Fear the Worst: A Thriller by Linwood Barclay Page B

was mail.
    A short note from Yolanda: “Hope this is her. Let me know.” There was a picture attached.
    I was afraid to open it. Up to now, I had convincedmyself that the girl she’d seen was Sydney. It had to be Sydney. I had my ticket, my bags were packed. I was going to Seattle to bring back my girl.
    But what if the picture turned out not to be her? What if this clearly was some other girl?
    The time had come to find out one way or another. I double-clicked on the attachment snapshot and it opened up before my eyes.
    I let out a whoop I was sure everyone on the street must have heard even with the windows closed.
    It was my girl.
    It was Syd.
    TEN
    N OT THAT THE PICTURE WAS PERFECT. It was no more than a fleeting shot of Syd. The background was nothing more than a beige wall and a small glass door, maybe two feet square, with the words FIRE EXTINGUISHER stenciled on it in red, the first “I” nearly worn off. The letters are more in focus than Syd, who is moving through the frame, right to left, just about to move out of the picture. She’s in profile, leaning forward into her stride, her head tilted down so her blonde hair is hanging forward. There’s not much of her face to see but the tip of her nose, and I’d know that nose anywhere.
    But it wasn’t just Syd’s nose that convinced me it was her. It was the light, summery scarf she’d wrapped fashionably about her neck. Coral in color, crinkly in texture, thin and wispy, with a fringe at the end. Her mother had bought it for her a few months ago on a shopping excursion into Manhattan.
    I had a reputation in my house as someone who wouldn’t notice if his wife or daughter walked into the room in a neon wedding gown. Different eye shadows and nail colors eluded me. But I remembered the first time I saw Sydney wearing that scarf, the smart way she’d tied it, the blazing coral contrasting with her blonde hair.
    When Syd got in the car one recent morning wearing it, I’d said, “That’s sharp.”
    And Syd had replied, “Whoa. Get your cataracts fixed?”
    The scarf, matched with the hair, the tilt of the girl’s head, the nose, left no doubt in my mind.
    I double-checked that I had everything I needed for my trip. Before grabbing my bag and heading out the door, I emailed Yolanda a brief message: “It’s her. I’ll be in Seattle this evening. See you then. Thanks so much.”
    There was one stop to make along the way. I wheeled into Riverside Honda just after ten. There were sales staff on the floor, but that early in the morning, unless it was a Saturday, was not a busy time. I saw Andy Hertz was at his desk, but instead of popping by mine, I went straight to Laura Cantrell’s office. I rapped not so lightly on the open door.
    “Hey,” I said.
    She looked up from some sales report she was reading, removed the glasses she wore for that kind of detail work, and set them on her desk. “Tim,” she said.
    “I’m taking some time off,” I said. I wasn’t asking for permission.
    The perfect eyebrows went up a quarter of an inch. “Oh?”
    “I have a lead on Syd,” I said. “I’m going to Seattle.”
    Laura pushed back her chair and stood up, took a couple of steps toward me. “You’ve found her?”
    “I know she’s been out there. She’s been seen a couple of times at a drop-in place.”
    “That must be a huge relief,” she said. “To know that she’s not…”
    “Yes,” I said. I’d learned that as bad as it was to have a daughter who was missing, it was better than having a daughter who was missing that you knew to be dead. “I’m catching a flight in three hours. I could be a couple of days, but I could be longer. I simply don’t know.”
    Laura nodded. “Take as much time as you need.”
    Was this the same Laura who threatened to give my desk to someone else if I didn’t get my sales numbers up?
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “About the other day. I gave you a hard time.” She’d