woman’s hatred for her husband. It smelled like fear to Hayley. But of what? There was nothing in the police report about the husband being abusive, so why would Robin Santos be so adamant about not wanting to help them find her husband? “We need to talk to her daughters.”
As they drove away, Kitally said, “That will be easy enough.”
“How do you figure?”
“Didn’t you notice the window on the second floor?”
“Can’t say that I did.”
“How old are her daughters?”
“Fourteen and sixteen.”
“Well, one of them, probably the older one, is sneaking out her window at night. She just opens her window and grabs hold of the tree branch right outside her window. It’s got thin, white bark—you can see where she grabs it, and where she shimmies down the trunk. Little game trail through the shrubs, too. She’s a regular. All we have to do is come around here after ten o’clock on any given weeknight and wait for her to sneak out.”
As she waited for the light to turn green, Hayley looked at Kitally, really looked at her. She had the fashion sense of Heidi Klum and Lady Gaga mixed together. She talked too much. She was unethical and had absolutely no patience for laws and rules. A machete was her weapon of choice.
Kitally also had a knack for this line of work. Lizzy would be unwise not to hire her.
CHAPTER 17
Lizzy found a parking space in the hospital’s underground garage and then took the elevator to the third floor. An hour ago, someone from the hospital had called to tell her that her father was out of surgery and had asked for his daughter. Lizzy knew darn well they had called the wrong daughter, but she wanted to talk to him. Alone. She might catch hell later for not telling Cathy, but she didn’t care. She’d been thinking about her father a lot lately . . . maybe because of the whole wedding thing, she wasn’t sure. But she needed to resolve this strange disconnect between herself and her father. She needed to do it for her sake, and maybe his, too.
After watching her father sleep for forty-five minutes, Lizzy stood to stretch her legs. According to the nurse, he had been wheeled out of the recovery room about thirty minutes before she’d arrived. He was pale, but not as yellow as the last time she’d seen him.
She walked across the room to admire the flowers and cards lined up on a long shelf near the window. They were on the third floor. She could see the parking lot below.
She bent over, stretched until her fingers touched her toes. A pink envelope had fallen under her father’s hospital bed. She had to get down on her knees and scoot halfway under the bed so she could reach it. Back on her feet, she took her seat next to her father’s bed and examined the envelope. “Grandpa” was scribbled in letters obviously written by a small child. Had he saved an old card from Brittany, his only grandchild? It was hard to imagine her father having such a sentimental side.
Lizzy knew it was wrong to pry, but she didn’t care. And besides, it was pretty much her profession. She opened the envelope, then unfolded the piece of paper inside.
Scribbled in the upper right corner was a bright yellow sun. The artist had drawn the picture with pen, then used crayon to bring life to the sun, trees, and grass covering the distant hills. In the center of the picture stood a stick man and a stick child. The man was Grandpa, because the word Grandpa was scribbled close by with an arrow pointing to the man with no nose, just a very round head, two eyes, and a big smile. The kid had the identical face, just smaller, with the arrow coming from the name Emma.
Emma. Lizzy had never heard anyone in her family utter the name Emma. She examined the envelope closer. There was an address label in the upper left corner of the envelope: 202 Hickory, Portland, Oregon.
Her father’s finger twitched. Moving quickly, Lizzy pulled out her phone and took a picture of the address label and another of the
As they drove away, Kitally said, “That will be easy enough.”
“How do you figure?”
“Didn’t you notice the window on the second floor?”
“Can’t say that I did.”
“How old are her daughters?”
“Fourteen and sixteen.”
“Well, one of them, probably the older one, is sneaking out her window at night. She just opens her window and grabs hold of the tree branch right outside her window. It’s got thin, white bark—you can see where she grabs it, and where she shimmies down the trunk. Little game trail through the shrubs, too. She’s a regular. All we have to do is come around here after ten o’clock on any given weeknight and wait for her to sneak out.”
As she waited for the light to turn green, Hayley looked at Kitally, really looked at her. She had the fashion sense of Heidi Klum and Lady Gaga mixed together. She talked too much. She was unethical and had absolutely no patience for laws and rules. A machete was her weapon of choice.
Kitally also had a knack for this line of work. Lizzy would be unwise not to hire her.
CHAPTER 17
Lizzy found a parking space in the hospital’s underground garage and then took the elevator to the third floor. An hour ago, someone from the hospital had called to tell her that her father was out of surgery and had asked for his daughter. Lizzy knew darn well they had called the wrong daughter, but she wanted to talk to him. Alone. She might catch hell later for not telling Cathy, but she didn’t care. She’d been thinking about her father a lot lately . . . maybe because of the whole wedding thing, she wasn’t sure. But she needed to resolve this strange disconnect between herself and her father. She needed to do it for her sake, and maybe his, too.
After watching her father sleep for forty-five minutes, Lizzy stood to stretch her legs. According to the nurse, he had been wheeled out of the recovery room about thirty minutes before she’d arrived. He was pale, but not as yellow as the last time she’d seen him.
She walked across the room to admire the flowers and cards lined up on a long shelf near the window. They were on the third floor. She could see the parking lot below.
She bent over, stretched until her fingers touched her toes. A pink envelope had fallen under her father’s hospital bed. She had to get down on her knees and scoot halfway under the bed so she could reach it. Back on her feet, she took her seat next to her father’s bed and examined the envelope. “Grandpa” was scribbled in letters obviously written by a small child. Had he saved an old card from Brittany, his only grandchild? It was hard to imagine her father having such a sentimental side.
Lizzy knew it was wrong to pry, but she didn’t care. And besides, it was pretty much her profession. She opened the envelope, then unfolded the piece of paper inside.
Scribbled in the upper right corner was a bright yellow sun. The artist had drawn the picture with pen, then used crayon to bring life to the sun, trees, and grass covering the distant hills. In the center of the picture stood a stick man and a stick child. The man was Grandpa, because the word Grandpa was scribbled close by with an arrow pointing to the man with no nose, just a very round head, two eyes, and a big smile. The kid had the identical face, just smaller, with the arrow coming from the name Emma.
Emma. Lizzy had never heard anyone in her family utter the name Emma. She examined the envelope closer. There was an address label in the upper left corner of the envelope: 202 Hickory, Portland, Oregon.
Her father’s finger twitched. Moving quickly, Lizzy pulled out her phone and took a picture of the address label and another of the
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