Pretty Girls Dancing(45)

“He said he was looking for connections between the two cases. Kelsey’s and Whitney’s. I knew. I’ve always known. I told you that day in your office.”

She had. The same way she’d insisted that every news story in the nation about a missing teen was somehow linked to Kelsey. He supposed, given the law of averages, at some point she was bound to be right. “They might be,” he emphasized. “But at least they’ll be taking a look at Kelsey’s case again.” Although he couldn’t say he was any more impressed with Mark than he’d been with the cops and BCI agents seven years ago. “It doesn’t mean they’ll find anything new. Or that they’ll keep us abreast of developments as they arise.” That observation was tinged with bitterness, honed by experience.

“You think they’ll keep things from us.” Her voice sounded faraway, despite her proximity. “The way you and Barbara kept something from me.”

He paused in his task. “What are you talking about?” She sounded off. Looked . . . vacant, somehow. As if she were here but not. He walked over to peer at her more closely. Was she on something? For a while, she’d had an issue with sedatives and God knows what else the doctors had been giving her. But there had been no new prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet for years. David knew; he checked regularly.

“Barbara was the last one to report seeing Kelsey alive.” Her voice hitched once, then steadied. “She saw her on Baltimore on her bike. Looking anguished. She told you. Neither of you shared that with me.”

The accusation that sounded in her words was familiar. But she wasn’t teetering on her usual hysteria. At least, not yet. He dropped heavily down on the bed beside her. “Because it would upset you, and for what? It wasn’t news. It didn’t change anything.”

“I used to have this dream.” Her utter motionlessness was almost eerie. As if he were conversing with a statue. “Still do sometimes. It’s the day Kelsey disappeared. I know that somehow, although all I see is a huge, poster-size picture of her. And suddenly it rips down the middle. I run to it and try to patch it, but I can’t find any tape. And it tears again. Then again. Over and over until all that’s left are tiny little bits swirling around in a wind that’s come up. I chase the pieces, because I know if I can patch them all back together, Kelsey will be whole again. She’ll be back. And I do somehow. But even with the repair, there are pieces gone. They blew away and were lost. Now she’ll never return because some of the parts are missing forever.” For the first time, she looked at him. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” God help him, he did. “I think it’s the same way I felt when we thought the police were withholding details from us. Like if we had a complete picture of the case, we’d somehow see something they hadn’t. But it’s a feeling, Claire. It’s not true. Us knowing every fact wouldn’t change anything. Just like you having completed the image in your dream wouldn’t bring Kelsey back.” His excitement on the drive home had been replaced by melancholy. Conversations with his wife too often had that effect on him. “I couldn’t protect my daughter when she needed me the most. I couldn’t shield you from the hell we were plunged into. Janie started having more problems, and I couldn’t change that, either. But I could shelter you from some things that I knew only would hurt you. So yeah, I told Barbara to keep the information to herself.”

He braced himself for the outburst he was certain was coming. But she remained unnaturally still. “It does,” she whispered. “Hurt. Six miles she rode. She was last seen thirty minutes after she left the house. And she still appeared every bit as upset as she was when she’d slammed out. My last conversation with her was an argument. How do I forgive myself for that?”

The words were like a knife slipped cleanly between his ribs, then twisted. “We can’t change what happened,” he said bleakly. “We only can go on. I’m attending Janie’s conference. Why don’t you stay home and lie down for a while? I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

She didn’t answer. But after a moment, she rose and went to the adjoining bathroom. Closed the door. He shot from the bed as if launched. Strode out of the room. But try as he might, he couldn’t leave her words behind.

Because he had dreams, as well. A nagging nightmare in particular that he couldn’t seem to shake. He, too, would like to change that final day. But even more, David wished he could undo one particular scene with his oldest daughter. The one that had put unalterable events into motion.

In his dream, he relived those moments over and over, trying to edit the conversation that had changed everything between them. Sometimes Kelsey ran into his arms and called him Daddy like she had when she was a little girl. She’d lose that snarky teen tone and the too-knowing attitude. He’d gotten very good over the years at revisionist history.

Some of the time, he almost believed his own fabrication.





Special Agent Mark Foster

November 9

6:45 p.m.

“I appreciate you coming in.” Mark showed Dane Starkey into the room. The man to whom Brian DeVries claimed to have lost a bet was slightly built, with slicked-back, thinning dark hair, a sharp nose, and receding chin. The truculence stamped on his expression gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a belligerent ferret.