Pamela Tracy - Fugitive Family

A gray-haired woman turned down the television and then offered Lisa her hand. “Since Greg seems to have forgotten his manners, I’m Lydia Griffin.”

“Amber’s babysitter and best friend,” Greg added, putting Amber down. “Besides me, she’s the only one allowed to pick Amber up from school.”

“Overprotective father,” Mrs. Griffin said.

Lisa figured that.

“Wise father,” Greg countered.

“This is my new teacher,” Amber announced before plopping to the floor to carefully load coloring books, lined notebooks, crayons, pencils and loose paper into a backpack. She had a place for everything and everything went into its place. “Daddy hit her car, and she already knows I’m a good drawer.”

“Way to start the school year, Greg,” Mrs. Griffin said before scrutinizing Lisa. “So you’re the one taking over for Karen.”

“Yes. She showed up at school today with her new baby. Everyone was excited,” Lisa said.

“Daddy, look.”

“We didn’t think that girl would ever get married.” Mrs. Griffin chuckled. “Then she met, married and quit working, all in a school year.”

“A lot can happen in a short time,” Lisa agreed.

“Daddy, look.”

Finally, the grown-ups looked. The sound was off, but the picture said it all: a bank robbery. The grainy surveillance camera caught the bank robber as he entered and exited. He wore a gray jumpsuit and some sort of mask.

“They’re replaying that bank robbery from earlier this year,” Mrs. Griffin said. “They found the wife’s body. It’s on all the channels.”

“Daddy, look,” Amber repeated. “You’re on TV.”

Amber’s eyes remained glued to the television. Mrs. Griffin and Lisa turned to look at Greg. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He absolutely did not know how to handle this.

Mrs. Griffin’s look was one of amusement. She’d been watching Amber all summer and knew about his little girl’s imagination. She’d seen the drawings Amber made of her friends, her cat and her history. History being what worried Greg. He suspected that Mrs. Griffin had a vague idea that somewhere, at some time, existed a mother with curly blond hair who liked going to the park, who liked to sit at a dinner table and eat pizza, and who liked to read books to a little girl who sat in her lap. He hoped Mrs. Griffin didn’t question why sometimes the daddy in the pictures had brown hair instead of black, or why the little girl was blond. Mrs. Griffin probably knew Amber had lived in a two-story house, and it had been made of brick. She probably even suspected that Greg, judging by the cars Amber drew and the suit and tie Amber drew him in, had at one time worked in a white-collar job.

Lisa Jacoby had a look of pure curiosity. She knew little or nothing about Greg and Amber Bond, except what last year’s kindergarten teacher, Gillian Magee, had managed to figure out during the last month of school—that the little girl drew all the time and that Greg was a bit of a hovering parent.

Truth. Always stick as close to the truth as possible.

Greg managed what he hoped was a straight face and said, “The bank robber is wearing what’s called a grub mask. I bought one once, a long time ago, for a costume party.”

“It scared me,” Amber agreed.

“What exactly is a grub mask?” Mrs. Griffin asked.

“Maggot head,” Amber answered.

“That’s basically it,” Greg agreed. “It’s a mask designed to look like a maggot infestation. We no longer have the mask, and I’m sorry I taught my daughter the words maggot head.” Greg gave Amber what he hoped was a stern look and then started to pick up her backpack. Instead, she scooted over and grabbed it. It was a continual power struggle of “I can do it, Daddy” versus “Honey, I’m not quite ready to let you take on the world.”

Today, right now, he didn’t care to battle. The most important thing was the fact that even though Mrs. Griffin had said the words, Amber didn’t get that her mother’s body had been found.

Didn’t get that her mother was dead.

Didn’t get that her father’s heart was broken yet again and that there wasn’t a thing he could do about it: not grieve, not scream, not even demand justice.

He didn’t have the time or the energy. Not if he wanted to keep Amber safe.

“Are you all packed?” Greg asked quickly. He needed to get out of here before the ladies asked any questions, before the news ran a repeat of his denial and the sound of Alex’s voice saying, “I did not kill my wife,” made the ladies look at Greg.

And inspired Amber to say, “Listen, Daddy, I can hear you talking.”

“Yes,” Amber chirped. “I’m all packed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Griffin,” he said, and hurried the ladies out to the truck, wishing he could simply pick Amber up and run—anything to get Lisa to her home and him to his—but no, Amber insisted on carrying her own backpack, dragging her feet, and casting curious looks at Lisa. Well, no wonder! It had been months since she’d seen a pretty woman—any woman for that matter—get into a vehicle with her father. He’d been so concerned about picking up Amber, making sure she was safe, that he’d forgotten his own rule.

Stay as private as possible; don’t involve others.

He should have taken the teacher home first. Amber would have been fine. And this was just the beginning! Staying private had proved impossible from the moment he’d heard the news on the radio. Since the announcement, he’d been the center of attention of his coworkers—both in the parking lot and when he plowed into Lisa’s car—and now, thanks to a grub mask, he’d also piqued both Mrs. Griffin’s and Miss Jacoby’s interest.

As Greg hoisted Amber into the truck, he whispered in her ear, “Everything’s okay. We’ll talk when we get home.”

Amber nodded, scooted to the middle and started fiddling with the seat belt. Lisa reached over to help.

It was an everyday occurrence, a woman helping a child, but the sight of his little girl—short, black hair and Dora the Explorer shirt—and her teacher—shoulder-length, reddish-gold hair and dark blue dress—sitting side by side in the truck’s cab and fiddling with the seat belts gave Greg pause.

Amber’s mother should be sitting in the truck. She should be the one helping Amber with her seat belt, getting ready to send Amber off to first grade, and helping to raise Amber.

Lisa’s hair was full and straight, instead of blond and curly, like Greg’s late wife’s. Lisa was about a decade younger. Lisa probably would live to a ripe old age, watching her children grow, and bouncing grandchildren on her knee.

His wife had made it to her thirty-third birthday. She’d given birth to one child, talked about a second. She’d never see her daughter graduate from high school, let alone get married and produce grandchildren.

Rachel Cooke’s body had been discovered six months to the day after Alexander Cooke allegedly robbed his first bank and killed his first victim.

On the drive from the babysitter’s place to the teacher’s, Greg Bond didn’t say a word. He gripped the steering wheel and stared, white-faced, straight ahead. He possessed a raw power she wasn’t used to. Amber frowned at her father, confused, and then stared at Lisa with an expression of awe and fear. Finally, realizing that she had a captive audience, she opened her backpack.

“This is Tiffany.” Amber put a drawing in Lisa’s lap. “She’s my best friend.” It was a drawing of a pudgy girl with long hair in pigtails and wearing a yellow shirt and orange pants.

“I like her red hair.”

“Me, too. I like yours.”

Lisa glanced at Greg. He didn’t glance back. Good, because it meant he kept his eyes on the road.