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“But the date is at the beginning of the journal and near the time she disappeared. How could she have written it?”

“
Allegedly
disappeared,” Gracie corrected. “Maybe that was all a big lie. Maybe she was hiding out or being held prisoner or something.”

“Where did you get this?”

Her eyes slid away.

“Grace?” Sarah prodded.

“In . . . the basement.”

Sarah went cold inside, a visceral reaction that still attacked her from her time of being locked in the basement by her brothers—a prank that had lasting consequences. “What were you doing down there?”

“Just looking around.” Her slim shoulders rose and fell in an “it really doesn't matter” shrug.

“She was snooping, like she always does.” Her face pale, Jade appeared in the doorway.

“Where's Clint?” Sarah asked.

“In the living room. He wants to talk to you.”

“How'd it go?” Sarah queried tentatively.

“How do you think it went? Just effin' perfect.” She found the box of cocoa and began brewing herself a cup. “I wouldn't keep Daddy Dearest waiting too long if I were you,” she warned as she opened a pack of instant mix with her teeth.

“Is he mad?” Grace asked.

Jade made a sound of disbelief. “Duh.”

Girding her loins, Sarah handed Gracie the journal and warned, “We'll talk about this later.
Tu le sait, je parle français
.”

“What?” Grace asked.

“She said, ‘You know, I speak French,' ” Jade translated.

That caught Sarah up. “Wow.”

“So, I learned something,” Jade said.

As Sarah lifted her hands in surrender, Grace asked, “Can you translate this for me?”

“Yeah, maybe later. But in the meantime, don't go into the basement or the attic or anywhere until we know that it's safe.”

Gracie tucked the diary into her bag again. “It's safe.”

Sarah remembered the feeling that the house was being observed from the outside and occupied by the spirits of the dead on the inside.

But for now, she needed to talk with Clint. Putting all thoughts of ghosts and tragic ancestors aside, she headed to the living room.

A
s he nosed his truck into the pockmarked parking lot of the Columbia Diner, he felt the urgency, the pressure of the operation, coming to a head. He had to step things up, and that took a helluva lot of planning.

Get in. Get out.

The whole operation depended on him and his partner—who was a moron at best and a complete idiot at worst.

Already, they had spent too much time between abductions, thereby giving the cops more time to investigate, and that was dangerous.

So now he had to be extra careful not to draw attention to himself. He needed to go about his business as he always had, keep to his routine and his cover, ensuring that no one would suspect he was the mastermind behind the kidnappings.

He pulled into his usual parking space on the access road side of the diner and, after locking his truck, strode inside. A couple of guys were standing outside in heavy jackets, their shoulders hunched against the wind gusting down the gorge as they smoked, the tips of their cigarettes glowing red in the night. Each nodded as he passed, and he returned the gesture, though he had no idea who they were. Probably regulars like himself.

Inside the diner smelled of overcooked coffee and grilled onions. Country music was audible over the sizzle of the deep fat fryer and general conversation in the brightly lit, narrow restaurant. He took a booth near the entrance, right across from the cashier's station and the case of “fresh-baked” delicacies that, at this time of night, consisted of a solitary piece of key lime pie, a few cookies, and half a coconut cake—not that he cared.

A few customers littered the booths and stools at the counter, none he recognized, some probably drivers of the big rigs parked outside. The waitress, Gloria of the ever-changing hair, hurried up to him, her usually harried expression doubly so.

“Hi,” she said with a quick smile, her lipstick long faded, her mascara still thick. She handed him a plastic menu. “Anything to drink?”

“Beer. Whatever you got on tap.”

“We have half a dozen,” she said, and before she could start rattling them off, he held up a hand.

“Bud.”

“You got it. Oh, and just so you know, we're out of the special, the salmon, but the cod's real nice tonight.” And she was off, ostensibly in search of his beer. He glanced at the menu and didn't much care what he ate. Food was fuel. That was all. Especially at this stage of the game. He watched a couple truckers pay for their meals, then head outside, talking as they made their way to a semi parked on the river side of the diner.

A few minutes later, Gloria reappeared. “Here ya go!” She slid a beer onto the chipped Formica table. “You decided?”

“B.L.T. No tomato.”

“So just a B.L.?” she said, forcing a smile as the joke fell flat. From the kitchen the sound of silverware crashing to the floor was followed by an audible “shit!”

Gloria rolled her eyes. “Fries with that?”

“Sure. That's all.”

“You got it.” Not bothering to write the order down, she started for the kitchen when something on the television screen mounted over the archway at the entrance caught her eye. She made a strangled little sound, her hands with their red-tipped nails covering those faded lips. “I'm sorry,” she squeaked, and tears actually welled in her eyes.

He glanced at the television, and there, big as life, was a picture of the girl he'd come to think of as Star.

“Oh, my God, it's just so awful,” she admitted. “No one knows what happened to her.”

“She worked here, right? I remember her.”

“Oh, yes. And such a sweet, sweet girl.”

He didn't respond, but wondered if they were talking about the same person.

“She was here that night, and I should never have let her walk home. They think she was taken near here, on her way home.” Gloria actually shuddered. “I can't sleep thinking about how if she'd just listened to me, and waited for me to take her home, she'd be here today, waiting tables and collecting tips.” Another little squeak.

“They have any idea what happened?” he asked casually.

“Just that she was nabbed.” She cleared her throat. “They haven't found a body.”

“Any chance she just ran off?”

Gloria whipped her head around to stare at him, and he instantly regretted pushing it. Shit, he had to be careful. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes teenagers just take off.” He offered her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “You'll see, she might come back.”

“Well . . . we can only hope,” she said, then took off again to take another order from a couple who had grabbed stools at the counter. He sipped his beer, watched the television, and reminded himself to not talk too much.
Loose lips sink ships,
How many times had he given his partner just that warning?

And yet he was anxious to hear more, to learn what the police might be thinking. The reporting on the case was spotty, in his opinion, so if the cops were anywhere close to figuring out what had happened to Star, they were keeping it to themselves. He needed inside info from the department, as the operation was going into overdrive this weekend and he couldn't afford to screw up. The pressure was on.

Gloria returned with his sandwich and, after again asking if he needed anything, was off to the kitchen. Catching glimpses of the television, he spread his sandwich with ketchup and listened to the news with half an ear. He learned from a reporter standing in front of the Sheriff's Department that there were “no new leads” in the case of the missing teen and saw nothing about the second girl. Apparently the authorities hadn't been contacted about Lucky; if they had been, the press hadn't gotten wind of it.

Only a matter of time, he thought, sipping from his beer as he watched the screen. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told his partner that it took a lot of planning to pull off a kidnapping, especially with the authorities and nervous parents on alert. And now the ante was upped. He'd figured on two, possibly three more. But five? He would have to be clever. And he'd have no time to maneuver. Grabbing Rosalie was easy, and he knew the authorities would think she was probably a runaway. Hadn't he ensured it with that fake boyfriend he'd conjured up? It had gone seamlessly, his alter ego Leo “meeting” her in the chat room she'd mentioned to him once while serving him a hamburger and french fries. He'd also learned that she longed to go to Colorado and connect with her “real” dad and that she hated the series of husbands and boyfriends her mother had hooked up with. So Leo had hailed from around Denver. The seed was planted, the flirting quick and sexual, and the rest had been easy. As someone who understood the Internet and computers and how to form an IP address that was virtually impossible to locate quickly, he'd been able to reel Rosalie in and create a reason why she might disappear off the face of the earth. The second girl wouldn't be considered a runaway, though, and as stupid as the police were, they could easily put two and two together and recognize both girls had been abducted.

And now
five more?

He wasn't a fuckin' magician.

Grabbing a french fry, he dunked it in its little paper container of ketchup before taking a bite. Maybe he should move on; just use the two he'd picked up, maybe grab two more and haul them all across the border into Washington or, better yet, Idaho. Then find the next ones at a new location. But it would take time, money, and a new hideout he didn't have. Plus, his partner was right: he needed someone to help him. Unfortunately he'd chosen poorly, as his “friend” was an idiot.

First things first. He'd stake out the McAdams place again as soon as he finished here. The McAdams girls would be the final targets . . . or . . .
what about Sarah, the mother?
The thought wasn't new, but it was infinitely more attractive now that he needed so many. He could wipe out the whole damned family in one swoop. Sarah was old for what he had in mind; the younger girls were better choices. But she was pretty enough, and smart too. But odd. Well, that in itself set her apart and held its own appeal. He warmed to the idea as he took another swallow of beer. Would the authorities zero in on him if all three women disappeared?

Worth considering.

He'd been so lost in thought, he'd ignored his sandwich and the television, and as he took his first bite he nearly choked when he saw the image of Sheriff Cooke flash onto the screen. He steeled himself, but the news was only a recording, a tape of the one press conference the Sheriff's Department had held. Again, there appeared to be nothing new in the investigation into the disappearance of Rosalie Jamison.

Smiling, he licked the ketchup from his lip with his tongue and watched Jefferson Dade Cooke evade the questions while attempting to look authoritarian, as if he were indeed “the man” in charge.

He couldn't help but snort his disdain. An able adversary, the sheriff was not.

And that was just fine with him.

 

Sarah found Clint standing in front of the fire, warming the back of his legs, staring at the far wall, but viewing, she suspected, a place in the distance that only he could see. At the sound of her footsteps, he swung his gaze toward her.

If she'd hoped to find forgiveness in his eyes, she was disappointed.

If she'd thought she'd see understanding in his features, she was totally let down.

If she'd believed they could work things out now that he knew the truth, she'd been a fool.

“Jade said you told me the truth only because she figured it out,” he greeted her.

“That's essentially correct. I was going to let you and her know when the time was right.”

“And that would be when?” He made it sound like he didn't believe it would ever have happened.

“One of the reasons I came back here was to tell you,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “Jade needed to know and you did too, and now we all have to find a way to move forward.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“I don't know. Got any ideas?”

“I haven't exactly had time to work out a parenting plan,” he pointed out, adding dryly, “give me a couple more minutes.” Sarah couldn't think of how to respond, so she just stayed silent. After several tense moments, he said, “I guess we'll have to consult our lawyers.”

That woke her up. “I'd like to keep lawyers and judges and social workers or whatever out of this. I was hoping that you and I—and Jade too, as she's seventeen—could work out some kind of arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” he repeated with derision. “I had a son.” He hooked a thumb at his chest. “I know what it's like to love a kid, to provide for him, to worry yourself sick over him. There was no ‘arrangement'.”

“Then come up with another word,” she snapped, tired of being the bad guy. “I screwed up, okay? I know it. You know it. Jade knows it. Soon the whole damned world will know it. But I can't change it.” She paced across the room, then walked up to him, the toes of her shoes a hairbreadth from the end of his boots. “And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life feeling bad about it. I did what I thought was best at the time, and if you don't like it, too bad. So sue me,” she said before the weight of her words hit her full force. Would he? Would he actually sue her for custody?

“There are legalities that have to be dealt with.”

“You want a paternity test? Get a paternity test.” She was standing too close to him, but she wouldn't back down.

“Maybe I will.” They stared at each other in challenge.

“Go ahead.”

“I do believe you,” he finally admitted. “Jade and I talked. I know her birth date, and I see the resemblance.”

“Okay, so . . . what? You want to see a lawyer for partial custody?”

“I don't know, I—”

“Because if that's what you want, you need to consult with Jade. She's old enough to have some say in her future. I'm still her mother,” she added, before he could speak, “so, yeah, you can be a part of this family, if you want, but that's it.”

“That's where the lawyers come in. To ensure that—”

“Fine,” she cut him off again. “Get your damn lawyer.”

“Damn it, Sarah, let me finish.”

“I know what you're going to say. Look, Clint, I've apologized. Up and down and sideways. I'm done with it. The apologies are over. If you need a lawyer to figure out what's next, so be it. I do want you and Jade to have a relationship, but I'm the primary parent and always will be.” She just needed him to know the parameters.

“Got it,” he said in a flinty voice. His eyes held hers for a second, then he turned his head and called, “Jade? Would you mind coming back in here a second?”

Sarah braced herself as her older daughter, carrying a cup of cocoa and looking wary, reentered the living room. Gracie and the dog were in her wake, but they hung back in the hallway.

“Come on in,” Clint suggested, waving Sarah's youngest into the room. Gracie moved in cautiously, but Xena galloped into the living area and started circling near the fire, making a nest in the afghan and sleeping bags strewn near the hearth.

“Great guard dog,” Jade said in an aside to Sarah. Then she explained to Clint, “For some reason Mom thought we needed one.”

Sarah corrected, “I wanted an alarm dog or watchdog, and a pet. I'm glad Xena's a new member of the family.”

“Getting a lot of those,” Jade said beneath her breath.

Clint's stern expression relaxed some, and he almost smiled.

“We got the dog because of all the ghosts,” Jade told him. “They see them, you know. Mom and Grace.” Jade blew across her cup as she took a seat on the hearth. “Don't know what's wrong with me. Guess they don't like me.”

“Jade,” Sarah protested.