First Girl Gone(82)

Someone was putting on a show.

She refocused on the reality before her. Leaned forward and placed the lid back over the compartment.

She stood. Moved to the edge of the boat. All these thoughts spiraled in her head. Overwhelming.

It was a staged scene, and Charlie knew what that meant. Someone, Amber’s real killer, was trying to pin everything on Gibbs.

The implications grew so heavy that she buckled at the knees just as she was trying to climb out of the boat. She tumbled to the dirt floor of the barn. The straw and dirt seemed to leap up to slam into her, a heavy thud as her core connected with the hard, frozen ground. It knocked the wind out of her.

She lay there, prone, for a time. Staring at the dirt close up. Waiting for her breathing to come back to her.

At last the thought broke through to her conscious mind, the one she’d been trying to block out: if Amber Spadafore’s murder and Kara Dawkins’ abduction had nothing to do with Allie’s disappearance, she would never solve her sister’s case.

She would never find Allie now. She would never dig up her bones.

It occurred to Charlie that she was utterly at the whim of a cruel world. A killing, raping, awful world. She was useless. Powerless. She couldn’t save Allie. She couldn’t save Amber. Couldn’t save any of them.

She whispered into the ground, her voice small.

“Allie. Are you there?”

She held her breath as she waited. Listened for that familiar voice, her heart thudding in her ears.

No response.

She spoke louder this time. Full volume.

“Allie. Please say something.”

Nothing.

Allie wasn’t there. Not anymore.





Chapter Sixty-Six





Charlie picked herself up off the barn floor. She batted at the dust and flecks of straw now clinging to the front of her coat. Little gray puffs rose from where her hands made contact. Her arms felt heavy, the cold sinking deeper into the flesh of her, leaving her numb.

And a movie opened in her head as she stood there halfheartedly dusting herself off.

She saw Misty Dawkins sitting across from her desk. The girl she’d known from school had grown older, a little thicker, and now she was crying. A Kleenex clenched in a fist in front of her face. Muffled sobs leaking out. Strained. Like she was trying with all of her might to hold it all in but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t contain the way she felt inside. It’d built up and up until it all came pouring out.

Charlie remembered snippets of what Misty had talked about. Little things about Kara being gone, about how she’d taken off before but this time she was scared, truly scared, for the first time she could remember. That sometimes moms just know this kind of thing.

And then Charlie remembered a picture of Kara, her younger brother wrapped around her piggyback-style, the two of them holding their hands up and giving the camera a peace sign.

Kara Dawkins. Kara was still out there.

That was why she couldn’t give up.

Maybe Allie would never have justice, never have closure, but that only showed how much people needed it, how much people like Misty Dawkins and Amber’s family needed it even still.

Charlie fled the barn, not bothering to close the door behind her. She swam back through the snow, disoriented at seeing everything from the opposite angle. She followed her tracks back until she could see the house, and then she picked up speed. Hurrying.

Her brain seemed to pick up momentum along with her feet. She ran back over the details, seeking out the missing pieces to this story. If it wasn’t Gibbs, someone was deceiving her and everyone else. She had been missing something. Overlooking some piece to the case that hadn’t fit the Gibbs angle but might point to Amber’s real killer.

Her mind snapped to it as she neared the car: the emails. The emails didn’t fit.

The first email had told her to follow the White Rabbit, which was pointing to Robbie and the ecstasy. Once Robbie had been ruled out as a suspect, the email had pivoted. It had directed her to the beach where the body was found. Whoever sent the email knew the severed feet would steer the investigation to Gibbs and the planted feet in his boat. These were both methods of throwing her off a trail—the real trail.

She ripped open the car door. Flung herself into the driver’s seat. Started it. The car groaned like it always did in the cold.

The headlights shined on the dilapidated farmhouse, once again lighting those rotted pieces of wood where the paint had peeled away. Her thoughts were going so fast now that for a moment she just stared at the house, trying to untangle at least one of the strands in her head.

Charlie needed to… needed to… She put her hands on the wheel. Needed to think.

Zoe. She needed to call Zoe. But she needed to get off of Gibbs’ property first.

She backed out of the driveway, tires squealing as the car swerved onto the road. A few miles from the house, she veered onto the shoulder.

She tore off her gloves and patted her coat pockets until she felt her phone’s bulk. Nothing happened when she tried to wake it. Because she’d turned it off, she remembered suddenly. When it was finally powered up and ready to use, she struggled to get to the contact list with numb fingers.

By the time the phone was ringing against her ear, she had to remind herself what she was even going to say. The feet. She’d found the feet, but they were almost definitely planted. And not almost. Just definitely.