No Time for Goodbye - Linwood Barclay [73]
“But you’re not willing to say we’re safe,” Cynthia said. “You’re not safe, I’m not safe, Grace is not safe.”
I knew that very well. She did not need to remind me. It was never out of my thoughts.
“My aunt has been murdered,” Cynthia said. “The man I—we—hired to find out what happened to my family is missing. You and Grace saw a man watching our house a few nights ago. Someone was in our house, Terry. If not my father, then somebody. Whoever left that hat, sat at our computer.”
“It wasn’t your father,” I said.
“Are you saying that because you really know who left it there, or are you saying that because you think my father’s dead?”
I had nothing to say.
“Why do you think the DMV has no record of my father’s license?” she asked. “Why’s there no record of him with Social Security?”
“I don’t know,” I said tiredly.
“Do you think Mr. Abagnall found out something about Vince? Vince Fleming? Didn’t he say he wanted to find out some more about him? Maybe that’s what he was doing when he disappeared. Maybe Mr. Abagnall’s okay, but he’s following Vince, hasn’t been able to call his wife.”
“Look,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s try and get some sleep.”
“Please tell me you’re not keeping anything else from me,” Cynthia said. “Like you did about Tess’s illness. Like you did about her telling me about the payments she received.”
“I’m not keeping anything from you,” I said. “Didn’t I just show you that e-mail? I could have just deleted it, not even told you about it. But I agree with you, we have to be careful. We’ve got new locks on the doors. No one’s breaking in now. And I’m not going to give you a hard time about walking Grace to school.”
“What do you think’s going on?” Cynthia said. There was something in the way she asked the question, something almost accusatory, that suggested to me she still suspected I was holding something back.
“Jesus Christ,” I snapped. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my fucking family that vanished off the face of the fucking earth.”
It stunned Cynthia into silence. I’d stunned myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, this is taking a toll on all of us.”
“My problems are taking a toll on you,” Cynthia said.
“That’s not it,” I said. “Maybe, look, maybe we should go away for a while. The three of us. We’ll pull Grace out of school. I can wangle a few days from Rolly, he’ll cover for me, get a substitute in, they’ll understand if you take some time away—”
She threw the covers off her legs and got up. “I’m going to sleep with Grace,” she said. “I want to be sure she’s okay. Somebody has to do something.”
I said nothing as she tucked her pillows under her arm and left the room.
I had a headache and was headed for the bathroom, where I’d find some Tylenols in the medicine cabinet, when I heard running in the hall.
Before Cynthia actually appeared in the bedroom door, she was screaming, “Terry! Terry!”
“What?” I said.
“She’s gone. Grace isn’t in her room. She’s gone!”
I followed her down the hall, back to Grace’s room, flipping on lights as I went. I passed Cynthia, went into Grace’s room ahead of her.
“I looked!” Cynthia said. “She’s not in here!”
“Grace!” I said, opening her closet door, glancing under her bed. The clothes she’d been wearing that day were balled up and left sitting on her desk chair. I ran back out and into the bathroom, pulled back the curtain on the bathtub, found it empty. Cynthia had gone into the room where we kept the computer. We met back in the hall.
No sign of her.
“Grace!” Cynthia shouted.
We threw on more lights as we came running down the stairs. This couldn’t be happening, I told myself. This simply could not be happening.
Cynthia swung open the basement door, shouted our daughter’s name down into the darkness. No response.
As I entered the kitchen I noticed the back door, with its new deadbolt installed, was just barely ajar.
I felt my heart stop.
“Call the police,” I said to Cynthia.
“Oh my God,” she said.
I turned on the outside light over the door as I swung it open and ran out, in my bare feet, into the