“This makes a change,” Saint said, as Patch ladled Brunswick stew into her bowl.
“Charlotte made it.”
“Under duress,” Charlotte said.
Saint took a mouthful and smacked her lips. “I can taste the duress.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and headed down to the basement.
“I remember that same move on her mother,” Saint said.
Patch smiled. “The way you look at Charlotte…”
“What?”
He sipped his wine. “You just…”
She tossed a piece of bread at him. “Eat up. You’re looking skinny.”
Afterward she left Patch to clear up and went down to the basement where Charlotte worked on her bulletin board, her small nose turned up in concentration, bare feet on the floor.
Saint marveled at the detail, the scale of the map and the sheer number of names and dates placed on it.
“What are the colors?” Saint said.
“The blue girls were definitely abducted. The green ran away. The orange disappeared without a trace.”
From Texas up to the Dakotas, from Oregon to Virginia.
“And the red?”
Charlotte kept her eyes on the map. “Those are the dead girls.”
Patch joined them, handed Saint a glass of wine, and settled on the low couch.
For a long time Saint just stared, the task at hand too much, growing too fast.
She recognized some of the names.
Saint moved forward and added Crystal Wright in red.
Charlotte watched her quietly, respectfully. “I know them by heart,” Charlotte said, and it was not a boast, just a fact that left the three of them mournful.
“Angela Rossi,” Saint said, beneath her breath as she stared at the map.
Charlotte pointed.
“Summer Reynolds,” Saint said.
Charlotte found her.
“You’ve written Colorado’s Kingdom,” Saint said, and squinted at the girl’s scrawl.
“Old name for Breckenridge. I like it better.”
And it was then, after two glasses of wine, two helpings of Brunswick stew, and a decent slice of chocolate cake, that Saint made a match.
Saint told them good night.
Heart pounding as she raced back to her car.