Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

She logged into her email, and there was a message with attachments from Fire Marshal Sullivan. She opened it and read his brief message. He was still compiling his sketches and the photographs of the house’s interior, but he sent photos he had taken of the crowd across the street at different points throughout the day. She opened them, looking at one after the other, scanning for anything that might seem obviously out of the ordinary. Nothing struck her, and the direness of their reality sank in.

It was starting to feel like their only option for ID’ing the girl was waiting on Rideout and hoping that Jane Doe was actually in the Missing Persons database.

She glanced over at Trent and could only see the top of his head. “How are you making out over there?”

“Nothing yet, but I just got a coffee. I’m good to keep at this.”

She got up and grabbed her jacket. “I need a break.”

“Sure. You okay?”

She just waved and left. She was far from okay, but she wasn’t in the mood to get into it right now. There was one place she wanted to be. Whether it was healthy or advisable would remain to be seen.

Thirteen

Amanda stopped by 532 Bill Drive on the way to her intended destination, just to feel like she was doing something to move the case along. A quick conversation with the officer on scene only emphasized the slow progress with this case. He hadn’t seen anyone who stood out to him, but the memorial had grown significantly from earlier in the day. Amanda knew it would only blossom further once the news of the fire and death reached more people. Then throngs would come to pay their respects. She found hypocrisy in how some would show support to a stranger in tragedy but snubbed those they didn’t know in daily life. But death had a way of changing people and the way they looked at the world. Amanda knew for a fact she viewed everything differently after being personally impacted by the work of the Grim Reaper.

She gave the memorial another look and realized she didn’t want to show up where she was going empty-handed. She got back into her car and drove to a convenience store that she knew sold bouquets and bought two. Then she headed to the graveyard.

She pulled in through the gates of Eagle Cemetery and followed the winding roads to a parking lot. Getting out, flowers in hand, she noted how once again she was here at night. Above her, an almost fully formed egg moon hung in the sky—a British term she’d learned from her maternal grandmother for a full moon in April. Its glow illuminated her path as she walked up the hill toward an oak tree that was perched at the top. Kevin’s and Lindsey’s plots were just over the crest.

For a while, she’d stopped coming here. It just felt too awkward, uncomfortable. It never got any easier to speak out loud to her dead husband and child as if they could hear her when she wasn’t sure they could. But she’d persisted, and over the last few months, she actually felt like she’d bonded with them. She had sensed the touch of her daughter’s spirit—or her memory anyway—affect her and help her. She hadn’t yet told Kevin she was seeing someone, and she wouldn’t unless things with Logan became serious. And she had no plans of that happening.

But with the case of Jane Doe and the nightmarish images resurfacing of those poor sex-trafficking victims, she didn’t know who else to talk to. She probably could have gone to Becky’s and chatted with her, but she didn’t want to burden her friend, and the hour was rather late. And, even if it was earlier in the day, she certainly wasn’t about to pour her heart out to a shrink. She’d tried that after Kevin and Lindsey had died, but it hadn’t lasted long. Besides, she just wanted to talk without being interrupted or offered advice. That was one strong advantage of talking to the dead. Though Rideout would disagree and say the dead talked a lot. She supposed they did, in their own way.

She reached the top of the hill, stopped, and breathed in the warm night air. It had her wishing she’d just left her jacket in the car. She took it off now, though, juggling the bouquets from one hand to the other as she pulled her arms out of the sleeves. She tied the coat around her waist and continued toward their graves.

She rounded the stones and noted there were already flowers in each of the holders. Probably from her mother, who visited religiously.

Amanda squeezed a new bouquet in with the one already at Kevin’s stone. Her gaze landed on the inscription as she straightened back up. Beloved Husband and Father, Kevin James.

There were so many times since his death when she’d wished she’d taken his surname and not stuck with her maiden one. It had purely been strategic when she’d made the decision. Her father was the police chief, and his recognizable name would go a long way as she climbed the ranks. At least that had been her reasoning.

She moved her daughter’s bouquet around to make room for the additional blooms she’d brought for her. As she was fussing with the flowers, a small envelope came out of the older arrangement, wedged between her fingers. She smiled, thinking that it was just like her mother to leave a note for her granddaughter.

Amanda gathered the two bunches of flowers in hand, the card temporarily set aside on her thigh as she crouched down. She fed the two bouquets into the holder and went to replace the card. But she stopped cold. The moonlight spilled over the envelope just enough to make out the person to whom it was addressed.

It was Amanda’s name—in type.

A chill tore through her, and she looked over her