Tara Quinn - Where the Road Ends

“Did you get the license plate?”

“It was a Michigan plate, not the Illinois one we knew about, but that doesn’t mean anything. If she’s capable of taking a child, she certainly wouldn’t have a problem switching plates.”

“If she’d taken a child, I’d agree with you.”

She gave him the plate number, then said, “I followed her all afternoon, Brad. She led me to this little town, Lawrence. You know where it is?”

“Vaguely. Is that where you are?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you lost the car you were following?”

“She turned off onto a series of old roads that looked like they hadn’t been used in years. There were no streetlights, no houses around to light the area. It got dark and all I had to go by were her taillights.”

“Which, if she knew she was being followed, she could have turned off.”

“She’d still have had brake lights.”

“Not if she slowed down enough not to need her brakes.”

“I went back and took every turnoff,” Amy told him, frustrated and confused all over again. “Even private drives. I don’t know how she could’ve disappeared into thin air like that.”

“You drove, by yourself, in the dark, on deserted private roads.”

“Of course. I didn’t want to lose her.”

“What about losing yourself?” he asked, real anger in his voice. “Do you have any idea how stupid that was? Who knows what might’ve happened to you?”

“I’d have handled it,” Amy said. “I had my cell phone.”

“Which you didn’t use.”

“I was looking for Charles. Nothing else mattered.”

“And what if you’d found him and ended up getting abducted yourself?”

Then at least she’d be spending this night with her son in her arms.

“If, and I’m not saying it’s so, but if these people are dangerous, Amelia, they wouldn’t be averse to hurting you in front of Charles just to get his cooperation.”

She was getting dizzy. Light-headed. Nauseous again.

“It would be so much easier if they’d just wanted money,” Brad continued, “but with no ransom requests, absolutely everything about this case is random.”

Another given that had been discussed too many times.

“I’m taking another look at some of your competitors, Amelia,” he said when she was thinking about disconnecting the call.

“Okay.”

“We might notice something—some big projects that have been awarded with you out of the picture, a sudden influx of cash…”

“Wainscoat hasn’t lost any work.”

“And you have your finger on the pulse of the construction business these days? You know what projects are up for bid and who they’re going to? You know what people in the industry are saying about Wainscoat? About you?”

Longing for the sleeping pills that had been prescribed for her the previous August—which she’d never used—Amy turned her head on the pillow.

“You think someone could be slowly sabotaging me, insinuating doubt about Wainscoat’s reliability, trying to undermine the years of trust we’ve built?”

“It’s possible.”

“Wouldn’t Cara know?”

“That depends on how talented the culprit is.”

God, she was tired. Too tired to care if she lost her business.

“How valid is your theory?” she asked.

“Valid enough to warrant a check, Amelia.”

“On a scale of one to ten.”

“Four to five.”

Amy hooked a pillow with one arm, hugging it to her. She took an odd and immediate comfort from the soft worn cotton and flattened foam. A feeling similar to the reassurance brought about by Brad Dorchester’s thoroughness.

“Can you please call me Amy?”

“If you’d prefer.”

“I would.”

“If you won’t go home, at least give me your word that, in the future, you’ll call me before taking off on a chase.”

“You won’t stop me.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then yes, I’ll call you.” She’d at least try.

“Good. Now get some rest…Amy.”

As if she could.

She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

The kid was crying again. She hadn’t been prepared for that. Never thought that a kid who was five years old would still cry.

But this one did. All the time—or so it seemed to her. He didn’t cry when she was pulling him along and he fell down and skinned his knee so bad there was blood all over. That she could’ve understood. Nor any of the times she’d slapped him. Not even when she’d made him throw his ice-cream cone away the day she’d seen a dress in a store window that she wanted to try on and there’d been a No Food Allowed sign posted at the front door.

She would’ve understood that, too. Probably would have yelled at him to shut up. But she’d have understood.

But no—she pulled one of her fluffy feather pillows over her head to drown out the pathetic sound before it pissed her off enough to make her get up and do something about it—this kid only cried for one reason.

The one reason she absolutely could not forgive.

The fucking kid was crying for his mother.

Needed ASAP, Blade, Loader & Scraper operators…

How did one operate a Scraper? For that matter, what was a Scraper?

Printing pressman, exp. only…

That left her out.

ADULT NEWSPAPER CARRIERS WANTED. Immediate openings. Must be 18 or older. Call…

Amy circled it.

Janitor needed, Lawrence Elementary School. No experience necessary. FT position. Salary commensurate w/exp. Apply M-F, 8-3, at Lawrence Elementary main office.

Perfect.

“Can I get you more coffee, ma’am?”

“What?” Amy looked up from the newspaper want ads. “Oh, no, thank you, I’ve had enough.”

“You sure I can’t get you something else to eat?”

“No thanks.” She smiled at the friendly girl dressed in an old-fashioned waitress uniform with big front pockets. “The toast was fine.”

“You hardly ate any of it.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” Amy glanced back at the paper. “Listen, you wouldn’t happen to know where the elementary school is, would you?”

“Sure, it’s just down this road.” She pointed out the window to the road Amy had taken into town the night before. “Go right at the corner. It’s about half a mile down the street. There’re some swings in the side yard. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Amy smiled again.

Coffeepot in hand, the girl continued on to the next table, and Amy read the ad one more time. Infiltrating towns had become a way of life for her. Plans formed naturally, as though she’d been living this way forever.

Sometimes that was how it seemed.

She hardly gave a thought anymore to what her shareholders would think of their CEO cleaning toilets.

Or sitting here, dressed in a pair of cheap jeans, a polyester orange sweater and tennis shoes, in this sticky-tabled restaurant with black scuff marks all over the floor.

Remembering Brad’s theory that someone might be out to destroy her professional reputation, Amy still didn’t care. She’d sacrificed so much for Wainscoat Construction, and in the end, all that money hadn’t been enough to buy her the one thing that mattered. Her son’s safety.

Which was why she was sitting in a greasy spoon in a town that would never be able to afford the services of a nationally renowned group of builders. And it was why she belonged there.

Each of the small towns was a bit different, yet her goal was completely the same. Get into the schools, scour records. Of course, Charles wouldn’t be registered under his own name, but maybe, being the boy’s mother, she’d recognize some hint. Some clue, however slight. Maybe a new student who chose chocolate milk on the lunch plan…