Making Her Way Home

A weird sensation swelled in her chest. It felt hot and scary and she finally recognized that it was fear. She lifted her hands above her, knowing what she’d find.

She was inside the trunk of a car. A car that wasn’t running, that was parked somewhere in the city. And it had to be night, because there’d have to be cracks, wouldn’t there? And she could see light, now that she was concentrating, but only a little, leaking around or through taillights.

Now her breath came in whimpering little shudders. Mommy, Mommy. Aunt Beth. Please somebody come and get me.

What if I scream?

She was curled into a tiny, terrified ball now, containing that scream behind chattering teeth. Because, really, she’d maybe rather not find out who’d unlock the trunk and lift the lid.

* * *

MIKE TOOK A CHANCE THAT HE’D catch the grandparents at home and drove straight to Seattle, checking his computer on the way for Laurence Greenway’s address. Somehow he wasn’t surprised to find the Greenways lived in Magnolia, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. When he got there, he found the enormous brick home was a waterfront property.

An eight-foot brick wall fronted the property and iron gates kept out the hoi polloi. He rang a buzzer and when a voice inquired who he was, he said into the speaker, “Police. Detective Mike Ryan.”

After a pause, the gates slowly swung open. He followed the circular drive and parked beside the front porch.

He recognized the man who opened the door to him. He’d seen Greenway on the news or in photos in the Seattle Times, he realized.

Beth Greenway’s father was handsome in the way wealthy men often were. His slacks and polo shirt were casual but obviously expensive. At maybe five foot ten, he was lean and fit for sixty years old. He undoubtedly belonged to a club, played racquetball, probably had a personal trainer. His hair had been allowed to go white but had a silver gleam to it that didn’t strike Mike as natural. He had the tan of a man who spent time on his sailboat.

He stood in the open doorway and said, “May I see your identification, Detective?”

Mike flipped open his badge and handed it over.

“Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”

“Yes, I am.” Mike met his gaze stolidly. “May I come in, Mr. Greenway? I’d like to speak to you and your wife.”

“What is this about?”

“Your granddaughter, Sicily.”

After a moment he nodded. “Very well.” Shutting the door behind Mike, he led him to an elegantly appointed living room, where the ten o’clock news was playing on a flat-screen television that would be hidden within a gilt-trimmed armoire during the day.

The woman who’d been watching it turned her head, saw him and rose gracefully. He knew she was fifty-eight, but she sure as hell didn’t look it. His first reaction was to her looks; Rowena Greenway was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She’d gifted her daughter with those magnificent cheekbones and gold-flecked eyes. He saw money here, too. Her hair was still dark, short and beautifully cut. She could have been in her thirties, which made him suspect a facelift.

“Laurence?”

Greenway introduced Mike and said, “He says he wants to talk to us about Sicily.”

Her eyebrows rose. After a moment, she said, “Please have a seat, Detective.”

He chose a wingback chair that was bloody uncomfortable. The Greenways sat on the sofa facing him, the middle cushion between them. He found himself irritated by the flicker of the television, which neither of them reached to turn off. The sound wasn’t loud, but he still had to raise his voice slightly.

“First, let me ask when you last spoke to your granddaughter.”

They glanced at each other. “I believe it was at the funeral,” Laurence said. “Are you aware Sicily’s mother died recently? It was a terrible tragedy.”

His sad tone sounded staged; there was nothing really personal in it. He might have been speaking about the daughter of a colleague of his. Neither he nor his wife looked exactly devastated.

“I was aware of that. My condolences.”

“Thank you,” Rowena murmured.

“Did you know that your daughter Rachel intended for her sister to raise Sicily in the event she herself was unable to?”

“No, we did not,” Rowena said crisply. “I’m sure it goes without saying that we would have welcomed our only grandchild into our home.”

Funny how sure he was that she hadn’t cared one way or another. Mike couldn’t remember meeting a chillier pair of people. Certainly explained Beth’s ice-princess mode.

Laurence made a sharp gesture with one hand. “We’ve been more than patient. Why the questions?”

“Beth took Sicily to the beach today. Just before midday, your granddaughter disappeared. Search-and-rescue volunteers turned up no sign of her at the park. We must now consider the possibility that she was abducted.”

After a pause, during which both looked startled, Laurence snorted. “I suppose we can expect a ransom call then.”

Mike raised his eyebrows.

“Well, why else would anyone want her?”

“Unfortunately, men who abduct young girls are most often sexual predators.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect such a thing, or are you merely trying to alarm us?”

Mike schooled his expression with an effort. No wonder both daughters had apparently been estranged from their parents. “I wouldn’t think I’d have to alarm you,” he said mildly. “The fact that Sicily has been missing for eleven hours now seems to speak for itself.”

“Dear God. Poor Sicily,” Rowena murmured. Then her eyes widened. “Surely you didn’t think we’d taken her?” She reached out a hand to her husband, who took it without moving any closer to her. “You do understand that we’d have had our attorney file for custody if we felt our daughter Elizabeth wasn’t doing an adequate job of caring for Sicily.”

“I hoped you’d answer some questions.”

“Like?”

“Do you know whether Sicily can swim?”

He expected an “I don’t know” or some equivalent, so it came as a surprise when Rowena said, “I’m sure she can. We were somewhat estranged from Rachel, but she did call home from time to time. I recall her mentioning swim lessons. They were in Los Angeles at the time. She said that Sicily loved the water.”

He nodded. “How would you describe your granddaughter? Is she likely to take off with someone on impulse, for example?”

“Heavens, no! She’s quiet and rather ordinary. Oh-so practical. But I suppose she’d have had to be,” she continued, nostrils flaring in disdain, “with the mother she had.”

Mike stared at her. She gazed coolly back.

Her husband let go of her hand and reached for the remote control and turned up the sound on the TV. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to see this.”

Mike swiveled. A segment had come on about the governor’s stance on a proposal to expand funding for higher education. He realized incredulously that Laurence had been watching with one eye this entire time for items of interest to him.

Did either of them give a damn that their granddaughter was missing? Did anyone actually love Sicily Marks? he wondered.