“Therefore. .?”
“You believe this was your daughter who was seen in this club, right?”
“I do.”
He nodded. “Did the behavior described match what you think you know of Caitlin?”
“She was twelve when she disappeared. Twelve. And that man”-I tapped the paper-“
Ryan took a deep breath. “Four years have passed, Tom.”
“I know that.”
“Leaving aside the very remote chance that this is going to lead to anything positive-”
“Ryan-”
“Now, hold on,” he said. “Let’s play a little of the believing game here. Say this sketch
“Will this be in the news tomorrow?” I asked, holding out the sketch.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
“Ryan, will this run tomorrow?”
He looked around at the boxes again. “Tom, have you and Abby been seeking counseling of some kind? Help? It’s none of my business, of course, but this sort of thing places an enormous strain on a marriage. And on an individual. If you wanted, I could refer you to some of the resources we have available through the department.”
“You offered me that four years ago,” I said. “And every year since. And I appreciate it greatly, but I’m not interested.”
“We have a program-it’s funded by the state-where volunteers, private citizens, meet with and assist families affected by tragedy. Did I mention this to you? It’s relatively new, and it’s called Volunteer Victim Services. These people are trained, of course, but some feel it’s less pressurized than conventional therapy. It’s not as structured and it’s even more comforting in a way. Professionals sometimes get constricted by their roles.”
“Ryan-”
“You could certainly choose to seek help through more conventional channels,” he said. “There are a number of good therapists and counselors in New Cambridge. Even at the university-”
“There’s only one thing I want and need. And you know what it is.” I held the paper out in front of me. “Will this be in the paper tomorrow?”
“It will,” he said. “We’ll go public with it tomorrow. I’ll call you and let you know the details.”
Chapter Eleven
Something woke me that night, thumping. I fell asleep in the guest room earlier than usual, after flipping on the porch light and making sure the house key still remained in its hiding spot. After hearing Tracy’s story and seeing the sketch, the ritual seemed more urgent, more essential.
But Abby’s words had struck a nerve:
Abby was gone already, sleeping at the church. Whenever she came to the house to collect more belongings, we were cordially, distantly polite to each other, and I didn’t allow the sight of her to make me think she might have reconsidered her decision to leave.
I came awake disoriented. I checked the clock on the bedside table: 10:01. Not that late. My heart rate was up, my shirt a little damp. I’d been dreaming. Not a coherent narrative, but a series of disjointed and haunting images, a parade of all my fears.
I heard the thumping again.
I lowered my feet to the cold floor. My mind started to catch up, shaking off the dream images and focusing on the real. Someone was in the house. Downstairs.
I jumped up, started out of the room. I made no effort to soften my steps. Whoever-whatever-was downstairs would hear me coming and know I knew they were there. I didn’t care. I bounded down the stairs, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts. At the bottom I called out into the house:
“Caitlin? Is that you?”
Light came from both the kitchen and the living room. I turned left, toward the front of the house.
“Caitlin?”
I entered the room. Someone was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look up when I came in, but kept her eyes fixed on the paper in her hand.
Some of the boxes were moved. More were packed.
And she held the sketch.
She stared at it, oblivious to my appearance. I didn’t speak, even though I wanted to ask why she was showing up so late. Did she want to scare the crap out of me? But I left her alone to absorb the face on the paper.
While I stood there and grew colder, Abby raised her free hand and slowly, almost gently traced the outline of the man’s face. It looked like she was trying to get a reading from it, absorb some psychic emanations. Finally, she put the sketch facedown on the table and leaned back against the couch cushions.
“Is that him?” she asked.
“It might be.”
“Ryan called me on my cell phone. He told me about the sketch being released. He said he didn’t know if we’d be talking.”
“He came by.”
“Did you tell him I’m moving out?”
I gestured toward the boxes. “He’s a detective. I think he figured it out on his own.” I entered the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch from her.
“I must have woken you up,” she said. “You said Caitlin’s name on the stairs. You used to do that all the time, back then. Do you remember?”
“I do.”
“I used to think I didn’t care as much as you because I didn’t dream about Caitlin or mutter her name in my sleep. I thought I should have been doing that too.”
“They’re just dreams. They’re not a measure of your love for her.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” She smiled a little. “You were right about something. I have. . blamed you for Caitlin’s disappearance at times. I guess it was just easier than blaming some stranger, some unknown entity. I’m working on these things with Chris. We’re trying to move on from all the things in the past and trying to get to a more positive place. Emotionally.”
“How neat and tidy.”
“Ryan told me he has doubts about the sketch and about the witness. He said if it was up to him he wouldn’t go forward with it. I told him to go ahead and do whatever you wanted to do. I think this is important for you, Tom. Important for your process of moving on. You need to know that everything that could be done has been done.”
“And you don’t need that?”
“We’re in different places in many ways,” she said. “It’s strange, though. When Ryan called and told me about the sketch, I wanted to see it. Right away I did. I told him I didn’t care to, but I really did. That’s why I’m here tonight. I told myself I was getting more stuff.”
