Bloomfield Hills, Michigan
Present day
Adriana!” Roslyn shot up in bed, clutching her chest, breathing hard, and scanning the dark room. The way her nightgown stuck to her clammy skin, it’d be easy to assume the air conditioner had stopped working sometime during the night and the July heat had soaked through the satin material. But that wasn’t the case. The overhead air vent blew cold air, raising the hairs on her arms and making her shiver.
Brandon’s arm came around her. “It’s okay. You had another bad dream.”
“This was different,” she whispered.
Her husband rolled to the edge of their king-sized bed and flipped on the lamp. “I’ll get you something to drink.” He tossed the covers back and climbed off the mattress. “Do you want water or something stronger?”
“Water, please.” Roslyn didn’t want anything to interfere with her ability to recall every second of the dream. Holding her forehead, she collapsed against the pillows and closed her eyes. Why the same redheaded man? Did she know him?
Brandon returned to the bedroom with a glass of water. He sat down on the edge of the mattress on her side of the bed and handed her the glass. “I also brought you this.” He handed her a blue oval-shaped tablet.
“I don’t need Xanax.”
“It’ll relax you.”
“It’ll make me forget.”
“Roz.” He groaned. “You’re exhausted. You’re scheduled for multiple speaking engagements for the foundation and talking on camera always makes you nervous. You never sleep well between tapings.”
“This isn’t the time to remind me, Brandon. I’m flying to New York later today to do another segment on DiAnna’s show.” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand and tossed the covers back. “I have to go.”
Brandon followed her into the bathroom. He leaned against the granite counter and crossed his arms as she turned on the shower. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms, and she could see his thick shoulders and strong chest, exposing his love of sports and the sculpted results of extensive daily workouts.
She slipped into the walk-in closet, selected a silk blouse and linen suit, then debated which pair of shoes would best fit the occasion. Flats or heels? Nude or white? Open- or closed-toe?
“You never said what your dream was about,” he said, poking his head around the closet entrance.
“A redheaded man was holding a newspaper and on the front page it read: ‘Long Wait Over, Colepepper’s Abducted Daughter Home Safe.’” She withheld the fact that she’d had the same dream before, even the day Adriana went missing. “What do you think it means?”
Brandon grimaced.
She should have known better and not asked. Roslyn tilted her chin and marched past him, stopping to hang her clothes on the hook outside the shower.
“Roz.” He turned her shoulders so she was facing him. “I think it’s clear how busy you’ve been.”
“This was real,” she rasped. “I saw her.”
Roslyn climbed into the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car and glanced at her watch. Hopefully Chrisla wasn’t running late. “Have you checked the traffic?” she asked the driver.
“Clear all the way to the airport, ma’am.”
“That’s a relief.” Roslyn opened her compact and studied her reflection in the mirror. Makeup had disguised the dark shadows under her eyes, lifted her cheekbones, and brightened her otherwise dull complexion with a soft peachy glow. Not too bad for no sleep. Her cell phone buzzed. Chrisla, if you’re running late . . . But a quick check of the caller ID told her it wasn’t her sister. Unless she was calling from an unrecognizable number.
Roslyn pressed the answer button. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Colepepper, this is Wayne Grant from the Detroit News. I’m calling to see if you would be interested in doing a feature story with us.” He went on to explain how he’d been assigned to her daughter’s disappearance and how he was aware this Labor Day weekend marked fifteen years since her abduction.
She pretended to remember him when he mentioned how he had covered the events from the news van outside her house, but numerous reporters, from all the media venues, had covered the story. At that time, she’d been too shaken up to talk with any of them. Brandon had given the statements.
“Mr. Grant,” Roslyn said, interrupting his spiel about being with the paper twenty-five years. “Assuming you’d like to do a story on the Adriana Hope Foundation, let me direct you to my secretary. She will be happy to send you press release information and provide you with everything you need.”
“Mrs. Colepepper, I’m aware of your foundation and the great strides you’ve made helping to recover missing children, but I want to do a story on Adriana. I believe I can help prove your daughter wasn’t in the car at the time it went off the bridge.”
Roslyn clutched her chest and pressed the phone closer to her ear as the reporter went on to explain various forensic advancements over the last fifteen years and how 3-D computerized models have proven beneficial. “. . . and more importantly, Mrs. Colepepper, I believe if your daughter is alive, my article will help bring her home.”