violence—don’t they worry about abusers coming after them? I heard about a shooting where the man broke into the shelter his wife was staying at, killed four women and then himself.”
“It’s the one thing Charlotte didn’t talk about. She was very serious about confidentiality, for just those reasons, to protect the women and children at the shelter. But she’s volunteered there for years; she wouldn’t have continued if it was dangerous.”
“Then what else could it be? If not something at home or work? Unless—” Her eyes grew wide. “Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t? Like a drug deal or mob hit or something? Or maybe someone was stalking her, like whoever that creep is who sent me that dress? Sneaking around so she wasn’t even certain herself, not until it was too late.”
Tommy had no answer. Those and a thousand other scenarios had been suggested and examined by him, the police, the press, Charlotte’s parents, the private investigators they’d hired, and everyone he’d ever met, it seemed. “What-ifs don’t help,” he said. “Not when there’s no evidence.”
They reached the old stone iron furnace standing at the center of the plateau. The pyramid-shaped structure had crumbled with time but still stood a good thirty feet high. On two sides, arched openings as tall as Tommy led into the central area below the chimney, where the heat would have been concentrated. A waterfall above created a stream that trickled down past the furnace before continuing down the backside of the mountain. When the furnace had been in use, the trees had been cut to burn inside it, leaving the area clear except for a few bold saplings now taking hold among the limestone.
The views were stunning. Western Pennsylvania this time of year was a glorious carpet of lush greens and golds.
But all of it was lost on Tommy. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the maple leaf with its lost dancer. Hope was dangerous. He’d learned that this past year, following false lead after false lead.
But, like any junkie, he just couldn’t help himself.
His phone rang, the sound an intrusion, shattering the tranquility of their surroundings. It was Gloria, Charlotte’s mother. She usually checked in with him around lunchtime to solidify plans for Nellie’s pickup from school.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, with none of the gentle calm she usually radiated. “The school’s been trying to call you.”
He glanced at his phone. One bar—which meant probably none while he’d been below the plateau. “What’s wrong? Did she start another fight?” Nellie’s tantrums at school had been almost as bad as her ones at home. “What did Sister Agnes say?”
“Tommy.” Anguish flooded her voice. “She’s missing. Nellie’s gone.”
Chapter 17
TOMMY TURNED IN a circle, still clutching the phone, scanning the horizon as if he’d suddenly developed superpowers and could see Nellie from the mountainside. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“No,” he gasped. “What—how—”
“We’re at the school, Peter and I. Searching the grounds with the teachers and staff. Sister Agnes is certain Nellie is still on campus, but there are so many places a small child can hide—”
“Did you call the police?”
She hesitated. “Do you want us to call the police? Sister Agnes thought we should wait. You know how Nellie’s been acting lately. Running off and hiding, sulking—”
“Sister Agnes is worried about the school’s reputation,” he snapped, starting for the trailhead then stopping when the reception grew fuzzy. He backed up a few steps to avoid losing the call. “Call the police. Now.”
He glanced up, trying to fight the garrote tightening around his throat, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. He wanted to hurl the phone, to howl at the brilliant sun overhead, to hammer his fist into the stone of the iron furnace. But instead he swallowed, forcing his
“It’s the one thing Charlotte didn’t talk about. She was very serious about confidentiality, for just those reasons, to protect the women and children at the shelter. But she’s volunteered there for years; she wouldn’t have continued if it was dangerous.”
“Then what else could it be? If not something at home or work? Unless—” Her eyes grew wide. “Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t? Like a drug deal or mob hit or something? Or maybe someone was stalking her, like whoever that creep is who sent me that dress? Sneaking around so she wasn’t even certain herself, not until it was too late.”
Tommy had no answer. Those and a thousand other scenarios had been suggested and examined by him, the police, the press, Charlotte’s parents, the private investigators they’d hired, and everyone he’d ever met, it seemed. “What-ifs don’t help,” he said. “Not when there’s no evidence.”
They reached the old stone iron furnace standing at the center of the plateau. The pyramid-shaped structure had crumbled with time but still stood a good thirty feet high. On two sides, arched openings as tall as Tommy led into the central area below the chimney, where the heat would have been concentrated. A waterfall above created a stream that trickled down past the furnace before continuing down the backside of the mountain. When the furnace had been in use, the trees had been cut to burn inside it, leaving the area clear except for a few bold saplings now taking hold among the limestone.
The views were stunning. Western Pennsylvania this time of year was a glorious carpet of lush greens and golds.
But all of it was lost on Tommy. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the maple leaf with its lost dancer. Hope was dangerous. He’d learned that this past year, following false lead after false lead.
But, like any junkie, he just couldn’t help himself.
His phone rang, the sound an intrusion, shattering the tranquility of their surroundings. It was Gloria, Charlotte’s mother. She usually checked in with him around lunchtime to solidify plans for Nellie’s pickup from school.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, with none of the gentle calm she usually radiated. “The school’s been trying to call you.”
He glanced at his phone. One bar—which meant probably none while he’d been below the plateau. “What’s wrong? Did she start another fight?” Nellie’s tantrums at school had been almost as bad as her ones at home. “What did Sister Agnes say?”
“Tommy.” Anguish flooded her voice. “She’s missing. Nellie’s gone.”
Chapter 17
TOMMY TURNED IN a circle, still clutching the phone, scanning the horizon as if he’d suddenly developed superpowers and could see Nellie from the mountainside. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“No,” he gasped. “What—how—”
“We’re at the school, Peter and I. Searching the grounds with the teachers and staff. Sister Agnes is certain Nellie is still on campus, but there are so many places a small child can hide—”
“Did you call the police?”
She hesitated. “Do you want us to call the police? Sister Agnes thought we should wait. You know how Nellie’s been acting lately. Running off and hiding, sulking—”
“Sister Agnes is worried about the school’s reputation,” he snapped, starting for the trailhead then stopping when the reception grew fuzzy. He backed up a few steps to avoid losing the call. “Call the police. Now.”
He glanced up, trying to fight the garrote tightening around his throat, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. He wanted to hurl the phone, to howl at the brilliant sun overhead, to hammer his fist into the stone of the iron furnace. But instead he swallowed, forcing his
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