She's Not There (32 page)

“I should go,” Hunter said. “Diana will be getting worried.”

She has reason to be worried,
Caroline thought.

“I'll come with you,” Michelle said.

“You don't want to stay here?” Samantha asked.

“Nah. This is your night. You and my mother deserve some time alone together. I'll sleep at Dad's.”

“I'll have her back first thing in the morning,” Hunter said. “And if it's all right, I'd like to bring Diana and the kids along, introduce Samantha to her half brother and half sister before the press conference.”

“There's a press conference?” Mary asked.

“At noon,” Caroline told her.

“Let's hope it goes better than the last one you gave.”

A wry chuckle escaped Caroline's lips. “I think it's time you went home as well, Mother.”

“What? We just got here.”

“Yes. And now you're leaving.”

Mary straightened her shoulders and opened her mouth, as if preparing to object.

“Caroline's right,” Steve intervened. “We should go. It's been a very long day and I'm sure that Samantha is exhausted.”

“I
am
tired,” Samantha agreed.

“Then we'll clear out of here and let you get some rest. And who knows, maybe now that the pressure's off, you might actually start remembering things.”

Once again, Mary embraced Samantha. “Good night, darling. Sleep well.” She walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

“Can you tell us what's going on in there?” a reporter shouted.

“Don't ask me. I'm only the grandmother,” Mary replied as Caroline shut the door after her.

“You can't let her upset you,” she said to Michelle.

Michelle smiled. “Sure. Easy for you to say.”

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Mom.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night, Samantha,” Michelle told her sister. “Believe it or not, I really
am
glad you're back.”

“See you tomorrow,” Samantha said.

Caroline watched from the window as they climbed into Hunter's cream-colored BMW and drove away. “You hungry?” she asked Samantha when the two of them were alone.

“Starving.”

“Too soon for another pizza?”

“It's never too soon for pizza.”

They spent most of the night just staring at each other, as if they understood it was both too early and too late for words, that fifteen years of words had been lost and could never be recovered. After dinner they went upstairs and watched TV on Caroline's bed, listening to Greg Fisher on the eleven o'clock news as he announced there'd been a new development in the case of missing child Samantha Shipley and promising a press conference at noon the next day. “We should probably try to get some sleep,” Caroline said, kissing Samantha's forehead. “It's going to be a big day tomorrow.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Samantha asked.

Silently, Caroline pulled back the covers and Samantha crawled beneath them. Then Caroline lay down beside her, watching her daughter sleep until morning.

T
he press conference began at exactly twelve o'clock noon and was televised live around the globe.

It took place outside the main precinct of the San Diego Police Department. Caroline and Hunter sat in folding chairs on an improvised dais, Samantha between them. They faced at least a hundred reporters and photographers representing news outlets from across the country and beyond. Cameras zoomed in on their every gesture; tape recorders strained to capture each whispered aside. Conservatively dressed agents from the FBI stood behind them; uniformed officers surrounded them and kept overly enthusiastic camera operators from venturing too close. The chief of police approached the microphone that had been set up in the middle of the stage, waiting for the noise from the standing-room-only crowd to die down so that he could speak.

Caroline reached for Samantha's hand. “Are you okay?”

“I think I might be sick.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Really? You look so calm.”

“I know,” Caroline said. “I can't help it.”

Samantha smiled, and several photographers immediately stepped forward to capture the moment, their cameras clicking furiously, like keys on an old-fashioned typewriter.

“Please take a step back,” an officer warned.

“Take deep breaths,” Caroline advised, inhaling and then exhaling, as if trying to lead by example.

“You're doing great,” Hunter told them.

Caroline glanced toward her lap, her eyes surreptitiously scanning the crowd. She saw her mother and brother sitting in the first of more than a dozen rows of chairs, each row containing eight to ten seats, each seat occupied. Beside Mary sat Hunter's wife, Diana, with their two children, and behind them, Peggy and Fletcher.

One person was conspicuous in her absence.

“Where's Michelle?” Caroline had asked when Hunter and his new family arrived at the house earlier that morning.

“She was already gone when we woke up,” Hunter said, seemingly unconcerned. “Left a note saying she was going to the gym. Said she'd head back here when she was done.”

“Well, she didn't.”

She still hadn't shown up by the time they were ready to leave for the police station. Caroline had left increasingly urgent messages on her voice mail. Michelle hadn't responded to any of them.

A dozen thoughts collided in Caroline's brain: Michelle had been far more upset than she'd let on; she'd slipped out of Hunter's house in the middle of the night, gotten drunk, borrowed a friend's car, been in an accident, gotten pulled over by the police, was sitting in a jail cell at this very minute, or worse, was lying in a ditch, unconscious and broken. Or maybe some lunatic had followed her, determined to add his own sick addendum to the news of Samantha's safe return…

“I don't see her,” she whispered to Hunter now.

“Relax,” he said, although a slight twitch above his right eye betrayed his own concern. “She probably just decided not to come.”

I'll see you tomorrow.

Goodbye, Mom.

“Goodbye,” not “good night.”

Where could she have gone? Caroline was torn between anger and worry. Not that she blamed Michelle for wanting no part of this media circus. She didn't want to be here either.

She looked toward the police chief, an imposing middle-aged man in full dress uniform. She watched him tap the microphone, then clear his throat as the assembled gathering fell silent. She wondered again where Michelle could be.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the police chief began, “it is my privilege to be here today delivering this extraordinary news. As you're all aware, fifteen years ago a two-year-old girl named Samantha Shipley was stolen from her crib while the family was vacationing in Rosarito, Mexico.”

While her parents were downstairs,
cavorting with friends,
Caroline added silently, recalling past headlines and imagining fresh ones.

“It's not every day such a case has the happy ending we've all been praying for, but today is one of those days. I'm thrilled to be able to report that Samantha Shipley has been found alive and well, and that she's here with us today.”

A wave of excitement swept through the crowd. Cameras clicked wildly as reporters jumped to their feet, their eager voices rushing the stage, like teenagers at a rock concert.

The chief of police raised his hands, pleaded for cooperation. “If you'll bear with me, please. Your questions will be answered shortly.” After a minute, a strained silence resumed. “DNA tests have confirmed that the young lady behind me is Samantha Shipley, the missing daughter of Caroline Shipley and Hunter Shipley.” He then introduced Greg Fisher, stiffly handsome in his navy blue suit and red-and-blue-striped tie, who supplied them with a quick overview of Samantha's fifteen years as Lili Hollister. He relayed much of what Caroline had told him the day before, detailing Lili's growing suspicions that she might, in fact, be Samantha Shipley, suspicions that brought her from Calgary, Alberta, to Southern California, culminating in her reunion with her birth parents. He admitted that the FBI knew very little at this time regarding the logistics of the kidnapping itself.

“Very little” being a euphemism for “nothing at all,” Caroline decided. Again she scanned the crowd for Michelle. Again she saw nothing but the rapt faces of strangers.

“Samantha and her parents, Caroline Shipley and Hunter Shipley,” Fisher continued, subtly acknowledging they were no longer part of the same unit even though they continued to share a last name, “have graciously agreed to come here today to answer your questions. I remind you that they are under no legal obligation to do so, and I would encourage you to be as polite and respectful in your questioning as possible.” He turned toward them. “Please,” he said, beckoning them forward.

Caroline, Hunter, and Samantha were greeted by thunderous applause as they rose from their seats and approached the microphone, tightly clutching one another's hands.

“How does it feel to have your daughter back?” one reporter called out immediately.

“How does it feel to be home, Samantha?” another shouted at the same time.

The questions proceeded fast and furiously:

“When did you first become suspicious that you were Samantha?”

“How did you go about getting in touch with Caroline?”

“Caroline, what were your first thoughts when Samantha contacted you?”

“Was your reunion everything you hoped it would be?”

“Did you know instantly she was your daughter?”

“Do you prefer to be called Lili or Samantha?”

“What about your family back in Calgary?”

“Are you planning to stay in San Diego?”

“Caroline, have you spoken to Beth Hollister?”

“Do you have any plans to see her again?”

“What are your feelings toward her?”

“Would you like to see her go to jail?”

“Samantha, look this way.”

“Hunter, over here. Big smile.”

“Can we have a picture of the three of you embracing?”

“Samantha, do you remember anything about the night you were kidnapped?”

“Do you blame Caroline and Hunter for leaving you alone that night?”

“Do you think you'll ever find out what happened?”

“Caroline, do you feel you've been treated unfairly by the press?”

“Samantha, can we have a picture of you kissing your mother?”

“How do you feel about your parents' divorce?”

“Will you be living with your mother or your father?”

And then suddenly, a familiar baritone floating above the crowd. “I don't see your other daughter anywhere. Is Michelle here?”

Caroline recognized the speaker immediately: Aidan Wainwright.

The word “bastard” was forming on her lips when Hunter squeezed her hand. “Michelle is a very private person,” Hunter answered calmly. “She chose not to be here.”

“Caroline, in the past you've described your older daughter as ‘difficult,' ” the reporter pressed. “Is she unhappy about her sister's return? Is that why she isn't here?”

Another squeeze of her hand, harder than the first. “She's not unhappy,” Hunter said. “Just a little overwhelmed. As are we all.”

“On that note,” Greg Fisher said, “I think we'll call it a day.” He waved off further questions. “I would remind you again that the Shipley family has been more than cooperative and ask that you give them the privacy they need and deserve. Any further queries you have can be directed to the police or the FBI. Thank you.”

“I have something I'd like to add,” Caroline said into the microphone, staring out at the assembled crowd.

“Of course,” said Fisher, stepping back. “Please. Go ahead.”

Caroline looked directly at Aidan Wainwright, giving him her widest, most genuine smile. “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

And then the place went wild.

They arrived back at Caroline's to find at least a dozen reporters camped on the doorstep. “Way to go, Caroline,” a female photographer called out as the police tried to shoo them away, first by appealing to their sense of decency, and when that didn't work, by posting an officer outside the front door and threatening to arrest anyone who set foot on the property.

“Michelle,” Caroline called out as they stepped inside. “Michelle?”

“She's not here,” Mary said as she and Steve followed Peggy and Fletcher into the foyer.

“Fuck,” Caroline muttered.

“I think we've heard enough of that word for one day, don't you?” Hunter said, ushering everyone into the living room.

“I can't wait to see the headlines,” Mary said.

“For what it's worth,” Peggy said, “I thought Caroline was fabulous.”

They tried Michelle's cell again. It went directly to voice mail. Hunter checked his landline at home, but there was no answer there either.

“Maybe we should call Greg Fisher,” Caroline suggested.

“She probably just needs some time alone,” Hunter said. “I think we should give her a few more hours before we bring back the FBI.”

“I'll make coffee,” Peggy volunteered. “And then I'm afraid I have to get back to work.”

Caroline followed her into the kitchen. “Do you think I'm overreacting?”

“I think if anyone has a right to overreact, it's you.”

“It's ironic, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“I've spent the last fifteen years obsessing about Samantha, wondering where she was, if she was still alive, if I'd ever see her again. And now I get her back, and Michelle disappears.”

Do I have to disappear for you to love me?

“Caroline?” A small voice spoke from the doorway.

Caroline turned toward the sound. “Is this my fault?” Samantha asked. “Did Michelle go away because of me?”

“No, sweetheart. Of course not.” Was Hunter right? Did Michelle simply need more time alone, time to digest all that had happened? Or were there other, more sinister forces at work?

Caroline sank into a kitchen chair, suppressing a shudder and trying not to imagine the worst.

At five o'clock, Michelle had yet to appear. “If we haven't heard from her by six, I'm calling Greg Fisher,” Caroline told Hunter as he was heading out the front door behind his wife and kids.

“Hopefully that won't be necessary,” he said.

She watched Diana making her way down the front walk, a baby in her arms, a small boy holding tight to her hand. “She's lovely,” Caroline said, breathing in the remnants of Hunter's clean, soapy scent.

He nodded. “I've always had exceptional taste in wives.”

“Yes. You're a very smart man.” She watched a self-satisfied smile settle on his lips. “So try not to be so stupid this time.”

Hunter's smile froze, then quickly thawed. “Guess I should be happy you didn't call me an asshole.” He leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Call me when you hear from Michelle.”