Andrea Kane - The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

“I’ll hold you to that.”

This time Claire’s flashes of insight didn’t come in a dream.

They did come while she was in bed, however. When she was lying there, staring off in the darkened room and contemplating the idea of joining Forensic Instincts.

Her mind began to wander, drifting from one team member to the other. She envisioned her role in the company. Her relationships with the people.

Suddenly, those images were gone, replaced with the sights, sounds and smells of tragedy.

A medical facility with negative energy surrounding it.

That image faded. The darkness persisted.

White panic. A car. Veering wildly. The grinding screech of failing brakes. Tearing metal. The car, rolling over and over, spiraling downward. Thudding against the craggy terrain. A violent stop. Flames. The smell of gas. The blast of an explosion.

The icy stillness of death.

Fear. Krissy’s face. Tears coursing down her cheeks. Hope’s face. Pain and frustration carved into her very soul.

Krissy. Hope. Krissy. Hope.

Claire jerked into an erect position, unable to bear the onslaught of images any longer.

For a minute she sat there, pulling up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. She tried to make sense of what she’d experienced. Clearly, the first part was Claudia Mitchell’s murder. But the second part, the harsh, alternating flashes between Krissy and Hope-that had to mean something.

Krissy was still alive.

She knew that in a flash. The child was traumatized, withdrawn, afraid.

But still alive.

Instantly, Claire reached over and picked up her phone.

Casey was in the living room of the brownstone, drinking her fifth cup of coffee of the day. She’d hung around the Willises long enough to hear what she already knew from Marc.

Peg and the task force members had returned from Sunny Gardens, where they’d spoken to Ms. Babick in Human Resources and learned about the great interview Claudia Mitchell had had that morning. The poor woman had been shocked to learn about Claudia’s tragic, fatal car crash. The task force further reported that Bennato Construction was on the premises, building a new wing. They’d questioned the construction crew, particularly the foreman, who was an emotional wreck.

Casey had smiled at that part. Bill Parsons had been a wreck, all right. But not because he knew anything. Because Marc had pinned him to the wall, pressed his forearm across the guy’s neck, and threatened to crush his windpipe if he didn’t tell him what he knew.

Parsons had spewed all kinds of information-the names of the construction crew, the length of time they’d been working the project, the corners they’d been told to cut.

None of it gave them a clue about Krissy Willis’s abduction.

But Parsons did know Joe Deale, and he had heard he was locked up. Between that, and his terror over Marc’s death grip, he was more than happy to swear that he’d keep his mouth shut about Marc’s little visit if the Feds came around.

Casey wasn’t surprised to hear that the task force had come away with nothing. But she was interested in their subsequent interrogation of Joe Deale, where they’d squeezed out the fact that Parsons’s brother Ike was one of Tony Bennato’s fair-haired boys-the foreman on some of his most lucrative projects. Interesting. Marc might have another visit to pay.

As for the photos Ryan had created, neither Vera nor Hope had come up with a damned thing. Hope hadn’t laid eyes on any of the grown women who’d once been Felicity’s childhood friends, and Vera didn’t recognize the older renditions of those children’s parents.

Even Patrick was stumped, although he did remember interviewing almost all the parents in the photos. He was frustrated as hell, but not surprised. He might have missed Sidney Akerman’s mob connection, but he hadn’t missed the obvious. He’d grilled the neighborhood suspects again and again those thirty-two years ago, until they cringed every time he knocked on their doors.

Casey was still deep in thought, when her phone rang.

“Casey Woods,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Casey, it’s Claire.” Claire’s voice was shaky but certain. “Krissy Willis is still alive.”

Casey’s head shot up. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be without seeing her in person. I just got a strong sense of her presence, and some vivid flashes of her face. She’s sobbing her heart out. This experience has badly scarred her. But whoever has her didn’t break her. Not yet. And they definitely didn’t kill her.” A stymied sigh. “Every time I get close to sensing who the kidnappers are, or what they plan to do to Krissy, the vision is eclipsed by Hope Willis’s pain. I just can’t get around it. I keep seeing Hope, time and again.”

“That’s not a shock. Hope is coming apart at the seams. And who can blame her? Her daughter’s been missing for more than four days. She knows the statistics. In fact, I’m not sure whether or not I should tell her about your vision. Would it help? Or would it give her false hope?” Casey hastened to qualify her statement. “I’m not questioning your abilities. I’m relieved as hell to hear what you sensed. But to tell a mother…”

“I understand,” Claire said. “And I’m not offended. Casey, no matter how strong your faith in clairvoyance is, you can’t help but doubt what you can’t see. Nonetheless, I’d tell Hope if I were you. She needs something to cling to. And, if by some sick twist of fate I’m wrong, the loss of her daughter won’t be any less unbearable.”

“You’re right.” Casey had to agree that what Claire said made a world of sense. “I’ll call her now. There’s no need to put her through another agonizing night. Not if I can ease the pain a little.”

A half hour later, Casey was still feeling a sense of well-being at Hope’s reaction to her phone call. How grateful she’d sounded. How many indebted tears she’d cried.

Now, Casey could only pray that the hope she’d given the Willises would be realized.

There was a knock on the door, and Hero leaped to life, barking and braying at the sound. He headed for the stairs, making his way down, ears flopping as he descended.

Casey followed behind, glancing at her watch as she did. It was ten o’clock, too late for the team, too early for Hutch.

“Who is it?” she called.

No answer.

“Who’s there?” she asked, this time louder.

Again, there was no response.

Sliding the chain lock into place, Casey opened the door a crack and peered outside. Hero shoved his nose through the small opening and sniffed, growling under his breath.

There was nobody on the doorstep.

Assuming the visitor had realized he or she was at the wrong house, Casey urged Hero inside and started to shut the door. As she did, she noticed an envelope tucked under the doorjamb.

She unchained the door and opened it, reaching down and picking up the envelope. It had her name carefully printed on it in ink.

Swiftly, she glanced up and down the street. Quiet and empty.

Hero was sniffing the doorstep. He looked ready to take off in hot pursuit.

Casey nipped that in the bud. She coaxed Hero back into the house. Then she locked the door and turned, leaning back against the wall and carefully opening the envelope. On second thought, she walked into the storage room and got a pair of latex gloves, which she wriggled her hands into. If this letter had anything to do with the Willis case, she didn’t want to smudge any fingerprints that might be on the page.

That done, she slid the sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.

There was one phrase scrawled there in ink: Look closer at family.