whisper she murmured a thank-you.
Anne wondered if this was what Leah looked like behind the wall she had built around herself—terrified, eaten raw by the acid of grief and guilt and uncertainty. She suspected so, and a part of her wanted to broach the subject with Lauren, but Lauren seemed so fragile . . . She would tread as carefully as possible.
“That offer goes for Leah as well,” she said. “The two of you are in the same boat. You’re both dealing with the same situation, and you both have to feel like you’re drowning in your emotions. One of you can’t turn to the other, but both of you need to be able to turn to someone. You need a place you can open the pressure valve and get some relief—so does Leah.”
Anne could see the mom alarms going off in Lauren’s head.
“You said Leah was fine last night,” Lauren said. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, really,” Anne said, cursing herself.
“Did she say something?”
“No. I’m just concerned because I know girls her age tend to go one way or the other. They’re either drama queens or they’re afraid to show anyone anything they’re really feeling. Leah falls into the second group, and the feelings she’s holding in have to be huge,” she said. “Keeping that all trapped and bottled up can be toxic.”
To say nothing of dangerous—and she said nothing of the dangers. She didn’t say that girls wound as tightly as Leah had a risk of turning to self-destructive behaviors—everything from alcohol and eating disorders to cutting and suicide. She hadn’t seen any evidence, but the threat was there, lying under Leah’s very controlled surface. Her mother needed to be aware.
“I know I’m not exactly Mother of the Year material,” Lauren began.
“I didn’t say that,” Anne said. “I’m sure you’re a great mom; otherwise Leah wouldn’t be the sweet girl she is. And I’m sure you love her very much. I’m saying when one blind person is leading another they aren’t going to get where they want to go without banging into some walls. Let someone who can see do the steering.”
She watched Lauren carefully, hoping she hadn’t pushed too hard.
She plucked a muffin from the basket on the coffee table and tossed it to Lauren like a ball, surprising her out of her tormented thoughts.
“I’m not letting you out of here until you eat that.”
Lauren looked at the muffin like it was something to dread, but dutifully broke off a little piece of the top and put it in her mouth.
“So what did you do with your evening to yourself?” Anne asked. “I hope you had a chance to relax, soak in the tub, read a book, have a nice glass of wine. That’s what I would like to do, but being the mother of a toddler, I need to relax vicariously through other people.”
“Yeah, that was pretty much it,” Lauren said, still staring at the muffin.
“One night next week,” Anne said, “you and Leah are going to come for dinner. And I’ll tell you right now, I won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even think of trying to weasel out of it. Remember: I can always have a deputy pick you up and bring you,” she said teasingly.
Lauren didn’t look convinced, but Anne had made up her mind. She was going to be a friend to this woman whether she thought she wanted one or not. Anne was becoming convinced that two lives could hang in the balance.
25
Roland Ballencoa did indeed have electricity.
He was living at 537 Coronado Boulevard.
Mendez hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He felt like he’d just found a big fat poisonous snake living under the cushions of his sofa. A predator had slithered into his town and taken up residence with no one the wiser. If not for Lauren Lawton, Ballencoa could have lived there for who knew how long, establishing his territory, settling into his routine . . .
He got up from his chair and started shrugging into his sport coat, drawing a look from his partner.
“Got him,” Mendez said.
“Where?”
“Five thirty-seven Coronado. A target-rich environment. Three blocks from the high school in one direction. Seven blocks from McAster College in the other direction. Hot and cold running coeds all year round.”
And maybe half a mile from his own house. Mendez knew the neighborhood well. He jogged up and down those streets routinely.
“Oh, man . . .” Hicks muttered, rising from his chair. “That’s like turning on the kitchen light in the middle of night and finding a rat in the middle of the floor.”
“Only we can’t just shoot it and throw a rug over the hole,” Mendez said as they headed for the side entrance and the parking lot.
Mendez got behind the wheel. He was feeling aggressive now, protective of his city and, if he had to admit it, of Lauren Lawton too. Not for any romantic reason, but because he felt responsible for her—as he felt responsible for anyone else who might come to him for help.
He took the oath “To Protect and Serve” seriously. Maybe a little more seriously where women were involved, but that was how it was supposed to be—at least in his mind, and in his family culture, and in his Marine culture. The man protected the woman. Period.
Ballencoa’s house was on a corner lot, an unassuming bungalow with a detached one-car garage and a similar building at the back of the property on the alley. The yard was neat, and yet the place had a strange feeling of vacancy about it.
There was no car in the driveway. There were no potted plants on the steps, no bicycle parked on the front porch. The shades were drawn. Not unlike the house in San Luis Obispo, there was nothing to suggest anything about the inhabitant, if there was one. Mendez half expected to peek in a window and be struck by the same still emptiness he had felt there.
Hicks rang the doorbell, and they waited.
“How would you like to be a neighbor and find out this guy had moved in next door?” Hicks asked.
“Or worse,” Mendez said, “not know this guy had moved in next door.”
Of course Ballencoa’s neighbors didn’t know who had moved in next to them. His one conviction had been pled down to nothing, and it was so long ago, no one kept tabs on him. And, as convinced as Lauren or Danni Tanner or anyone else might have been of his complicity in the disappearance of Leslie Lawton, the man had never been charged with anything. By strict letter of the law, there was nothing to warn the neighbors about.
Hicks rang the bell again, and they waited.
Finally the door opened and they had their first look at Roland Ballencoa. Mid-thirties, olive skin, large dark eyes with heavy lids. His brown hair was straight, shoulder-length, clean, and parted down the middle. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He looked a little like John Lennon, Mendez thought, or, as Danni Tanner had said, like an extra in one of those life-of-Christ movies.
Mendez held up his ID. “Mr. Ballencoa. You’re a hard man to track down.”
“And why would you need to track me down, detective?” Ballencoa asked without emotion.
“May we come in, Mr. Ballencoa?” Hicks asked. “We have a few questions for you.”
“Or maybe you don’t mind if your neighbors see a couple of sheriff’s detectives on your front porch,” Mendez said.
“No, you may not come in,” Ballencoa said. “I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s no reason for you to come into my home.”
He was dead calm. He wasn’t going to be the kind who got nervous and overly solicitous in his attempt to make them believe he was a good citizen. Nor was he going to let them bluff their way in.
Mendez cut to the chase. “Can you tell us where you were last night between nine thirty and two this
