Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

that tried to pitch the lie that the world was a wonderful place. She must have been in one of her good moods. He loved her like this.

“I’m home, Ma.” He hung his light jacket on a hook near the door and entered the room. She said nothing to him, didn’t give any indication she’d seen him. He was still invisible. All the time, invisible. Yet he was determined to win her approval before she left him.

She’d been sick for a long time, if the doctors were to be believed. To him, she looked just fine, though she was prone to violent mood swings and sometimes isolation. But through her ups and downs, he was always there for her, even if she didn’t see him.

He got himself a cup of coffee. “I grabbed something to eat on the way home. Hope you don’t mind. Figure you would have eaten earlier.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and took it off, hung it on a hook by the door, and went into the living room. He followed, and she sat in her favorite rocking chair. She collected her ball of yarn and her knitting needles from a sack on the floor and got to work.

“Whatcha making, Ma?” He hunched on the floor near her feet.

She started whistling the tune she’d been singing earlier. She looked in his direction, but it was like she was seeing through him. Maybe she didn’t know how she made him feel so worthless, so less-than. After all, she looked so harmless sitting there, rocking, doing what she enjoyed. Would she continue to look that way if he told her what he’d done? Would she be proud or angry? Would she finally see him?

He took her hands into his, stopping her from knitting. “There’s something I want to tell you. You’ll be proud of me. You will. What I did, I did it for us—for you and me, Ma.”

She ceased rocking, met his eyes, and pulled her hands free of his. She started to move the needles again, and rage balled in his chest along with frustration.

“I need you to listen to me.” He put his hands on hers.

She freed one and touched his cheek, tenderly. “Talk to me, sweetheart. You can tell me anything.”

Her contact and her words made him well up with pride. She was finally listening; she would hear him, and she would understand. “I helped a girl see how selfish she had been, and now she’ll never hurt anyone again.” The words spilled out, and they felt right, though they were a little off base. He’d done what he had due to the hatred festering in his soul that needed an outlet. He recognized that now, just by how much he had enjoyed taking that girl’s last breath.

His mother returned her needles and the yarn to the sack.

He held his breath, waiting for her response.

She asked him, “You did this for me?”

“That’s right.” And for more reasons than you know.

She grinned, the expression lighting her eyes. “I’m so very proud of you, my boy. Come here.” She motioned for him to lean in, and she kissed his forehead.

“Thank you, Ma.” Tears wet his eyes, and he palmed them dry as he got to his feet. “Sleep well.”

“You too. You earned it.” She rocked again, the wood floor groaning beneath the chair’s rails.

He headed for the loft in the horse barn. While his mother lived in the main house, he’d favored the loft since he was a teenager.

He went to a desk where he had his laptop and brought up the internet, looking for the latest on the fire and the girl. He searched the local TV station’s site and found a link to watch a replay of the night’s news.

He started the video, waited out two annoying ads he couldn’t skip, and prepared to hear the anchorwoman, some Diana Wesson, talk about the fire and his work. All the story got was a thirty-second recap geared toward a Good Samaritan who had called 911.

He opened another internet tab, hoping the newspaper had done him more justice. He did a search and clicked on an article by Fraser Reyes. He scanned its length and thought, More like it. He read and savored the spotlight. Included was a quote from Sergeant Topez with the PWCPD’s Public Information Office: “I can confirm that the body of a young woman was found in the house, and an investigation into her identity and her death is underway.”

He smiled, pleased that the police were taking him seriously. But they’d never figure out who the girl was or trace her to him. Surely, even though the fire was put out far earlier than he would have liked, it must have obscured some evidence.

He kept reading.

“The body was in fairly good condition thanks to a heroic citizen who called 911.”

Fraser had briefly interviewed the caller, Shannon Fox, a nurse at Prince William Medical Center. She said she did what anyone in her place would have done.

He balled his hands so tightly that his nails pierced his palms. So she was why the fire was put out so soon! His mother, if she knew how botched up this was, would be disgusted by his failure. And she’d blame him.

That Fox lady should have minded her own business. Then the story would have read quite differently. He had to set this right the best way he knew how and since there was no going back, he had to look ahead. But first, one little unexpected detour. He’d take care of that Shannon Fox lady and make his message clear.

People needed to mind their own business, and more importantly, he had no plans to stop—ever.

Eleven

There were several stations in the morgue, and another autopsy was underway. Rideout waved Amanda and Trent over from the corner of the room. Next to him was a steel gurney with the body of Jane Doe covered with a white sheet.

“Good evening,” Rideout offered in greeting once they