Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(3)

2


THAT’S the house,” Ronnie said. They were hunkered in their rumbling, rust-spotted Chevy Malibu on Kenwood Parkway, one of the fanciest addresses in Minneapolis. Enormous homes of red brick and yellow sandstone, most of which dated back to the days of the timber and lumber barons, sprawled out around them. Bright lights glowed in lead pane windows and afforded them small peeks at wood-paneled libraries, lush living rooms, and dining rooms lit by crystal chandeliers.

“Shit,” Marjorie said, clearly impressed. “This is big time.” By big time, she meant big money. She wasn’t easily roused from her normally angry, turgid state, but this kind of wealth was a whole new ballgame. Gave her a little tingle right there in the pit of her stomach.

Compared to these people, the rich *s who actually lived in these mansions, Marjorie knew that she and Ronnie looked like refugees. Just like those poor, sad people you saw in old black-and-white newsreels clumping down the gangplank from some tramp steamer. People who were at the back of the line, who would always be kept at the back of the line.

“You want me to go take a closer look?” Ronnie asked. He was slumped in the passenger side, eating cold French fries and dripping ketchup on his yellow sweatshirt.

“Don’t be a dummy,” Marjorie snarled. “We gotta wait.” Her eyes squinted greedily at the twinkling lights that filtered through the panes of glass like some kind of picture-perfect postcard. Marjorie could imagine sterling flatware being laid out just so on pristine white linen. A cook, or a housekeeper at the very least, puttering around a warm kitchen, where pots steamed and bubbled. A sophisticated, elegant couple sitting down at their dining room table. Maybe being served soup from a tureen. Whatever the hell a tureen was.

An hour later, the numbing cold was getting to them. Marjorie shifted uncomfortably, pulled her thumb out of her mitten’s thumb spot, and nestled it with the rest of her fingers. Their breath had created a thin skim of ice on the inside of the car windows.

“Maybe they ain’t going out,” Ronnie said. He was starting to get bored and his voice had taken on a whiny tone.

“It’s Saturday night,” Marjorie said. “Rich people go out Saturday night. That’s what they do.”

Periscoping her head up, Marjorie scratched off a small patch of ice with a ragged fingernail and pressed a watchful eye to the cold glass. Upstairs, on the second floor of the Dardens’ grand home, a light winked off.

“Say now,” she said to Ronnie.

Ten minutes later, Susan Darden and her husband came waltzing out the front door. Susan was bundled in a sleek black mink coat that was so long, it grazed the sidewalk as she walked. Her long blond hair was pulled snugly into a low chignon, the better to show off the size and sparkle of her diamond earrings. Her husband, tall, and radiating businessman confidence, had his arm circled protectively around Susan’s waist. Halfway down the walk, he leaned down and whispered something to her, causing her to throw back her head and laugh. Marjorie imagined she could hear Susan’s high, tinkling notes hanging like icicles in the frozen night. Then Mr. and Mrs. Darden climbed into a sleek jet-black Volvo and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Marjorie sat there for a few minutes. She just knew they were off to someplace fancy, an expensive restaurant or a party where people would eat crab puffs and drink French wine. Then she pulled her thoughts away from the Dardens and turned inward, thinking, mulling over their next move. As she mumbled to herself, neon dollars signs seemed to glow with an urgent, bright intensity right before her eyes. Then a wolfish smile crept across her face and she cranked her head toward Ronnie. “Let’s go,” she whispered.


*

ASHLEY Copeland stared silently around the empty house. It was blessedly quiet now that the Dardens had finally taken off. Mrs. Darden had yammered on with all sorts of picky instructions, while Mr. Darden just plain gave her the creeps. But he was her mom’s boss, so she was careful not to kick him between the legs every time he leered at her.

This was Ashley’s second babysitting gig this week, and she was desperate for cash. Winter Prom was right around the corner, and her dipshit boyfriend still hadn’t saved enough money to spring for the kind of limousine and hotel room she’d always dreamed of. Then there was the matter of her dress. She intended to absolutely crush it in a hot pink strapless number that would put all the cool girls to shame.

At least this gig seemed like a no-brainer. The Dardens’ baby was asleep upstairs and, according to Mrs. Darden, would probably remain asleep. So it would be a relaxing night of watching cable TV and doing some FaceTime on her iPad with her friends, Trish and Bella. It could be the easiest forty bucks she’d ever earned—as long as the privileged little brat stayed asleep.

Ashley walked through the dining room, trailing one hand on a high-gloss table. The furnace rumbled beneath parquet floors, and a few flakes of snow had started to tick-tick against the windows. She’d never been in a house this big before. What was really obscene was that only two people lived here. Well, actually three, but the baby didn’t really count.

Flopping down on a bouncy leather sofa, Ashley pulled out her iPad and logged in as GoldyLox131. She tried to FaceTime several of her friends but no one answered. Bummer. She pursed her lips, blew out a glut of air, and looked around, already feeling bored.

But she wouldn’t be for long. In the familiar children’s story, Goldilocks has a very harrowing encounter with a group of marauding bears. For GoldyLox131, two wolves already lurked outside the front door.