“Headache?” Ryan’s voice had taken on an edge.
“I suffer from migraines, myself,” I jumped in. “I know how you’re feeling. Please send Chantale down, then go back to bed.”
“No, thank you.”
The response made no sense. I took a close look. Mrs. Specter’s pupils were the size of cocktail tumblers. The ambassador’s wife had knocked back some serious painkillers.
“Is Mr. Specter—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand.
“Is your husband here, Mrs. Specter?”
“Here?”
“Is Mr. Specter in the house?”
“There’s no one here.”
“No one?”
Mrs. Specter shook her head, realized her mistake.
“Except Chantale.”
Ryan and I exchanged glances.
“Where is she, ma’am?” I asked, placing a hand on hers.
“What?”
“Chantale has taken off, hasn’t she?”
She dropped her head, nodded once.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No.” The foyer chandelier highlighted the tendrils obscuring her face.
“Has she contacted you?”
“No.” Without looking up.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.” Her voice sounded a million miles away.
“Mrs. Specter?” I urged.
She raised her head, looked past us at the hedge.
“Chantale is out there with people who will hurt her. And she’s angry. She’s so very, very angry.”
She drew a tremulous breath, looked from the cedars to me.
“Her father and I did this to her. My affair. His vengeful little games. How could we think this would not affect our daughter? I would do everything so very differently.”
“No parent is perfect, ma’am.”
“Few parents drive their children to drugs.”
Hard to argue that.
“Is there anything you can think of that might help us locate your daughter?”
“What?”
I repeated my question.
Mrs. Specter searched the parts of her brain that remained functional.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“May we see her room?” Ryan asked.
She gave a half nod, turned, and led us up a carved wooden staircase to a second-floor hallway.
“Chantale’s bedroom is the first on the left. I must lie down.”
“We’ll let ourselves out,” I said.
The room was dark, but hundreds of tiny points glowed on the ceiling above Chantale’s bed. I recognized them instantly. Nature Company Glow in the Dark Stars. The year Katy was fourteen we’d purchased a kit and spent an afternoon creating a stellar display. Later, she added the Solar System. Katy spent hours gazing up from her bed, dreaming of faraway worlds.
I wondered if mother or daughter had decorated Chantale’s ceiling.
The stars disappeared when Ryan flipped on the light.
The room was done in yellow gingham and white eyelet. The four-poster was heaped with dolls and lacy pillows. A stuffed orangutan hung over the footboard, eyes glassy and blank. More dolls and animals lined the window seats and filled a Boston rocker.
One nightstand held a portable phone, the other a Bose clock radio and CD player. The painted armoire across
