictures of her to come.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Hayes rifled through her quilted Vera Bradley planner and unearthed a print-out. She handed it to Harper. “Can you make a copy and get that back to me?” she asked. “I need to plan the next bake sale fundraiser for the squad.”
She was either insanely optimistic or delusional. Maybe she was attempting to reassure herself that Brittany would be home in no time and they could get back to business as usual, but I still found it odd. I could tell by Harper’s barely concealed expression of disbelief that he felt the same.
“Of course,” he said courteously. “I don’t even need to take this now. I’ll just take a picture of it with my phone.” He pulled his phone out and snapped an image of the list, then handed it back to Mrs. Hayes. She folded it neatly and tucked it back into her planner.
“Do you have any leads yet?” she asked.
I assumed we were moving into the CSI portion of the interview when folks who overdosed on Law and Order and various other police procedurals interrogated us on the case using terminology they’d picked up from mystery novels, movies, and television.
“We’re working closely with the CARD team on that, ma’am,” said Harper. “We’re on our way to meet with them right now and get brought up to speed.
She gave a little sniff. “I don’t care for that Agent Brown whatsoever; I can tell you that much,” she said. “She seems to have got it in her head that Brittany’s run away. My daughter would never do that. She’s got everything going for her right now.”
Everything except her freedom. “Who do you think it was?” I asked.
“They should be looking into her father,” said Mrs. Hayes. “Supposedly, he’s off working in Louisiana, but I don’t buy that for a second. He refuses to answer his phone when I call. His daughter is missing! Who won’t pick up the phone when he doesn’t know where his daughter’s at? Brittany’s always thought her father hung the moon. Mistakenly, obviously, but that’s what she believes. I have no doubt in my mind he could easily convince her to go on some kind of ‘trip’ with him. He’s an exceptional liar. Make no mistake about that.”
“We will definitely check into it,” Harper assured her. “Along with every other possibility we come across.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hayes, formerly; I could tell they weren’t words that often crossed her lips. “I appreciate your help.”
She saw us to the door. It was a combination of good old-fashioned manners and ensuring that the strangers in your home didn’t make off with the good china. Or your favorite crystal replica of the Washington Monument.
“You will let me know, won’t you?” she said anxiously as we went out the front door and down the front steps. “The instant you find out anything?”
“We’ll get in touch with you immediately,” said Harper seriously.
I had to hand it to him; he was like something out of a movie: exactly the sort of stalwart, reassuring figure of authority you imagine swooping in to save the day.
“Thank you again.” She watched us as we made our way down the sidewalk to Harper’s Crown Vic. It was the first genuine display of emotion I’d seen from her since we’d arrived, aside from her disdain at her daughter’s unworthy friend. She’d built quite a shell around her, Mrs. Hayes.
; I would know better than anyone.
5
Fair Game
“What do you think?” I asked when we were safely in the car, windows rolled up, engine running.
“I think,” he said, pulling carefully away from the curb. “That woman is on a lot of tranquilizers.”
I snorted. “We’ll be sure to check her medicine cabinet next time.”
“Next time? You’re on your own for that one.”
“Me? You’re the one she likes. No, you have to come back and talk to her again. There’s no way I’m going into that snake’s den by myself.”
“Do you think she’s up to something? Mrs. Hayes?”
“That she might be involved somehow? I doubt it. I’m curious about the father, though. And I’d like to talk to the stepfather when he’s available.”
“Do you think he might have something to do with it?”
“It’s hard to say, at this stage. At this point, I’d wager that pretty much anyone involved is fair game.”
The CARD team headquarters stationed itself in the back of a church on Main Street. The local police station was equally as small as the town, and space was at a premium. CARD had established an on-site headquarters to coordinate the investigation with local law enforcement. They had undoubtedly begun mapping area registered sex offenders and investigating everyone involved. I was curious to learn what Agent Brown’s take on Mrs. Hayes would be.
The FBI investigated various missing child cases, with the highest priority being those characterized by the abduction of a non-family member. If CARD were involved, it was likely that they had already concluded that Brittany had been taken—or “run away with”—someone outside of her family: perhaps the elusive “Pete Moss” she’d been talking to online shortly before she had disappeared.
CARD teams consisted of twelve or more agents, all of whom had particular experience and knowledge working cases that specifically dealt with children. They worked closely with local law enforcement in order to enact the most cooperative and cohesive response possible. They had a ninety percent rate of success in identifying and bringing abductors to justice. In this respect, fortune favored Brittany even as time was against her. The longer she was missing, the lower the chances that we would find her alive—and those odds decreased exponentially on an hourly basis.
