2

Matthew cleared any emotion other than polite calm from his face as he unlocked the hotel room door, stepped inside, and found himself deeply relieved to see his guest was still present. He tossed his room key on the dresser and out of habit slid the suit jacket off along with his shoes. The day had been long already, and it was about to get significantly longer. He hung up the jacket in the closet. “What did you choose for dinner?”

“Mexican. They do a nice chicken enchilada and rice.”

His room service tray was on the desk. She was curled up in the barrel chair and had a baseball game on TV—an unusual enough selection for a woman that he noted the teams were Chicago and St. Louis. Hometown nostalgia? he wondered. He took a seat at the desk and lifted the cover from his plate, found the meal still hot enough to be tolerable. The steak looked excellent, and the potato was piled with melting butter and sour cream. She’d ordered him an apple cobbler, and he appreciated her thoughtfulness. There were several finger-soft dinner rolls in a basket.

“The napkin with the blood sample is on its way to an FBI lab here in town where they can turn it around in about three hours. Your prints are a match. The photo is crunching now to age-progress a comparison.”

She simply nodded.

“How did you know I’d be at this hotel?”

“Your daughter posted online that you were speaking at this conference. She’s proud of you.”

“As I’m proud of her.”

He took his time on the steak, aware that Shannon was watching him as much as the baseball game. She wasn’t nervous, but she did look very tired, and mostly she was . . . wary. How well he understood that emotion, having lived with it during the years after his daughter returned home.

“Who did you call?”

He knew she wasn’t asking about the friends he’d called to excuse himself from dinner. “I’ve told three people. A friend at the missing-persons registry who knows I’m looking at you in particular. He’s accessing records for me, but will keep this work on his desk only, until I clear him to officially file the prints and discuss the matter with others. Another friend here in Atlanta has arranged for the FBI to expedite a DNA panel and make a comparison. I didn’t give them your name.”

He cut into his steak. “The third person I’ve told is Ann Falcon, a retired cop from Chicago. I trust Ann. She’s pulling the case file so I can get up to speed on what it has looked like in Chicago since you disappeared. Ann’s husband, Paul, happens to head the Chicago FBI office, and if this has crossed state lines, he’ll be involved in the case soon as a matter of course. Ann’s got a lot of history with high-profile cases. She can keep a secret. You’ll like her, Shannon. You’re going to need someone like her helping you.”

“Are you going with me to Chicago?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes briefly closed, and she visibly relaxed. “Thanks.” She half smiled. “I don’t have a valid driver’s license and I hate to fly. So I hope you like to make long road trips.”

Her words scotched his tentative plans for them to fly back to Chicago with Ann and Paul Falcon in the morning. “You sound like my daughter,” he commented lightly. “Give her an unabridged audiobook and ten hours of me driving so she can listen to the story from beginning to end, and she’s in heaven.”

“That sounds very nice. I’ll even let you choose which audiobook.” She shifted in the chair. “When we get to Chicago, I want to see only my brother at first. I don’t want him calling people and my parents showing up, other friends and relatives. I don’t want cops showing up.”

He buttered a dinner roll and just absorbed that request. “I’d like to hear the details behind that decision about your family when you are comfortable talking about it,” he said as idly as he could manage, “but I’ll do my best to arrange that for you. Do you want to stay in the Chicago area after you meet your brother?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I may prefer to come back here to Atlanta and let the dust settle, give them time to regroup around the fact I’m alive, before I make contact again—see my brother another time or meet with others in the family.”

“Keep in mind there are smaller options if you wish to start some kind of dialog with your family and friends in Chicago. I’m guessing Ann would be more than willing to forward mail on if you would like her to do that for you. That might be better than simply vanishing again. It’s going to be quite an emotional time for your family.”

“Everyone is going to want to know what happened.”

The understatement in those words was titanic. “Yes.”

“I’m not ignoring that . . . I’m just postponing it.”

“I’ll help however you would like me to, Shannon. If you want to come back here after you see your brother, I will see you safely back here. Or if you would like to see some of the country, I can recommend Boston as a nice place to visit for the summer. Finding you an apartment in a safe area of town is something I could arrange without much trouble. You could take some time just to settle in someplace as you decide how and when you want to engage with your family.”

“You’ve suddenly found yourself with another lost duckling.”

He looked over. “What?” he said, startled.

“You’re arranging life to take care of me.”

“Habit,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “If I step on your toes, just say so.”

“I’m not like your daughter, Matthew. I’m not being rescued at sixteen, finding myself uncertain about how to handle the world. I was that age when this began. I’m twenty-seven, and I probably rival a lot of cops for how acutely I see reality. You really don’t need to worry about me. I chose you because it made sense to do so, to have some help, not because I couldn’t navigate this on my own. I’m just tired enough I don’t want to have to try.”

“When I treat you like my daughter—she’s my reference point, after all—just correct me and tell me what you need instead,” he said. Shannon could navigate matters on her own, but had determined she would rather have help—an adult decision, one well-reasoned. He locked on to the one piece of news he needed to better understand the significance of right now. “How bad is the fatigue? What’s going on with that?”

“I feel like I just ran a couple of back-to-back marathons. I’ve got no stamina. I want a book to read, a baseball game to watch, occasionally I can catch a decent nap. I’m not sleepy. I’m just deeply tired.”

“Dreaming much?”

She shrugged rather than answered that query.

“Seriously, it would help me a lot if you would answer this question: how long has this been over for you?”

She reached over to the end table, picked up an envelope, tossed it to him. He opened it and pulled out a single sheet of hotel stationery. Her handwriting was a very neat print.

I arrived in Atlanta two days ago.

This is day sixteen of freedom.

I like donuts and chili cheese dogs and most fast food.

I like lists.

I don’t like crowds.

I prefer quiet places.

I’m very tired.

I don’t want to talk about it.

The third time he read the statements his tension uncoiled enough to note with some humor that they both liked donuts and lists. “Thank you for this,” he said softly. He folded the page and carefully slipped it into his pocket. And for her sake, he changed the subject. “I asked at the front desk, and the room across the hall is available. Would you like me to reserve it for you?”

“I’ll decide that after you have the DNA results.”

As he’d rather not lose sight of her until he had that answer, he was fine with that. “Did you join the audience and listen to my presentation?”

“I planned to, but I accidentally slept through it.”

He laughed. “I was concerned a few in the audience might as well.” He finished another dinner roll, wondering how far she would let him take the conversation tonight. “Are you traveling with anyone?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone you’re worried about who will be looking for you here or in Chicago?”

“There’s no concern tonight, but there will be an acute concern once it’s known I’m alive.” She offered nothing else.

“A conversation for tomorrow?”

“Possibly.”

He pulled out a business card and wrote a number on the back, rose from the desk and walked over, handed it to her and then picked up her glass. “I’ll always answer that number,” he said as he refilled her soda. The number was one that until tonight only his daughter knew.

She fingered the card. “Okay.”

“I’d like to ask one thing from you, Shannon.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t run. When the pressure hits, when this becomes unbearable—and there will be that moment—use that number and call me. Don’t disappear.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then at least memorize my number.”

“That I can do.” She took the glass he brought back to her. “I’ll understand, Matthew, if you change your mind after thinking about this overnight and decide not to get further involved. My brother is running for governor of Illinois. When it’s known I’m alive, the publicity is going to be intense. You’ve already spent more than your share of life in the public spotlight, and you and Becky deserve your privacy.”

“I’m going to stick, but thank you for the open door to step away without hard feelings.” His phone chimed, and he glanced at the brief text. “Your current photo is an 88.4 percent match to your age-sixteen-progressed photograph. In this kind of analysis, that’s a high-confidence match. DNA results will be back in the next few hours. Fingerprints, photograph, DNA—you’ll be able to prove in a court of law you’re Shannon Bliss by morning.”

“And then the fun will begin.” She shifted in the chair. “Can we not talk for a while? I want to finish watching this game.”

“Sure.”

He sent a response text to Gregory, thanking him for the news and asking that her current photo and the age renderings be erased. Entering her fingerprints in the database when they decided to make this official would be enough. The longer they could go without a current photo of her in the public domain, the better this would go.

Shannon fell asleep in the eighth inning. He’d seen her struggling to keep her eyes open, and finally they simply closed and didn’t flutter again. He watched her sleep and wondered what it was going to be like in the first few minutes after she awoke. His physical distance and stillness would probably be about the only thing he could do for her that might help. After his daughter was rescued, for nearly two years she hadn’t been able to handle waking up in a room with someone else present without feeling a sense of panic.

He stayed seated at the desk and worked on his list of what had to be done in the days ahead. DNA test results. Arrange a private reunion with her brother. Get her medical care. She would need to talk to the cops, both the Chicago police and FBI, given that this appeared to have crossed state lines. They needed to catch and arrest the one or ones responsible. Hopefully she would give him something to work with soon, as it was going to be a time-sensitive situation before the people behind this thing scattered. As the case unfolded, he needed to do what he could to protect her privacy. She would need safe people in her life outside of her family to help her with the emotions involved. Did she have a best friend she wanted him to contact on her behalf? Documentation in her life had to be sorted out and reissued in her proper name and social security number—driver’s license, bank accounts, health insurance. Had she graduated from high school? If so, where and under what name? Where had she been for the last eleven years? His list continued until he had filled two pages. Practical matters pounding at him demanded answers as much as the questions surrounding her disappearance.

She stirred in the chair, and he went still. She opened her eyes, studied the ball-game score, listened to the postgame commentary, then looked around the room until finally her gaze settled on him. “No word yet?”

“Not yet.”

She found the television remote and changed over to a late-night talk show. He wasn’t sure if the calm she showed was a carefully constructed image she wanted him to see, or if she truly wasn’t bothered by his company. Within twenty minutes she had dozed off again. She looked beat-up tired, that impression coming through in the color of the skin around her eyes and mouth, and the fact she was able to sleep in his presence curled up like that. He set the ring tone on his phone to vibrate, got up, retrieved the extra blanket in the closet, draped it over her. He picked up the sandals she had kicked off and glanced at the size. They’d need to do some clothes shopping before they hit Chicago, depending on what she had with her. Where had she spent last night? She’d been staying somewhere if she arrived in Atlanta two days ago. She wasn’t carrying a purse. She’d arrived in Atlanta from where?

It was going to be a very long process building trust with this woman. Trust was an elusive thing, hard to win, easy to lose, and very sensitive to small nuances when it was forming. He wanted her to end up like his daughter—healthy, happy, and if not whole again, able to handle the past, to have a good life of her own choosing. He couldn’t afford the possible price impatience would cost him right now. He returned to his seat at the desk and started listing what had to be done so he could walk out of his own life for an extended period of time and head to Chicago with her. He had no idea how long this was going to take, but he’d learned with his daughter not to make assumptions that depended on predicting someone else’s reaction to events. This might be a trip to Chicago, followed by another immediate trip back here to Atlanta. Or he might be in Chicago with her for an extended period of time. Or . . .

Call his daughter in the morning. Tell her the truth about what was going on. He tried not to keep the details of his movements or the reasons for them from Becky. He knew she’d respect the privacy of this news and not share it. His business would be in good hands if he delegated the day-to-day to his Number Two. A call to his neighbor would take care of the house. He could have his assistant sort and forward his mail. A stop at a shopping mall to fill out his wardrobe would deal with the fact he hadn’t planned to be gone more than a few days. The page filled up with practical items ahead of him.

The other list of events coming soon—where the only preparations he could make involved buying Kleenex—didn’t need writing down. There were necessary conversations that would be tough on Shannon, some she’d have with doctors, others with cops, but inevitably some she’d have with him that he knew would wring his heart out. He’d been outwardly strong for his daughter, had listened with close attention, found ways to draw out the dark corners in her memories, to lance the pain of them . . . all the while feeling torn up inside. He honestly didn’t know if he had it in him to go through that again. He looked up from his notes and watched Shannon for a long moment.

I’m surprised you let her choose me, God. I’m back to feeling . . . inadequate for this. Mainly because I know some of what it’s going to be. At least with Becky I was walking blind into what was coming. I didn’t know better. This time . . . God, give me wisdom. Patience. The ability to listen. Help me hear what is really being said. I can’t afford to miss the nuances, not with someone whose way of coping is to hide.

He looked down at the lists he had written and numbered the items he had to tackle first, aware he was simply killing time, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for DNA to confirm what he already knew. Shannon Bliss had reappeared and had chosen him. Even if he didn’t want this, he wouldn’t turn her away.

Life had been a lot simpler when he had been worried about such mundane problems as friends setting him up to meet a woman over dinner. He half smiled and put down his pen. Somehow he’d rise to the occasion. He glanced at his phone. But patience had never been his strong suit.

His phone began to vibrate. Matthew glanced at the caller ID and answered it immediately, keeping his voice low. “Ann, that was fast.”

“Theo likes me. And it helps that the Bliss case file has been digitized. Do you want to do this on the phone or do you want to come up to the suite?”

He glanced over at Shannon. She hadn’t stirred in the last twenty minutes. “Give me the highlights—I’ll decide from there.”

“It’s tough reading. Shannon disappeared over a Memorial Day weekend while driving home after staying with friends. Her car was never found. Cops looked hard at the family, at people around the family—her school, their church, the family’s business—but nothing popped as a solid motive or lead. Three similar cases in the Midwest over the prior seven years were pursued for any crossovers but didn’t generate much to work with. A ransom was paid after the disappearance went public, but there was no proof of life offered in advance, nor any contact after the money was paid. Three years after she disappeared, the parents divorced in a bitter fight that about bankrupted the family business. A year after that, the uncle committed suicide to avoid being arrested for having embezzled company money. During the contested divorce, the company books were audited by both sides—they were arguing over the valuation of the business—and it turned up the theft of company funds. There’s a suspicion that the uncle may have stolen some of the ransom money and handed over blank paper, used the money to try to cover up his fraud.”

Matthew had been making notes as she spoke, but that last comment made him pause with a wince. “How certain is that?”

“Ask me again tomorrow after I talk to Theo. I’m reading an eye-opening sixty-page summary of the case he wrote a few years ago. I’ll print you a copy.”

“I’m coming up. What’s your suite number?” He picked up his room key and his wallet, pushed his feet into his shoes.

“Ten ninety-six.”

He wrote a quick note for Shannon and left it on the desk in case she woke up. “Tell me about her brother,” he asked Ann, shifting his phone to the other hand as the room’s door closed behind him. He headed toward the elevator.

“Our next governor, if the tracking polls are to be believed. He’s been leading the search to find his sister almost from day one, and from what I can see here, he’s done a good job of keeping her photo out there, as well as information about the reward. He paid Chicago-based companies to include her missing-person flyer in every customer mailing they put out—there have been millions of them distributed in the last eleven years. This has been an intense, sustained, and expensive search. He sold his interest in the family business in order to fund that effort.”

“So he’s serious about finding his sister and may be open to taking some advice on how to proceed,” Matthew speculated.

“I’d think so. He makes a point of mentioning her, asking for information from the public, at every event where he speaks.”

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor, and Matthew walked down to suite 1096, showed his credentials to the officer providing security in the hall. The head of the Chicago FBI office wouldn’t have a choice about the security; it went with the job.

“Why the interest in this case?” Ann was asking in his ear. “You have something?”

Matthew ignored the question for the moment. “I’m at the door.” He knocked lightly as he spoke and waited for Ann to answer, silencing and pocketing his phone when the door opened. She’d changed into jeans and a Chicago Bulls T-shirt. Her husband was on the hotel phone. Matthew lifted a hand to acknowledge Paul’s silent hello, then turned his attention back to Ann and her question. “I may have met Shannon. DNA is running now.”