Kaycee drew the key from her purse and stuck it in her pocket. Gingerly, as if it were made of flesh-eating acid, she picked up the picture by a corner that wasn’t stained with blood. Holding it out in front of her like the tail of a dead mouse, she made her way to the back door.
Their eyes watched.
The blood on the doorknob glistened as she inserted her key.
Inside the kitchen she laid the photo on the counter and snatched a large plastic bag from a drawer. She slid the photo into the bag. As she closed it, blood smeared inside the plastic. She lowered her eyes and swallowed hard, steadying herself.
Quickly, she washed the residue of blood off her hand.
She picked up the bagged picture and carried it to the car. Set it on top of the Cruiser while she checked her seat. She didn’t want to sit in blood. She saw none there, but the inside handle of her door remained smeared. She’d clean it up later.
Kaycee checked the visor. No blood there either. She pushed it up.
With two fingers she slid the bagged picture off the roof of the car, then got behind the wheel. Kaycee laid the photo on the passenger seat near her purse. She tried not to look at it, but it pulled at her eyes. Her gaze sidled to the picture.
She stilled, staring. Her eyes widened. Slowly she picked up the photo and brought it toward her face.
It had faded completely to black.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Fear nearly paralyzed Kaycee as she pulled out of her driveway. The photo-that-no-longer-was lay upside down on the floor of her passenger seat. The only thing left was a black rectangle and some smeared blood.
How to prove to police it had been a picture of the dead man?
Sure, she could tell her story, just like she’d told Tricia. Tell them about her dream, the photo on her desktop, and now this bagged one. She could tell them about smelling blood as she climbed her stairs. Hearing screams and footsteps. That would work, all right. Chief Davis would sign her into the mental ward on one of those mandatory seventy-two-hour mini-vacations.
But there was still blood on that faded photo. They couldn’t discount that.
Hannah. Even now Kaycee didn’t want to pull one officer off of searching for the runaway. Kaycee would hand over this evidence — what remained of it — and help in the search for Hannah. Once she was found Kaycee could tell Chief Davis everything. They’d deal with it then.
Kaycee’s mind chanted a mantra that her young friend was safe. Anything else was too horrible to consider. But hours were passing. Hannah should have called by now.
Kaycee reversed left onto South Maple and pushed the Cruiser into drive.
She rolled past the old homes on her street, focusing on the scenery she knew so well. Anything to keep her mind from thinking. Large bare-limbed trees dominated the green front lawns after the April rains. Here and there bright yellow forsythia bushes bloomed. On the right houses gave way to the long white building of Crouse Concrete.
Wait.
Kaycee slowed and gazed at the building. It ran long with a flat roof, the left side of the building a number of feet higher than the right. Three extra tall garage doors faced the street. The only windows were in two layers on the left side. The building looked quiet as usual. She wasn’t even sure if it was used much anymore.
What if Hannah was in there?
Kaycee turned into the cracked parking lot.
As she got out of the car Kaycee felt eyes upon her. Her tormentors were watching. She knew it.
Kaycee turned in a complete circle, gaze darting. She saw no one.
Drawing both arms across her chest, she walked to the door and tried to open it. Locked.
Kaycee cupped her hands around her eyes and looked through a window. It was so dim inside she could hardly see. Was it an office or a much bigger room? She saw no movement.
She stepped back, every part of her body tingling. Go look around back — that’s what she should do. This place was so close to her house. Hannah might have crept back there to hide.
Kaycee looked to the right and over the roof. A thick copse of trees thrust bare-limbed branches into the sky. All those trees behind the building — where they could be hiding.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go back there alone.
Didn’t matter, she rationalized. Hannah wouldn’t be there anyway. Even if she’d come here in the night, she wouldn’t have hidden back there this long. Besides, the police had been searching this neighborhood. Surely they’d already looked.
Kaycee bit her lip. All the same, she should check.
A shudder ran down her spine. She pictured the dead man’s face — on her own computer. Remembered the smell of blood on her own staircase. We see you. If her house wasn’t even safe . . .
Abruptly Kaycee turned toward the Cruiser.
She slid into the driver’s seat, sick to her stomach. So much for fighting the fear. She couldn’t even bring herself to search behind a building for a lost child.
Kaycee lowered her forehead to the steering wheel and closed her eyes. A storm kicked up within her, swirling. All the years of fighting her destructive fears, all the columns and vows to herself. Just an hour ago she’d finished writing the final part of the dentist story. Such determination she’d ended on, such hope. Now look at her. No better. Good for nothing.
Defeat washed over her in cold, briny waves.
Pray against the fear. Tricia’s mantra. You’ve got to keep praying.
Kaycee pushed back from the wheel as if her head weighed a hundred pounds. Dully she stared at the white building. Truth was, she didn’t want prayer. She wanted a magic wand.
God, just bring Hannah back safe, and I promise I’ll talk to you all day long.
Kaycee’s cell phone rang. She jumped, then fished it out of her purse. The ID read Wilmore Police. Her heart leapt.
“Hi, it’s Kaycee.”
“It’s Mark. You coming to the station?”
“On my way. Did you find Hannah?”
“No.” His voice sounded grim. “But we have some new information.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
On the motel bed Lorraine lay propped on one elbow, watching her daughter. Tammy was sleeping on her back, a fist beneath her chin. Her little-girl snores were quiet and feathery. It had taken her some time to fall asleep. She’d been crying for her stuffed bear. Lorraine reached out and touched Tammy’s hair. How to tell her that she would never see her daddy again?
Fresh grief hit Lorraine like an avalanche. Its icy weight snatched the breath from her lungs. She flipped onto her stomach, buried her head in a pillow, and sobbed. The bed shook. Lorraine didn’t want to wake Tammy. She clutched the pillow to her chest and rolled off to the floor.
So many things to mourn. She sobbed for Tammy’s future without a father. For their days stretching on and on. Lorraine would not make it through this afternoon, this minute. How could she possibly live through a week, a month, a year? She cried for Tammy’s first day of elementary school — without a father to kiss good-bye. For her graduations and someday, a wedding. Lorraine cried for no medical insurance, an empty bed at night. For the face she would never see again, the voice she would never hear. For the still body and the half open, glazed eyes, and Tammy smeared with her daddy’s blood. For the senselessness of a life taken. Lorraine cried until her head pounded and her eyes dried out, and all energy seeped from her pores into the worn carpet.