Vanishing Girls (Detective Josie Quinn #1)(33)
“What, like knitting?”
His cheeks colored. “No, yes… no. I mean…”
She stabbed her fork in the air in his direction. “This isn’t a hobby, Luke. I’m not doing this because I’m bored—”
He leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands together over the top of his plate. “Then why? Why are you doing it?”
From the look in his eyes, she knew it was a genuine question. The flat white of her napkin was suddenly wildly distracting. Staring down at it, she ran her fingertips over the stippled edge of it. Because it’s who I am.
“I’m just saying that most people would be perfectly happy with a few weeks off from work. Most people have other things to do. Me? If I had time off from work, I’d be fishing from sunup to sundown. Sure, I’d miss the work, but I’d be happy for the break.”
She looked back up at him. “If I get a hobby, will you at least think about getting me the file?”
He shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh, but as he returned to eating she could see a half smile on his face, and she knew he would do what he could.
After they finished eating, Luke went to work and Josie went home. She had planned to get a few hours’ sleep—what else did she have to do? But she lay in her bed wide awake, sunlight slipping around the sides of her mini-blinds. She wasn’t sure why the Ginger Blackwell case bothered her so much, or even why she had asked Luke for the file. Why did it matter? What connection could it possibly have to June or Isabelle Coleman’s case?
Then it came to her. Ginger Blackwell’s disappearance had gained national attention. Within the first week, her face was the centerpiece of every news program in the country. Josie had even found stories about her abduction on the evening celebrity magazine shows: Access Hollywood, TMZ and the like. It was like the entire world had been wallpapered with Ginger Blackwell. Two weeks later she was dumped on the side of the highway.
“Why?” Josie muttered to herself. Had the news coverage had something to do with her abductor letting her go? Had Blackwell’s abductor made a mistake? The woman could easily have been mistaken for a college-aged kid. Had her abductor, or abductors, taken her because they assumed she was young? Had they intended to keep her or even kill her, but felt compelled to release her under the relentless pressure of the media attention?
In spite of the sheer volume of news coverage about Ginger’s disappearance, there were few details about what the woman had experienced and seen during the three weeks she was missing.
Josie had to talk to Ginger Blackwell.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Josie scoured the internet for Blackwell’s address for an hour before her eyes started to burn and her head grew heavy and clouded by sleep deprivation. There was an address for a rural route outside of Bowersville, but Josie knew the Blackwells no longer lived there because the entire area had been developed into a miniature golf course. She searched using Blackwell’s husband’s name but nothing came up. Where the hell had they gone? Even if they had moved, it would have been impossible to keep their new address off the internet in this day and age, surely? She tried using a private address search database that the department subscribed to using Ray’s login. This database she could log into without him knowing she was using his credentials, and he used the same password for everything: JoRay0803, their names followed by the date they’d gotten back together after college. But the database turned up nothing beyond the Blackwells’ old Bowersville address.
A high-pitched buzzing started inside her head, her body begging her for sleep. She was suddenly aware of the dull ache along the left side of her body from the accident at the Stop and Go. She hadn’t changed the dressing on her leg in two days. That needed to be done, but fatigue hit her so hard she felt like she could just slide down onto the floor and sleep for days under her kitchen table. She had barely hit her mattress before the blackness engulfed her.
* * *
A loud, steady knocking woke her a few hours later, and much too soon. The sun had fallen to the other side of the sky but its rays clung on, sneaking around the blinds with much less vigor. She looked at her clock, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. The knocking went on. Josie pulled one of her pillows over her head, but she still heard it. Finally, after fifteen minutes of constant knocking, she stood up, stomped down her stairs, and flung her door open.
Trinity Payne stood on her stoop in her signature coat, a tight little black skirt, and tall, taupe-colored heels. Strands of her black hair lifted gently in the wind. Josie squinted. Her hair was so shiny, you could practically see your reflection in it.
“Nice hair,” Trinity said, as if reading her mind.
Josie turned and checked her reflection in the glass panes of her front door. One side of her head looked like someone had teased her hair straight up in the air. She licked one of her palms and tried to smooth it down, but it only made it look worse.
Trinity took a step toward her. “What’s that from?”
Josie tugged harder at her hair, dragging her fingers through it. “What’s what from?”
“That scar.”
Josie’s fingers found the silvered skin and traced its jagged form. It started near her ear and ran down the side of her face, along her jawline. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s from a car accident,” she lied. “Are you always this intrusive? Like, even in your personal life?”