Silent Run - Barbara Freethy [42]
“But you have some, don’t you? Everyone does.”
“Let’s concentrate on whether or not the woman you saw on television last night is Jessica. You said the hair was different, but was there anything else that Sarah said or did that made you think she was Jessica?”
“It was the name she called her little girl. Jessie had a doll when she came to the foster home. It was the only thing she had with her from her past. The doll’s name was Caitlyn.”
Dylan drew in a quick breath, not sure what to think. “Is that why you thought your friend had suddenly come back from the dead? Or were you grabbing at straws because you felt guilty that you weren’t around for Jessica before she disappeared?”
“I never said she was dead,” Catherine stated. “In fact, a few months after she disappeared I got a note in the mail. There was no return address, no signa
ture, just the initial J.”
“What did it say? Do you remember?”
“Every word. It said, ‘Don’t try to find me. It’s too dangerous. I’ll love you forever. Stay safe and happy.’ ”
“Did you keep the note?”
“For a long time.”
“But you don’t have it anymore?” he asked, unable to keep the skeptical note out of his voice.
“Now you sound just like the doctors, suggesting that I see her face everywhere I go, that I hear her voice, that I make up stories because I can’t accept the fact that I let her down.”
“You’ve seen doctors?” he asked, his doubts returning.
“Two,” she admitted. “I couldn’t sleep for months after Jessie disappeared, because of the dreams, and my boyfriend told me I needed to get help so I could go on with my life. He didn’t stick around to help me get there. He said I was obsessed and crazy. But that wasn’t just because of Jessica. He didn’t like that I could see things about him.”
“What kind of things?”
“Just things that made him uncomfortable. I have a sense about people sometimes. And I get feelings about events that might happen.”
“You’re psychic?”
“And you’re a skeptic. I’m not surprised,” she returned. “Most people are, especially reporters like you.”
“I don’t think I said I was a reporter,” he replied, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with her accurate assessment.
She gave him a little smile. “You are, aren’t you?”
“It could be a lucky guess.”
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you say. I’m used to people doubting me, getting nervous when they’re around me.”
And everything she was saying was making him nervous. Was she nuts or giving him a real lead to follow?
“It’s funny that your friend’s name is Sarah,” Catherine continued. “Jessica had a grandmother named Sarah who lived in Boston. Jessie kept waiting for her grandmother to come and rescue her, but she never did.”
Boston! His gut turned over. Sarah had told him she’d lived in Boston with her grandparents after her parents had died in an accident. Was that just a fabrication, an embellishment of the fantasy she carried in her head after she was abandoned? It was enough of a connection to send a jolt of adrenaline through his bloodstream.
“I think we’d better sit down and talk this out,” he said decisively. “I want to know everything there is to know about Jessica, including her last name.”
* * *
As Jake drove down the Pacific Coast Highway past Malibu and Santa Monica, heading for Venice Beach, Sarah soaked up the images of Southern California sunshine, swaying palm trees, in-line skaters, skateboarders, bicyclists, and joggers crowding the cement path that ran alongside the beach. Umbrellas, beach towels, and sunbathers filled the wide, sandy beaches, and surfers rode the large waves out by the Santa Monica Pier. It was a beautiful spring day, the kind of day that made her feel that something good was about to happen, that anything was possible. Her sense of optimism surprised her. But there was no denying the fact that she still had hope she’d find the answers to all her questions and that she’d hold her daughter in her arms very soon.
Her body had been battered. Her