But then, half a beat later, he dismissed that conclusion: While Sandy may have been ambivalent about marriage, she was not ambivalent about Ree. Meaning if Sandy had left the house willingly, she would’ve taken Ree, and at the very least, grabbed her own purse. The absence of such steps led to a different conclusion: Sandy had not left willingly. Something bad had happened, here, inside Jason’s own home, while his daughter had slept upstairs. And he had no idea what.
Jason was a reserved man. He acknowledged that. He preferred logic to emotion, fact to supposition. It was one of the reasons he made a good reporter. He was excellent at sifting through vast pools of data and coming up with the perfect nugget of information that brought everything together. He did not get bogged down with outrage or shock or grief. He did not suffer any preconceived notions about Boston’s citizens or humanity in general.
Jason believed at all times that the worst could happen. That was a fact of life. And so, he armed himself with many other facts, perhaps believing, rather foolishly, that if he knew enough, this time he could be secure. His family would not suffer. His daughter would grow up safe and sound.
Except here he was, confronted by several great big unknowns, and he could feel his control already beginning to unravel.
The police had been gone for nearly six hours now, just the lone officer sitting in the car outside the house, switched out once, around five o’clock. Jason had thought having the police in his home all morning had been long and painful. He now realized their absence was far worse. What were the detectives doing? What was Sergeant D. D. Warren thinking? Had she taken the bait regarding his sex offender neighbor, or was he still considered the prize catch?
Did they have a warrant yet for the computer? Could they kick him out of the house, force him down to the station? Exactly what kind of evidence did they need?
Worse yet, if they arrested him, what would happen to Ree?
Jason walked around the coffee table again and again, hard tight circles that made him dizzy and still he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have local family, didn’t have close friends. Would the police contact Sandy’s father, ship Ree to Georgia, or invite Max up here?
And if Max came up here, exactly how much might Max say or do?
Jason needed a strategy, some kind of contingency plan.
Because the longer Sandy remained missing, the worse this was going to get. The police would keep digging, asking harder questions. And inevitably, the word would leak out, the media would descend. Jason’s own peers would turn on him like cannibals, beaming his image all over the free world. Jason Jones, husband of the missing woman and person of interest in an ongoing investigation.
Sooner or later, someone was going to recognize that image. Someone was going to start to connect dots.
Especially if the police got their hands on his computer.
Jason careened around the table too fast, catching his knee on the corner of the washing machine. The pain lanced up his thigh and finally forced him to stop. For an instant, the world spun, so he clung to the top of the washer, breathless with pain.
When he could finally focus again, the first thing he noticed was the spider, the tiny little brown garden spider hanging right in front of him by a thread.
Jason jumped back, clipping the edge of the beat-up table with his shin and nearly yelping from the pain. But that was okay. He could take the pain. He didn’t mind the pain, just so long as he didn’t see that spider again.
And for a moment, it was too much. For a moment, one tiny little cellar spider had him spinning back to a place where it was always dark except for the eyes that glowed from the dozens of terrariums edging the room. A place where screams started in the basement and worked their way up through the walls. A place that smelled routinely of death and decay and no amount of ammonia was ever going to make a difference.
A place little boys and big girls went to die.
Jason placed a fist in his mouth. He bit his own knuckle until he tasted blood and he used that pain to ground himself again.
“I will not lose control,” he murmured. “I will not lose control, I will not lose control, I will not lose control.”
The phone rang upstairs. He gratefully left the basement and went to answer it.
The caller was Phil Stewart, the principal from Sandy’s school, and he sounded uncharacteristically flummoxed.
“Is Sandra there?” Phil started.
“She’s not available,” Jason said automatically. “May I take a message?”
There was a long pause. “Jason?”
“Yes.”
“Is she home? I mean, have the police located her yet?”
So the police had interviewed people where Sandra worked. Of course they had. That was a logical next step. After checking here, they might as well check there. Of course. Jason needed something intelligent to say. A statement of fact, a party line that summed up the current state of affairs without delving into personal territory.
He couldn’t think of a single damn word.
“Jason?”
Jason cleared his throat, glanced at the clock. It was 7:05 P.M., meaning Sandy had now been gone for what, eighteen, twenty hours? Day one nearly done, day two nearly beginning. “Umm… she’s… she’s… she’s not home, Phil.”
“She’s still missing,” the principal stated.
“Yes.”
“Do you have any ideas? Do the police have a lead? What’s going on, Jason?”
“I went to work last night,” Jason said simply. “When I came home, she was gone.”
“Oh my God,” Phil expelled as a long sigh. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“No.”
“Do you think she’s coming home? I mean, maybe she just needed to take a break or something.” This was delving into personal territory, and Jason could practically hear Phil’s blush over the phone lines.
“Maybe,” Jason said quietly.
“Well.” Phil seemed to pull himself together. “Sounds like I should arrange a sub for tomorrow.”
“I would think so.”
“Will the search begin in the morning? I imagine much of the staff would like to assist. Probably some parents of the students, as well. Of course you’ll need help distributing flyers, canvassing neighborhoods, that sort of thing. Who will be leading the charge?”
Jason faltered again, feeling the edge of panic. He caught it this time, stiffened his backbone, forced himself to sound firm. “I will get that information to you.”
“We’ll need to think of what to tell the children,” Phil stated, “preferably before they catch it on the news. Perhaps a public statement for the parents, as well. Nothing like this has happened around here before. We need to start preparing the kids.”
“I will get that information to you,” Jason repeated.
“How is Clarissa holding up?” Phil asked abruptly.
“About as well as can be expected.”
“If you need any help on that front, just let us know. I’m sure some of the teachers would be happy to assist. These things can all be managed, of course. All it takes is a plan.”
“Absolutely,” Jason assured him. “All it takes is a plan.”
CHAPTER NINE
At 5:59 P.M. Sergeant D.D. Warren was a happy camper. She had a warrant to search Jason Jones’s truck. She had an appointment with a registered sex offender’s parole officer. And better yet, it was trash night in the
