The Jacksons’ house.
Warm relief flushed limpness through Melissa’s body. The air smelled faintly of the vanilla-scented candle she’d lit on her dresser the previous night.
Her fourth day in paradise. Sort of. If she’d let it be. Everything still seemed amazing—the house, the way Linda and Baxter treated her. It’s just that Melissa wasn’t used to things being so right. When you’d lived your whole life with a drunk for a mother, who’d just as easily slap you as look at you, it was hard to relax. Melissa’s muscles still quivered at sudden sounds—the phone ringing, a pot banging.
She rolled on her back and stared at the high, perfectly painted ceiling. The dream flashed in her head. Melissa closed her eyes. Wasn’t the first time she’d had it—in some form. Details tended to change. Weird how dreams of a real event could mix truth and fiction. Like blood flowing from the floor up to her palms.
Five months ago when she’d called 911, back turned against the sight of her dead mother, she’d had no blood on her hands. But there was a lot of it on the floor.
Later, after the autopsy, the detective said her mother had been drunk. Yeah, Melissa thought, tell me something I don’t know. Her mom probably blacked out, stumbled and fell, he said. She hit her head on the counter, split her forehead open. She was only thirty-eight years old, but her liver was “damaged beyond repair” by cirrhosis. That by itself would have killed her soon anyway.
One of life’s little ironies.
A knock sounded on Melissa’s door. She jumped, then rose up on her elbows. “Yeah?”
“It’s Linda. Can I come in?”
Melissa had never heard that question in the trailer. Her mother had always just barreled into her tiny bedroom. “Sure.”
The door opened and Linda stuck her head inside. She wore no makeup yet, but she was still pretty. “Time to get up for church. We leave in an hour.”
Church. Melissa blinked at her. Was it Sunday already? “Oh.”
Melissa hated church. Not that she’d ever been, but she’d heard about it plenty. Full of hypocritical people. They’d probably all look down their noses at her.
Linda smiled. “Don’t look so forlorn. It won’t be bad. Really. And it’ll give you a chance to meet some girls your age.”
Who probably wouldn’t want a thing to do with her.
Melissa’s mouth tightened. “What am I supposed to wear?”
“Any of the jeans and tops I bought you. The service is casual. You want some breakfast?”
“No. Thanks. I’ll eat later.”
Linda nodded, smiled again, and closed the door. She sure did smile a lot.
For some time Melissa lay in bed, arguing with herself. She didn’t have to go to church. Nobody could make her. She’d never liked being told what to do.
Yeah, and she could also get kicked out of this nice house in a hurry. That didn’t fit into Melissa’s plans. She’d already grown used to her large, beautiful bedroom.
She huffed at the ceiling. Life was full of compromises. An hour of church, even with stuck-up people, was worth a week of living here.
Melissa got out of bed.
She threw open the door to her walk-in closet and studied the five pairs of designer jeans and two dressier slacks hanging neatly in a row. Maybe she should wear the white slacks. But if all the girls were dressed in jeans she’d feel weird.
What did she care what they thought of her?
Melissa took another five minutes deciding. With an animated shrug she pulled on a pair of True Religions and a short-sleeve blue top. In the bathroom she carefully applied the new makeup Linda had bought her. Then she stood before the full-length mirror, turning back to front. She looked good. Designer jeans were amazing.
“Morning, Melissa.” Baxter shot her a broad smile when she walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a suit and tie, looking out at the backyard and drinking from a mug. The aroma of coffee filled the room. Linda wasn’t around. “You look great.”
Melissa eyed him warily. Four days here and she still hadn’t figured this guy out. He acted so nice. And normal. But no man living in a house like this could be normal. Besides, males usually wanted something. Her stepdad sure had, and she’d only been eleven at the time. Melissa’s mom hadn’t been around to stop it. The men who lived with them after that had been no better.
Melissa looked at the floor. “Thanks.”
Baxter walked to the sink and set his cup down with a faint click. “You want coffee?”
“No thanks.”
He turned toward her. “Anything to eat?”
She shook her head.
Baxter regarded her for a moment, concern in his expression. Melissa forced herself to stare back. Where was Linda?
“Do you like living here, Melissa?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His face softened. “Good. I want you to be comfortable. I hope in time you’ll see you can trust us. You don’t have to be on your guard here.”
Melissa felt herself go numb. No response, not a single word would form on her tongue. How did he see her so clearly? And who talked like that anyway—just saying something right out? Words were meant to be shields. Words were meant to be dances.
She lifted a shoulder. “I’m just fine.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, then nodded.
Linda saved the moment by entering the kitchen. “Hey there, Melissa, you look terrific.” She was rubbing lotion on her hands. Melissa smelled roses. Linda wore cream slacks and a green silk blouse. She looked perfect. Melissa’s heart swelled. Why couldn’t somebody like this woman have been her mother? Why had God given Linda no children and let Melissa be born to a ratty alcoholic?
Baxter crossed to his wife and drew a finger down her cheek. “And so do you.”
Linda swiped her hand through the air. “Oh, you say that to all your wives.” She turned and grinned at Melissa. “Okay, let’s go!”
On the way to church Linda babbled about the girls Melissa would meet. Heather and Christy and Belle and Nicole. Other names Melissa couldn’t begin to remember. “They’re really looking forward to meeting you.”
Melissa stiffened. “They know I’m coming?”
Baxter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sure they do. Last Sunday we told everyone we’d be picking you up in a few days. Linda was too excited to keep quiet.”
Only Linda was excited?
The thought plucked at her. Melissa pushed it away.
Terrific, she told herself. A whole church just waiting to see what she looked like. Probably been talking about her all week.
By the time she, Linda, and Baxter slid out of the Mercedes, Melissa had checked the wall around her heart for loose bricks. She’d be polite to the adults and grimace later. As for girls her age, she didn’t need them. Friends wanted to know things about you. Friends could hurt you.
No one who knew the real Melissa Harkoff, who knew the slummy life she’d come from and the things she’d done, would ever want to be her friend.
EIGHT
FEBRUARY 2010
Fifteen years ago I’d forged my way into skip tracing while working in a private investigator’s office in San Jose. The work is exciting. But unlike the portrayal on trumped-up TV shows, most skip tracing is done online. I could stay warm and dry in my house while I chased Melissa through the teeming, winding halls of cyberspace. Sitting at a computer may not translate well into television, but I find it as exhilarating as a street car chase. It is all about the hunt. The rush of stalking down pieces of the puzzle, the adrenaline surge of closing in on the skip. Mere fingers on keys, hunched shoulders, and eyes glued to the screen can’t begin to portray the real-life drama that hinges on the outcome of a search. A skip located can completely change lives. It means a criminal apprehended, a child reunited with birth parents, the recipient of a surprise inheritance, money for the impoverished children of a deadbeat dad. It forges justice, dredges tears, spews anger, builds hope.