“You think she was kidnapped? Mom, Megan’s a grown woman.”
“Don’t you read the papers or see that information on Facebook? People, women, not just kids, are taken all the time. They—the kidnappers—they pretend to be stranded, and you stop, or they ram you from behind and you get out to do the insurance work and bam! They force you back into your car at gunpoint and drive you to some remote place. That’s why they haven’t found Megan’s car!”
“She wasn’t kidnapped.”
“You don’t know that!”
No, Rebecca thought, no, she didn’t.
“It’s so frustrating,” Lenora was saying. “I’ve left messages with that detective—oh, what’s his name? Rivers, that’s it. But after an initial conversation, he hasn’t called me back.”
Rebecca thought about Brett Rivers, how she’d found him in Megan’s apartment, where he’d been standing in the dark, all alone, as if he were in some kind of trance or something, his mind light-years away. And the way he’d studied her when she was giving her statement at the sheriff ’s department. Weird dude. “He’s probably just busy.”
“He told me he’d keep me posted, but I don’t know if he will. He’s just as likely to call your father, and you know how that will go.” Lenora’s voice turned acrid and sharp, as it always did when she mentioned her ex. “Donald and that wife of his would like nothing more than to keep me in the dark—”
“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” Rebecca cut in, hoping to forestall another hate-filled diatribe about Donald Travers. She had her own daddy issues and didn’t want to go there. “Promise.”
“Well . . .” she said, half-mollified for the moment, “I just want to be kept in the loop, Becky.” No one but Mom called her that. And Rebecca hated it. “You’re up there, and I can’t get away right now, and . . . I’m just so worried about Megan.” Her voice cracked. “Ever since she was a child, she was so emotional, so overly dramatic, so . . . well, so . . . ‘Megan,’ that’s what I used to say about her. All her life, she’s pulled these incredible stunts.”
“You think she’s doing this on purpose?” Rebecca asked, astounded that her mother had that much insight into her wayward younger daughter, even more astounded that Lenora would voice it.
“Oh, no . . . I mean, I don’t know, but I’m just worried sick, and if I could get away I’d be up there in an instant. You know that. But I’ve just got so much going on with the holidays and all. I’m one of the hostesses of the holiday ball and bingo championship, and then I’m in charge, I mean, I’m the head coordinator for the Valentine’s banquet; it’s for charity, a local soup kitchen, and we’re already collecting donations, and there’s a problem with the caterer and . . .” Lenora choked back a sob. “I’m just so worried.”
“I’ll let you know anything I learn,” she said. “Look, Mom, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later.” And she hung up on the lie, tossed her phone back on the bed. She had no interest in her job whatsoever, and as she glanced to where she’d left her laptop and saw that it was open to the website for A Vision in White, she turned her attention back to the street, where she saw, in a flash of blond hair, Sophia Russo pushing her way into the coffee shop across the street.
Her heart lurched.
She hadn’t yet met the woman; she’d only seen digital pictures of Sophia that Megan had sent to her phone days before she’d vanished. God, had that only been about a week ago? It seemed a lifetime. Since landing in Riggs Crossing, Rebecca had spied Sophia in the small town twice: once, wrapped in a long coat and fuzzy hat when Sophia had been hurrying out of a strip mall that housed a bakery, a convenience store, a gun shop, and a consignment store that sold “gently used” items; a second time, when Rebecca had been idling at a light and Sophia, in the crosswalk, had walked to her parked car on the next block. That time, Rebecca had watched as Sophia slipped into her gray vehicle and would’ve lingered longer at the light except that the driver of the pickup idling behind her gave a sharp, angry beep of his horn, forcing her to hit the gas and gun through the intersection. She’d experienced the unlikely urge to follow the blonde that day, because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, Sophia held a fascination for her. She’d quickly circled the block, and upon spying Sophia’s Ford disappearing around a corner going the opposite direction, Rebecca had done a quick U-turn and had tailed the gray car down to Aspen Street and the Cascadia Apartments, a nondescript two-storied cinderblock building. Once parked, Sophia had climbed out of her car, keys in one gloved hand, and had walked in knee-high boots to her end unit. As if she’d sensed she was being watched, Sophia had looked over her shoulder before unlocking the door, her gaze fastening on Rebecca for a heart-stopping instant just as Rebecca had driven past.
Sophia hadn’t shown any surprise when their gazes collided, and Rebecca would have sworn later that the blonde had actually shown the hint of a smile, almost as if she’d expected Rebecca to follow her.
But that was crazy, wasn’t it? At the very least, paranoid.
Rebecca turned away from the window and focused on the open page on her computer, but couldn’t find the energy right now to care about weddings or brides or anything to do with romance and happiness and sunny futures. She snapped the laptop closed and returned to the window. Her stomach rumbled, and she eyed the restaurant situated catty-corner at the next block. She should just get going, leave this tiny town and head back to Seattle, but at the thought
