Exposure

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.

Finally she rolled over and lay still, spent. Her eyes fixed upon the far wall, unseeing.

Something shifted inside her.

At the center of her soul where hope used to live, a black dot appeared. It grew bigger. Deeper. Eating toward the outside. The hope that had guided Lorraine’s life began to crumble into the pit and disappear. In her mind’s eye she could see the pieces breaking off the edge like shale, falling, falling until the darkness swallowed them up. Until nothing was left but a bare, unstable rim.

From the bottom of that black hole she felt the throb of a new suffocating spirit.

Fear.

For a long time Lorraine couldn’t move. When she pushed to her feet, exhausted and shell-shocked, she found herself wandering the room aimlessly. At some point she turned on the TV, keeping the volume low, and flipped through channels, searching for local news.

“. . . this morning . . .” A blonde female reporter stood between the two AC Storage buildings. Behind her, yellow crime-scene tape stretched in front of Lorraine’s apartment. Someone in street clothes ducked beneath the tape and entered the front door. Lorraine’s fingers curled into her palms. That was her and Martin’s home. Tammy’s home. How dare strangers so casually walk in and out.

A strand of hair blew onto the reporter’s cheek. She brushed it away. Such a normal motion. How could she act so calm on this terrible, deathly day?

“. . . In a strange twist, we’ve learned that the victim, Martin Giordano, was an assistant manager at Atlantic City Trust Bank, which was robbed last night of a record seven million dollars. Police investigating the two cases aren’t talking, but one source within the department did say there is conjecture of a connection. Did the four robbers come to believe Giordano recognized one or more of them? Or is this just an unfortunate and tragic coincidence?”

Lorraine blinked at the TV, her dulled brain trying to sort through the words. At least the “connection” the police wondered about didn’t include Martin’s involvement in the crime. Or if it did, they weren’t saying it.

Martin had said nothing to her last night about recognizing one of the robbers. That couldn’t be it.

“If he finds you here we’re going to lose a lot of money.”

Had Martin helped those robbers? But if so and they didn’t trust him, her question to Detective Tuckney remained. Why didn’t they shoot him before they left the bank?

“. . . questioned by the police,” the reporter continued. “Meanwhile the victim’s wife and daughter are at an undisclosed location for at least tonight.”

Lorraine stared at the screen. They knew that already? That she and Tammy weren’t going home tonight?

The news switched to another topic. Bitterness rose in Lorraine. That’s all the time her wonderful husband deserved? Two lousy minutes?

She sank onto the edge of the bed. A phrase from the story echoed through her mind. One source within the department . . . One source within the department . . .

Lorraine sat up straighter. Reporters had sources on the police force. Why couldn’t the Mafia?

She thought about it. They did. Of course they did. With everything the Mafia controlled, surely they paid dirty