clothes, put on a terry robe, and he didn't know what else underneath. She was sniffling and muttering to herself as she entered the kitchen, but she stopped short when she saw him.
Blinking, she said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I told you I wasn't going anywhere, Red. What, you didn't believe me?" As he spoke, he shoved the papers back into the envelope. But one sheet fell free, and fluttered to the floor, face up. It was a grainy photocopy of the missing child poster that had been plastered all over Syracuse after the abduction of little Ivy Newman— Holly's kid sister. The little girl depicted on it had been cute as hell. Chubby cheeks, and dimples. Holly stared down at it and went utterly still.
"Where did you get that?"
He picked it up, but her eyes remained riveted to the poster until he'd tucked it into the envelope, out of her sight. Then she came closer, yanked the envelope from his hand, and looked at the name scrawled across the front. Lifting her gaze to his, she looked angry and betrayed. "You had to go digging, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry, Holly. Yes. I had to."
"Why? My God, why?" She dropped the envelope onto the table as if it were dirty. "You have no idea how difficult it's been for my mother and me to put this behind us."
"If you think you've put it behind you, you'd better go take a look in the mirror. This thing is eating you alive."
She turned her back to him. "It wasn't. Not until you showed up."
He sighed and got to his feet. Walking closer to her, he touched her shoulders. "I need your help, Holly."
She sniffed. "You're not here on vacation," she accused.
"No. I'm not. I'm here because of two kids who were abducted not long ago. Bobby and Kara Prague."
Her body went still as a statue under his hands before she moved away and fixed her eyes on his face. "Killed?" Her voice had gone flat. Toneless. Lifeless.
He did not want to answer that. But she probed his eyes with hers, and then she seemed to know. "So was my sister," she said in that same voice. "And what about the book? What does that have to do with any of this?"
"I found it. In the same house where I found ... Bobby and Kara."
"I see."
"It came from the Dilmun Library. I thought there might be a connection. That's why I came out here."
She shook her head slowly. "There's not."
"There has to be. Look, I know you don't want to talk about this, but honestly, can it get any worse by trying? You're having panic attacks, flashbacks—Jesus, Red, keeping it to yourself sure as hell hasn't been a big success so far, has it?"
She only stared at him, so he drew her to a chair, set her down, and poured her some coffee. "Talk to me," he said. "It can't possibly make you feel any worse."
"It won't do any good. It's a coincidence, that's all."
"What is?"
"The book. That it's the same book my sister was carrying when—"
"When what, Holly?" Reaching across the table he gripped her hands.
"You already know. You read your precious file."
He shook his head. "That file is full of dry facts. Dates and times. Cops are trained to be objective and uninvolved. I want to hear it the way you remember it."
The remaining color seemed to drain from her face.
"Come on. Come on. Tell me," he urged.
She closed her eyes. "Don't ask me to do this."
"You can help me save some little kid's life, Red. Now you know damn well you can't say no to that. So, can we skip ahead here and get on with it already?"
She opened her eyes, glared at him. "You're cruel."
'Talk to me."
She drew a deep breath, fixed her gaze on her hands where they lay flat on the table. "We were walking home from school. I decided to take the long way home. I knew better. It was my fault"
"That's bull."
She held up a hand. "If you want to hear this, don't interrupt Vince. If I stop I may not be able to start again."
"Sorry," he said. "Go on."
She lifted her head, stared past him at some distant space, and gave him the story in short, clipped sentences with no elaboration.
Blinking, she said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I told you I wasn't going anywhere, Red. What, you didn't believe me?" As he spoke, he shoved the papers back into the envelope. But one sheet fell free, and fluttered to the floor, face up. It was a grainy photocopy of the missing child poster that had been plastered all over Syracuse after the abduction of little Ivy Newman— Holly's kid sister. The little girl depicted on it had been cute as hell. Chubby cheeks, and dimples. Holly stared down at it and went utterly still.
"Where did you get that?"
He picked it up, but her eyes remained riveted to the poster until he'd tucked it into the envelope, out of her sight. Then she came closer, yanked the envelope from his hand, and looked at the name scrawled across the front. Lifting her gaze to his, she looked angry and betrayed. "You had to go digging, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry, Holly. Yes. I had to."
"Why? My God, why?" She dropped the envelope onto the table as if it were dirty. "You have no idea how difficult it's been for my mother and me to put this behind us."
"If you think you've put it behind you, you'd better go take a look in the mirror. This thing is eating you alive."
She turned her back to him. "It wasn't. Not until you showed up."
He sighed and got to his feet. Walking closer to her, he touched her shoulders. "I need your help, Holly."
She sniffed. "You're not here on vacation," she accused.
"No. I'm not. I'm here because of two kids who were abducted not long ago. Bobby and Kara Prague."
Her body went still as a statue under his hands before she moved away and fixed her eyes on his face. "Killed?" Her voice had gone flat. Toneless. Lifeless.
He did not want to answer that. But she probed his eyes with hers, and then she seemed to know. "So was my sister," she said in that same voice. "And what about the book? What does that have to do with any of this?"
"I found it. In the same house where I found ... Bobby and Kara."
"I see."
"It came from the Dilmun Library. I thought there might be a connection. That's why I came out here."
She shook her head slowly. "There's not."
"There has to be. Look, I know you don't want to talk about this, but honestly, can it get any worse by trying? You're having panic attacks, flashbacks—Jesus, Red, keeping it to yourself sure as hell hasn't been a big success so far, has it?"
She only stared at him, so he drew her to a chair, set her down, and poured her some coffee. "Talk to me," he said. "It can't possibly make you feel any worse."
"It won't do any good. It's a coincidence, that's all."
"What is?"
"The book. That it's the same book my sister was carrying when—"
"When what, Holly?" Reaching across the table he gripped her hands.
"You already know. You read your precious file."
He shook his head. "That file is full of dry facts. Dates and times. Cops are trained to be objective and uninvolved. I want to hear it the way you remember it."
The remaining color seemed to drain from her face.
"Come on. Come on. Tell me," he urged.
She closed her eyes. "Don't ask me to do this."
"You can help me save some little kid's life, Red. Now you know damn well you can't say no to that. So, can we skip ahead here and get on with it already?"
She opened her eyes, glared at him. "You're cruel."
'Talk to me."
She drew a deep breath, fixed her gaze on her hands where they lay flat on the table. "We were walking home from school. I decided to take the long way home. I knew better. It was my fault"
"That's bull."
She held up a hand. "If you want to hear this, don't interrupt Vince. If I stop I may not be able to start again."
"Sorry," he said. "Go on."
She lifted her head, stared past him at some distant space, and gave him the story in short, clipped sentences with no elaboration.
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