And you’re counting on me? Jane was hoping that aborted call to 9-1-1 had been more helpful than it appeared. Maybe it was just a matter of time before they heard from the police. Maybe the cruiser dispatched by the emergency operator had arrived…
Maybe she’d be able to believe that if whoever had taken Marcie and her sister hadn’t appeared while Marcie was using the phone.
“I know. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes,” she said, and hung up.
Movement from across the bed startled her. She’d become so engrossed in the conversation, she’d forgotten her daughter was in the room.
“What is it, Mommy?” Kate asked, creeping closer.
“Someone needs help.” Jane took her daughter’s hand. As usual, having Kate beside her made her grateful that they were alive and together. The situation five years ago could’ve ended very differently. But after Gloria’s call, even Kate’s reassuring presence couldn’t keep the doubt that plagued Jane from striking deep.
Maybe Ava’s right about me. Maybe Oliver put me through too much, and now I don’t have the nerve to do this job. She felt physically ill at the thought of what might be happening to Latisha and Marcie. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Skye or Sheridan or Ava taking it this personally. They all seemed to face every challenge with cool resolve.
Kate snuggled closer. “Those girls who ran away? Are they the ones who need help?”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t run away?”
“No.”
“Are you going to rescue them?”
Jane rubbed the back of her daughter’s hand against her cheek. “Do you think I’m capable of rescuing someone?”
Kate reached up to kiss her cheek. “You saved me, didn’t you?” she said. “You can do anything.”
A lump rose in Jane’s throat. “I’ll do my best,” she said. Then she sent her daughter off to bed and called David.
Hey, you there? He wrote me again tonight. Around dinnertime. But I had to rush off to a meeting for a school fundraiser and this is my first chance to get back online.
Hello?
You said to let you know.
Sebastian had just stepped out of the shower when he spotted Mary McCoy’s instant messages on his laptop. According to the time indicated on those messages, she’d tried to reach him twenty minutes ago, right after he’d gone into the bathroom.
Had she already signed off?
Afraid he was too late, he sat down wearing a towel and typed a quick response.
I’m here. What’d he say?
There was no immediate reply. A single mom, Mary was often up late. She’d told him it was the only time she could carve out of the day for herself. But-he glanced at the radio alarm by the bed-it was nearly midnight, and she had to go to the hospital where she worked bright and early in the morning. Maybe she’d gone to bed.
“Come on, come on.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. She’d given him her phone number, but he couldn’t call her at this hour, and he couldn’t drive over there, either. He stayed away from her place in case Malcolm was closer than they thought. Letting Malcolm see him would blow everything.
Mary? he typed, as if he was speaking and not merely sending another message.
Nothing. Damn. He’d missed her.
Shoving his wet hair out of his face to keep it from dripping into his eyes, he slumped in his chair, momentarily distracted by his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. God, he hardly recognized himself anymore. His hair, as thick and black as that of his Greek ancestors, was getting so long it curled around his ears and nape. His coal-black eyes were hollow and slightly sunken, so the sharp angles of his cheekbones protruded in an exaggerated fashion. Dark stubble covered a jaw and chin that, like his cheekbones, now seemed more pronounced. He’d once been so meticulous about his appearance and grooming. A haircut at Lucio’s every six weeks, standing appointment. A close shave twice a day to combat an unrelenting five-o’clock shadow. Italian shoes. Designer suits. Gold cuff links. A Rolex watch. Now he wore mostly jeans and T-shirts and a brown leather bomber jacket, rarely cut his hair and shaved every three days. The only personal maintenance he hadn’t abandoned besides regular hygiene was a stringent fitness routine. He pushed himself to lift and run more each day, but not because he gave a damn about improving his physique. It was all about coping with his frustration-and being ready to exact retribution.
In the same reflection, he could see his handgun sitting on the nightstand behind him. He’d spent a lot of time learning how to use it. Sometimes he even craved the feel of that smooth handle in his palm.
What have you become? he asked himself. Was he allowing what had happened to Colton to change more than his appearance and habits? Was he allowing it to twist his heart?
Constance certainly thought so. But he couldn’t seem to escape the compulsion driving him. It was like some kind of centripetal force that’d sucked him in and held him fast.
Let it go and move on, Connie always said. Come back to me. Don’t let Malcolm cost you any more than he already has.
For a moment, he grabbed at the hope in those words. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could go back to New York, to her.
He scooped his phone off the desk to see if she’d called again, but didn’t bother checking when he noticed a change on his computer screen. A reply from Mary McCoy had popped up.
BrownEyedGirl: I’m here.
Relieved, Sebastian tossed his phone on the bed so he could type.
S.Costas: What’d our friend have to say tonight?
BrownEyedGirl: Not a lot. It was mostly me, doing what you said to do. I told him I’d like to hook up, suggested I drive down to L.A. this weekend to see him.
With luck, she was leading Malcolm right where he wanted to go. Considering all the time he’d put into reestablishing the relationship, he had to be secretly hoping to see her. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be much of a payoff to their lengthy and sometimes sexual Internet discussions.
But would that desire be enough to tempt Malcolm into revealing his true identity? That was the big question.
S.Costas: Did he agree?
BrownEyedGirl: He didn’t disagree. But he didn’t make a commitment, either. I asked for his address. I said I wanted to see how far he lived from Sacramento. He said L.A. was about 400 miles. So I said maybe I should fly and he should pick me up at the airport, but he said he had a lot going on this weekend and we should plan it for another time.
He was dodging them, playing it safe.