Pretty Girls Dancing(44)
Honestly, you’re just so mercurial these days. I don’t see—
That’s just it, Claire, you don’t see. You don’t see anything, because you’re blind!
The slam of the door like a rifle shot sounding through the house. Her frantic calls to David, because of course, they had to go after her. Find her. But no one had ever found Kelsey. And Claire had been left to replay that final scene over and over in her mind, picking it apart for clues to a puzzle she’d never solved.
“Do you have anything to add to your original statement, Ms. Hunt?”
Barbara shook her head, looking miserable. The agent consulted his notes again. “One thing you said struck me. That you glimpsed Kelsey well enough to be certain it was her. And that she looked anguished.”
The walls were pressing in on her, squeezing the air from the room. Claire bolted to her feet with a suddenness that had the coffee sloshing over the edge of the mug. “How could you?” The words were a furious hiss. “How could you keep that from me?” She and David had clung to every bit of information the agents had shared with them. Going over and over every word, wringing each detail to sift for precious news of their daughter. They’d certainly been told where Kelsey had last been seen.
But not by whom.
She looked anguished . . .
“Mrs. Willard, I don’t think—”
“You have to leave now.” It was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. The floor felt like quicksand shifting beneath her feet. Unsteady, she set the mug down on the end table as she went by. “Both of you. Go.”
“Claire.” Barbara rushed after her, catching up with her at the staircase. “It didn’t change anything. And I was trying to spare you, that’s all. You didn’t need . . .”
With great effort Claire turned her head to look at the other woman. “You knew how desperate we were for every detail. Not sharing this with us . . . it was cruel. I told you how it felt for us to be kept in the dark by the police. The agents. For you to do the same thing, knowing that . . .” The taste of betrayal was bitter.
“I didn’t. At least . . . I mean, David knew. He . . . we decided there was no use burdening you with it. It doesn’t change anything.”
There was a part of her that knew that was true. Kelsey had been so angry when she left the house. A sudden temper that had seemingly bubbled out of nowhere and escalated into inexplicable fury. Maybe that temper had fueled her energy to ride six miles across town. In God’s name, what had happened to her normally sunny-dispositioned daughter?
“Maybe not.” She turned, grasping the railing for the support she desperately needed and started upstairs. “But that wasn’t your decision to make. Or David’s. You should have told me.”
David Willard
November 9
4:38 p.m.
David nosed his car out of the company parking lot, still riding a sense of euphoria. A coworker honked at him, and he lifted a hand in acknowledgment. A group of colleagues was heading to a nearby pub for celebratory drinks. They’d allowed him to beg off when he’d cited parent-teacher conferences that evening, only on the condition that he’d join them the following night. With the news they’d just gotten, David had no doubt that spirits would still be high the next day.
It was rare to leave one of Kurt’s meetings with a glow, but learning that David and his team were up for no fewer than three awards on two different ad campaigns was enough to send his spirits skyrocketing. And not just any awards—one was for an EIA, the first such nomination in the history of the company. The showing was unprecedented.
It was a career-making achievement for him as creative director for each of the ads.
He stopped at a light, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Even a very subdued Steve Grayson had congratulated him. The man knew as well as David did what the nominations would do for his clout with the agency and for his résumé. With Janie off to college next year, there was nothing stopping him from looking for a job with a bigger agency. Higher-profile clients. A more attractive salary package.
The light switched to green, and he pressed on the accelerator. A nomination wasn’t a win, but a man in his position could daydream, couldn’t he? He let himself do exactly that for the entire drive across town. Pulling into his drive, he parked in the garage and, grabbing his suitcase from the back seat, headed for the house, a spring in his step.
It was about damn time something in his life started going right.
“Claire.” He stopped dead in the doorway of their bedroom, his bag in hand. Irritation flickered. The room was dark. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, unnaturally still. “I thought you’d be ready. We have conferences tonight.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d spoken to Agent Foster.”
Foster. His stomach plummeted. Shit. “I’d planned to tonight. Why, did he call?”
“He was here. When Barbara and I returned from setting up for the church rummage sale.”
Son of a bitch. David strode to the bed, lifted the suitcase on it, and unzipped it. He’d told the man he hadn’t wanted him at the house, hadn’t he? Had informed him of Claire’s fragile state. Apparently, that hadn’t been direct enough. His earlier elation fading, he lifted two suits from the suitcase and carried them to the closet. “Did he ask about the church you used to go to in Saxon Falls?” When she didn’t answer, he turned toward her. “Claire?”