The vision came without warning, a door bursting open in
her mind.
Frightened blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying. Freckled
cheeks, smudged with tears and dirt.
Red hair, tangled and sweat-darkened.
A terrified cry. "Daddy, help me!"
Lily Browning pressed her fingers against her temples and
squeezed her eyes closed. Explosions of light and pain
raced through her head like arcs of tracer fire. Around
her, a thick gray mist swirled. Moisture beaded on her
brow, grew heavy and slid down her cheek.
She opened her eyes, afraid of what she would see. It was
just an empty schoolroom, the remains of the morning's
classes scattered about the space — backpacks draped by
their straps over the backs of chairs, books lying askew.
The kids were still at recess.
"Lily?" A woman's voice broke the silence. Lily jumped.
Carmen Herrera, the assistant principal, stood at the
entrance of the classroom, but it was the man behind her
who commanded Lily's attention. His dark hair was crisp
and close-cut, emphasizing his rough-hewn features and
hard hazel eyes. His gaze swept over Lily in a quick but
thorough appraisal.
The door in her mind crept open again. She stiffened,
forcing it shut, her head pounding from the strain. Pain
danced behind her eyes, the familiar opening salvo of a
migraine.
"Headache again?" Carmen asked, concerned.
Lily pushed herself upright. "It's not too bad." But
already the room began to spin. Swaying, she gripped the
edge of the desk.
The man in the charcoal suit pushed past Carmen to cup
Lily's elbow, holding her steady. "Are you all right?"
Lily's arm tingled where he touched her. Raw, barely
leashed power rolled off him in waves, almost as tangible
as the scent of his aftershave. It swamped her, stole her
breath.
He said her name, his fingers tightening around her elbow.
Something else besides power flooded through her.
Something dark and bitter and raw.
She met his gaze — and immediately regretted it. "Help me,
Daddy!" The cry echoed in her head. Fog blurred the edges
of her sight.
Swallowing hard, she fought the relentless undertow and
pulled her elbow from the man's grasp, resisting the urge
to rub away the lingering sensation of his touch. "I'm
fine."
"Lily gets migraines," Carmen explained. "Not that often,
but when they hit, they're doozies."
Lily heard a thread of anxiety woven in the woman's
usually upbeat, calm voice. A chill flowed through her,
raising goose bumps on her arms. "Has something happened?"
Something passed between Carmen and the man beside
her. "Lily, this is Lieutenant McBride with the police.
Lieutenant, this is Lily Browning. She teaches third
grade." Carmen closed the classroom door behind her and
lowered her voice. "One of our students is missing.
Lieutenant McBride's talking to all the teachers to find
out whether they've seen her."
Red-rimmed eyes.
Tearstained face.
Frightened cries.
Lily's head spun.
Lieutenant McBride pulled a photo from his coat pocket and
held it out to her. She shut her eyes, afraid to look.
"Ms. Browning?" He sounded concerned, even solicitous, but
suspicion lurked behind the polite words.
Lily forced herself to look at the picture he held. A
smiling face stared up at her from the photo framed by red
curls scooped into a topknot and fastened with a green
velvet ribbon.
Lily thought she was going to throw up. "You haven't seen
her today, have you?" McBride asked. "Her name is Abby
Walters. She's a first-grader here."
"I don't have a lot of contact with first-graders." Lily
shook her head, feeling helpless and guilty. The sandwich
she'd eaten at lunch threatened to come back up, and she
didn't want it to end up on the lieutenant's scuffed
Rockports.
"You've never seen her?" A dark expression passed across
McBride's face. Pain, maybe, or anger. It surged over
Lily, rattling her spine and cracking open the door of her
mind.
Unwanted sounds and images flooded inside. The lost girl,
now smiling, cuddled in a man's arms, listening to his
warm voice tell the story of The Velveteen Rabbit. Red
curls tucked under a bright blue knit cap, cheeks pink
with —
Cold. So cold.
Scared.
Screaming.
Crying.
Grimy tears streamed down a face twisted with terror, hot
and wet on her cold, cold cheeks. Panic built in Lily's
chest. She pushed against the vision, forcing it away.
"We have reason to believe that Abby Walters may have been
taken from her mother this morning," he said.
"Where's her mother?"
"She's dead."
The words sent ice racing through Lily's veins. She
swallowed hard and lied. "I haven't seen this little
girl."
McBride gave her an odd, considering look before he
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business
card. "If you think of anything that might help us find
her, call me."
She took the card from him, his palpable suspicion like a
weight bending her spine.
Carmen had kept her distance while McBride talked to Lily,
but once he turned back toward the door, she moved past
him and took Lily's hand. "Go home and sleep off this
headache. I'll send Linda from the office to cover for
you." She glanced at the detective, who watched them from
the doorway. "I can't believe something like this has
happened to one of our kids. I'm working on a migraine
myself." She returned to McBride's side to escort him from
the room.
Lily thrust the business card into her skirt pocket and
slumped against the edge of her desk. Sparks of colored
light danced behind her eyes, promising more pain to come.
She debated trying to stick out the rest of the afternoon,
but her stomach rebelled. She barely made it to the
bathroom before her lunch came up.
As soon as Linda arrived to cover her class, Lily headed
for the exit, weaving her way through the groups of
laughing children returning to their classrooms, until she
reached her Buick, parked beneath one of the ancient oak
trees that sheltered the schoolyard. She slid behind the
wheel and closed the door, gratefully shutting out the
shrieks and shouts from the playground.
In the quiet, doubts besieged her. She should have told
the detective about her visions. She couldn't make much
sense of the things she'd seen, but Lieutenant McBride
might. What if her silence cost that little girl her life?
Lily pulled the business card from her pocket and squinted
at the small, narrow type made wavy by her throbbing head.
The scent of his crisp aftershave lingered on the card.
Lily closed her eyes, remembering his square jaw and lean,
hard face. And those eyes — clear, intense, hard as flint.
She knew the type well. Give him the facts, give him
evidence, but don't give him any psychic crap.
Lieutenant McBride would never believe what she'd seen.
BY MIDAFTERNOON, when Andrew Walters called from a
southbound jet to demand answers about his missing
daughter, McBride realized he faced a worst-case scenario.
Less than one percent of children abducted were taken by
people outside of their own families. Most child
abductions were custody matters, mothers or fathers
unhappy with court arrangements taking matters into their
own hands.
But there was no custody battle in the Walters case. From
all accounts, Andrew Walters had no complaints about the
custody arrangement with his ex-wife. Over the phone, at
least, he'd seemed genuinely shocked to hear his ex-wife
had been murdered.
When he learned Abby was missing, shock turned to panic.
"Did you check her school?" he asked McBride, his voice
tight with alarm.
"Yes." The memory of Lily Browning's pale face and wild,
honey-colored eyes filled McBride's mind, piquing his
curiosity — and suspicion — all over again.
"Is there any reason to think Abby might..." Andrew
Walters couldn't finish the question.
"It's too early to think that way."
"Are you sure Abby was with Debra?"
"As sure as we can be." When they'd found Debra Walters
dead on the side of Old Cumberland Road, a clear plastic
backpack with Abby's classwork folder and a couple of
primary readers had been lying next to her. Furthermore,
neighbors remembered seeing Abby in the car with Debra
that morning when she'd left the house.
Her car, a blue Lexus, was missing.
They'd held out hope that Debra had delivered her daughter
to school before the carjacking, but McBride's trip to the
school had turned up no sign of Abby.
McBride looked down at his desk blotter, where Abby's
photo lay, challenging him. He reached for the bottle of
antacid tablets by his pencil holder and popped a couple
in his mouth, grimacing at the chalky, fake-orange
taste. "We've set up a task force to find your daughter.
An Amber Alert has been issued. Her photo will be on every
newscast in Alabama this evening. We've set up a phone
monitoring system at the hotel where you usually stay when
you're in Borland, and a policeman will be within easy
reach any time of the day or night. If you get a call from
anyone about your daughter, we'll be ready."
"You don't have a suspect yet?" Walters sounded appalled.
"Not yet. There's an APB out on the car, and we've got
technicians scouring the crime scene —"
"That could take days! Abby doesn't have days." McBride
passed his hand over his face, wishing he could assure
Walters that his daughter would be found, safe and
unharmed. But she'd been taken by carjackers who'd left
her mother dead. McBride didn't want to think why they'd
taken her with them instead of killing her when they'd
killed her mother.
In the burning pit of McBride's gut, he knew he'd find
Abby Walters dead. Today or tomorrow or months down the
road, her little body would turn up in a Dumpster or an
abandoned building or at the bottom of a ditch along the
highway.
But he couldn't say that to Andrew Walters. Walters's
voice was tinny through the air phone. "Nobody's called in
with sightings?"
"Not yet."A few calls had come in as soon as theAmber
Alert went out. The usual loons. McBride had sent men to
check on them, but, of course, nothing had panned
out. "Come on — when something like this happens, you get
calls out your ass." Anger and anxiety battled in
Walters's voice. "Don't you dare dismiss them all as
crackpots."
"We're following every lead."
"I want my daughter found. Understood?"
"Understood." McBride ignored the imperious tone in
Walters's voice. The man was a politician, used to making
things happen just because he said so. And God knew,
McBride couldn't blame him for wanting his daughter
brought home at any cost.
But he knew how these things went. He'd seen it up close
and personal. The parent of a lost child was desperate and
vulnerable. A nut job with a snappy sales pitch could
convince a grieving parent of just about anything.
"We're about to land," Walters said. "I have to hang up."
"One of my men, Theo Baker, will meet you at the airport
and drive you to your hotel," McBride said. "I'll be by
this evening unless something comes up in the case.
Please, try not to worry until we know what it is we have
to worry about."