Andrea Kane - The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

Marc spied Sherman’s office, his name on the door in big letters. Reflexively, he gave a quick scan of the hall. Empty.

Satisfied, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then, he extracted his flathead screwdriver and file, carefully inserting them in the lock and feeling his way, listening until he heard the telltale click. He pushed open the door and tucked away his tools. Dragging the maintenance cart in behind him, he yanked the door shut, walking through the reception area and into the main office behind it.

“What took you so long?” Ryan inquired through the air duct.

Marc arched a brow. “Nice warning. Timely, too. I almost flattened the shrink. What happened to not drawing attention to myself?”

“Sorry. Let’s get to it. Sherman takes short lunch breaks. That gives us maybe thirty minutes tops.” Ryan fell silent for a moment. “I think I see a file room in the back.”

“Yup, you do. And fortunately there’s no lock on the door.” Marc picked up the pace, striding across the floor and shoving open the door. “Are you in here?” he asked Ryan.

“Sure am. There’s an air-conditioning vent to your left. Gecko followed you in.” A low whistle. “I knew Sherman was a pack rat, but this lends new meaning to the phrase. There are file cabinets everywhere.”

“Lucky me.” One by one, Marc scanned the labels on the cabinets, which listed the files inside by date. “These only go back twenty-five years. Shit. Where are the rest?” He scrutinized the room.

There were loose stacks of files in the far corner.

“Let me try those,” he said to Ryan, pointing.

“Good idea.” Ryan waited while Marc squatted down and began rummaging through the files. He was careful to keep them in the same order he’d found them.

“These are the oldies but goodies,” Marc muttered, going back thirty, then thirty-plus years. “Bingo.” He stopped when he saw the name: Turner, Linda. “I got it,” he told Ryan.

“Great. The copying machine’s in the reception area. I’m moving Gecko to the main corridor outside the office. He’ll watch the door and the hallway.”

Marc headed right for the reception room and the copying machine, which was in plain view. He turned it on, and it whirred to life. Opening Linda’s file, he took out the stack of handwritten pages, and fed them into the machine.

It took about fifteen minutes to complete the job, and three minutes to return the reassembled file to its pile in the back room.

Leaving the office, Marc shut and locked the door behind him. He looked up at the vent and snapped off a salute. “See you back at the van, little guy.”

I’m scared, Mommy. Please come and find me.

It’s been a bunch of days. My cartoons have been reruns five times. I counted. She puts them on for me every day. And then she sits and watches me watch them.

It’s creepy, Mommy. She’s creepy.

I keep crying and crying-not when she’s here, because it makes her act weird and mushy. And that’s scarier than when she watches me play or tries to play with me. I only cry when I’m alone with Oreo and Ruby.

I don’t want to play the stupid computer game she gave me. She said she made it. I don’t care. I want my games back. I want to play them in my room, on my computer. But every time I ask if I can go home, she says I am home. I don’t know what she means. I’m in a pink room. She says it’s my princess room. I’m afraid to tell her that it’s not mine.

She’s wearing your necklace. And she smells like you. I don’t know why. But it makes me want to hide.

Oreo’s fur is all wet. Ruby’s feathers are, too. My crying did that. But they understand because they’re crying, too.

Why does she keep telling me that she’s my mommy? She’s not my mommy. You are. But when I tell her that, she gets mad at me. She says weird stuff. I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid she’ll do something bad. So I don’t say it anymore.

She keeps coming down here. I can count the stairs by the sound of her shoes. There are fourteen.

I hate that number. I hate hearing her come. I’m so happy when she goes away.

I don’t know who’s upstairs. But when she’s up there, I can hear her talking to someone. Only they never come down. Only her.

Maybe they’re scarier than she is.

I wish she’d go away forever. I don’t care about the ice cream and the toys and the bubble baths. I just want to go home.

Please, Mommy. I’m scared.

Please come and take me home.

Casey met Marc and Ryan in the parking lot of an Armonk pub. She left her car and climbed into Ryan’s van. There, she studied the psychiatrist’s official report for the hospital’s medical review board, declaring Linda fit to return to work. She also read through Linda Turner’s file, line by line, even though Marc and Ryan had summed it up perfectly on the phone.

There was no doubt that the poor woman had come apart at the seams right after her daughter drowned. She was inconsolable and despondent when she’d first starting seeing Dr. Sherman. Anna had clearly been her entire world. And that world had died with Anna.

Linda had made very little progress in the first months. But after intensive therapy, and a chunk of time, she’d begun to come back. Dr. Sherman was very pleased with her progress. And, by the time he’d given her the green light to return to work, he’d been more than confident that she was ready to start rebuilding her life, one baby step at a time. Starting with work, which he believed would give her a sense of purpose and something to focus on besides her grief.

He had, however, recommended that Linda continue with her counseling sessions, at least on a weekly basis. And she had…for a while. Then, without warning, she’d stopped going. From the doctor’s notes, it looked as if her insurance was no longer willing to cover the visits. Dr. Sherman had offered to work out some arrangement, perhaps a reduced rate, so that Linda could continue with her sessions. But she had respectfully turned him down, assuring him that her monetary situation was fine, as was her mental health. Things in her life were looking up.

In what way? With what money?

There were no answers to Casey’s questions. Because, abruptly, the file came to an end. The progress reports stopped. So, apparently, did Linda’s association with Dr. Sherman.

That in itself was a red flag.

But the chilling part was that Linda’s psychiatric sessions ended two weeks before Felicity Akerman was kidnapped.

Casey tossed down the file. “This is it. The timeline and coincidences can’t be ignored. And it changes everything, maybe even the focus of the investigation. We’ve got to act now.”

“We can’t take this one on alone, Casey,” Marc stated flatly. “We’ve got to involve the FBI task force.”

Ryan turned to Marc. “Since when do you worry about playing by the rules?”

“He’s right, Ryan,” Casey said. “This isn’t about rules. It’s about telling law enforcement what they need to know, and increasing our manpower. Linda Turner has to be found.”

“We can’t just turn over her psychiatric file,” Ryan responded. He went back to punching in information on his laptop, searching at top speed for any trail of their suspect. “We got it illegally. That means we could go to jail. Plus, the Feds can’t use it in court, anyway.”

“We won’t turn over the file,” Marc said. Being former BAU, he had the greatest knowledge and the most experience with the FBI. “We’ll just act as confidential informants. Based on what we know, we’ll give them verbal specifics, which will convince them to act without compromising their case.”