The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(8)

I bump up against him, our arms tangling for a moment, about as much as we can really get away with at work. “She didn’t notice anyone odd in the weeks leading up to yesterday. No one who seemed to be paying them unusual attention or asking inappropriate questions. No one outside the neighborhood or school approached them.”

From the entrance to the neighborhood, you can actually see the school just down the road. The main entrance is marked with stoplights and wider-than-usual crosswalks for the children. Each corner has a small bench for the crossing guards.

“It’s a straightforward route,” Eddison says, tugging on his dark green scarf. It’s the professional counterpart to the neon green one he uses everywhere else when it’s cold enough for scarves. “Predictable but open. No places to hide, nothing suited to letting someone jump out suddenly. Any car that stopped would be in full view and very noticeable. Makes it look more and more like it had to be someone she knew and might have gone off course for.”

“We need to map out who was home that afternoon. Find out how long she could have walked unnoticed by someone in a house.”

“What could someone have offered her to lure her away?”

“Probably not pet-based. According to Rebecca, Brooklyn hates her mother’s cats and has extended that to pets in general.”

“To the point that she wouldn’t help if someone did the lost-or wounded-pet ruse?”

“I don’t know. Rebecca said she’s the one who usually wants to stop and look at things or talk to people on the way home, and Brooklyn is the one to keep her on track.”

We stand on the corner for a few minutes, assessing the traffic. It’s hard to tell what’s normal everyday traffic and what’s added because of the search. Checking his watch, Eddison tugs my elbow, and we walk the rest of the way to the school. It’s a tidy set of buildings, faded red brick and grey stone, not intended to be imposing or impressive. It looks welcoming, comfortable. Except for the line of police cars in the bus circle.

“Extra resource officers?” I ask, indicating the cars.

“Probably. The kids know that Brooklyn is missing. If the administration is smart, they’re going to talk to the kids about it rather than let the rumors and fear build up.”

A young officer meets us at the front door to the school office. “What’s your business here?” he asks sharply.

We just look at him.

After a moment, he blushes slightly. “My apologies. It’s just that access to the school has extra restrictions today.”

“Understandably,” Eddison says mildly. “I’m going to pull back my coat to get my ID, if that’s all right.”

I follow suit. The officer looks relieved at the sight of our badges, and jots down our names on a clipboard before opening the door for us. A clutch of employees stands or sits behind the reception desk. A muted TV mounted in an upper corner of the room is tuned to the local news and the search for Brooklyn. Most of them are watching.

An older woman looks over at us and gives us a warm, if strained, smile. “The puppy at the gates let you through?”

“At least I’m not the only one who thought he was too young to be there,” Eddison agrees.

She walks around the counter and glances at the badges still showing at our waists. “My name is Cynthia; I’m one of the senior secretaries. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to talk with the principal, if we can. We understand he’s busy today—”

“Everybody’s busy today,” she interrupts gently, “and it’s the kind of busy where nothing can get done. We’re holding grade assemblies in the cafeteria most of the day. The third-grade classes also have extra resources today. That poor girl.”

She has us sign in on another clipboard—the first one, apparently, is just for the police, and this one is for the school records—and leads us back into the school itself. The halls are bright, that strange combination of faded and too-clean that you really only see in schools and official buildings. The doors we pass are all decorated, all sort of grouped around the common theme of Halloween or autumn. Beautifully arranged bulletin boards display information about school events or reading contests. One has safety tips for trick-or-treating.

Cynthia notices me looking at that one. “We’re considering opening up the school that night to let kids trick-or-treat through the classrooms. Contained environment, well lit . . . The kids might be a little disappointed, but I can think of a lot of parents who’d be reassured.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I say, “especially considering how many kids go out in groups or with older siblings, without adults.”

The cafeteria is currently home to the fifth-graders, fidgeting in their seats as a resource officer and a woman in a lavender pantsuit trade off talking. It’s not a lecture, and not quite a presentation. It’s a response. I appreciate that they’re not trying to mask it for the kids. Other adults line the sides of the room, teachers and aides and what’s probably a good percentage of the front-office administration.

Motioning us to wait where we are, Cynthia eases along the back of the cafeteria to the far wall, stopping by a man in a dark grey suit, a heavy lanyard obscuring the bottom of his yellow tie. He glances at us and nods, then follows her. He waits until we’re in the hall again before he speaks.