CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Will had always been a good sleeper. He supposed it came from sharing a room with a handful of strangers for the first eighteen years of his life. You learned to sleep through the coughs and the cries, the passing of wind and the one-handed lullabies every teenage boy practiced from a very young age.

Last night, the house had been quiet except for Betty’s soft snores and Angie’s occasional groans. Sleep, on the other hand, had been an impossibility. Will’s brain would not shut down. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind had shuttled through what little evidence they had on the case until the sun had come up and Will had finally forced himself out of bed. He’d done his usual routine—taken Betty for a stroll, then taken himself for a run. Even as he jogged, the predawn heat pressing out every drop of moisture in his body, all he could do was think about Emma Campano. Was she being held somewhere in the air-conditioning or was she exposed to hundred-plus temperatures? How long could she survive on her own? What was her abductor doing to her?

It did not bear thinking about, but as Will stood on the loading dock behind City Hall East, waiting for Emma’s parents to show up, all he could think was that for the first time in his life, he was no longer envious of Paul Campano.

Will wondered how Amanda had broken it to the man that he was not to open his mouth during the press conference. Paul would not have taken the order lightly. He was used to bossing people around, controlling the situation with his anger—or the threat of it. Even when he didn’t speak, Paul managed to convey his displeasure. Will knew that the kidnapper would be watching the parents for any indication that he should just kill the girl and move on. Keeping a lid on Paul would be an uphill battle. He was glad it wasn’t his job.

Amanda had obviously not been pleased that the press had basically forced her into calling a conference. She had scheduled it at a time when most reporters were sleeping off the night before. They weren’t as savage at six-thirty in the morning as they were at eight or nine, and, as usual, she liked exploiting the advantage. In a fit of compassion, Will had not bothered Faith with the early call. He thought it best to let her sleep in. He didn’t know her well, but he guessed the detective had spent her night tossing and turning over the case just like he had. Maybe the extra two hours would help clear her mind this morning. At least one of them would know what they were doing.

A black BMW 750 pulled up to the loading dock. Of course, Paul had refused to let a cruiser bring him in. Amanda had told the Campanos to meet Will on the North Avenue side of the building because a couple of photographers were already milling around the front steps of City Hall East. The back was restricted to police vehicles and various support vehicles, so the vultures couldn’t get in without risking arrest.

Paul got out of the car first, his hand smoothing back the flap of hair that covered the top of his balding head. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and blue tie—nothing flashy. Amanda would have coached them not to appear too wealthy or too well dressed; not for fear of the kidnapper, but because the press would be scrutinizing every inch of the parents to find a vulnerability that could be exploited for their lead paragraph.

Abigail opened her car door just as Paul reached for the handle. Her long, shapely legs were bare, her shoes modestly heeled. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and an off-white cotton blouse of the sort Faith Mitchell seemed to favor. The overall look was understated, reserved. Except for the ninety-thousand-dollar car, she could be any soccer mom within a five-mile radius.

Yesterday’s fight was obviously still fresh for the couple, or maybe there had been some new ones in between. There was a distance between them. Even as they walked up the stairs to the loading dock, Paul did not offer his arm, nor did his wife reach to take it.

“Agent Trent,” Abigail said. Her voice was thin, her gaze almost lifeless. He wondered if she was still medicated. The woman seemed to have trouble standing upright.

Paul, on the other hand, was almost bouncing on his toes. “I want to talk to your boss.”

“You’ll see her in a minute,” Will said, opening the door to the building. They walked down the narrow hallway to the private elevator that serviced the police station. Will could not help but put his hand at Abigail’s back as she walked. There was something so fragile about her. The fact that Paul was oblivious to this was not surprising, but Will was taken aback by the renewed anger he felt at the man. His wife was falling apart in front of him and all Paul could think to do was demand to talk to the person in charge.

Will kept his pace slow so that Abigail would not have to struggle to keep up. Paul bounded ahead of them toward the elevator, as if he knew where to go.

Will kept his voice low, telling the woman, “This won’t take long.”

She looked at him, her red-rimmed eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll get you back home as soon—”

“I’ve got a statement to make,” Paul told Will, his loud voice an intrusion in the small space. “You’re not going to stop me.”

Will tried to temper his anger, but the other man’s smug certainty was grating. “What exactly do you want to say?”

“I’m going to offer a bonus.”

Will felt sucker punched—again. “A bonus for what?”

“I’m going to tell the kidnapper we’ll double the ransom money if Emma isn’t harmed.”

“That’s not how these things—”

“Let me talk to your boss,” he interrupted, pressing the call button for the elevator just as the doors opened. “I don’t have time to fuck with you.”

A crowd of cops filled the ancient elevator. They all recognized the Campanos and gave them a wide berth, vacating the car as quickly as possible.

Paul got on. Will pressed his hand to Abigail’s back, gently persuading her to move. He entered his code on the grimy keypad, then pressed the button for the third floor. There was a rumbling somewhere in the bowels of the building, then the doors creaked closed and the car jerked as it slowly started upward.

Among other things, Will had discussed the press conference with Amanda last night. The Campanos were not going to talk to the media because Abigail was too vulnerable and Paul was too volatile. Once they opened their mouths, the press would attack. Even the most innocuous statement could be spun into a damning indictment.

Will told Paul as much now. “This isn’t like what you see on television. We don’t need you to make a statement. We just need you to be there to remind the kidnappers that Emma has parents who love her.”

“Fuck you,” Paul barked back, his fists clenching. “You can’t stop me from talking to the press.”

Will’s nose still ached from yesterday. He wondered if he was about to get punched again and how much it would bleed. “I can stop you talking at this particular press conference.”

“We’ll see what your boss says,” Paul told him, crossing his arms. Maybe he wasn’t ready to get hit again, either. “I told you yesterday, I’m not fucking around. This guy wants money and we’ll give it to him. Whatever he wants. I’m not going to let my baby get hurt.”

“It’s too late,” Abigail said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but she still managed to be heard. She told her husband, “Don’t you know that the worst has already happened?”

Paul looked as if he’d been sucker punched. “Don’t say that.”

“The only reason he’s giving her back is because he’s finished with her.”

Paul jabbed his finger in her face. “Don’t you talk like that, God dammit!”

“It’s true,” she said, unfazed by the sudden flash of fury. “You know it’s true, Paul. You know he’s used her every way—”

“Stop it!” he screamed, grabbing her by the arms, shaking her. “You shut up, do you hear me? Just shut up!”

The doors slid open, the bell dinging to indicate they had reached the third floor. A tall man with steel gray hair and bronzed skin stood in front of the open doors. He looked like something out of Garden & Gun, and his face was familiar to Will from the newspaper reports: Hoyt Bentley, Emma Campano’s wealthy grandfather. Amanda was beside the man. If she was surprised to find Paul Campano threatening his wife, she didn’t show it. She took in Will, her eyes traveling over his bruised face. Her eyebrow lifted, and he instantly understood that they would be having a conversation about how he’d gotten his face punched at a more convenient time.

Hoyt spoke like a man used to being obeyed. “Let go of her, Paul.”

“Not until she says it’s not true,” Paul insisted, as if this was some kind of pissing contest he knew he could win by bullying his wife.

Abigail had obviously dealt with this before. Even in her grief, a hint of sarcasm crept into her tone. “Okay, Paul. It’s not true. Emma’s fine. I’m sure whoever took her hasn’t hurt her or abused her or—”

“Enough,” Amanda said. “This is why you’re not talking to the press—both of you.” She held out her hand, stopping the elevator doors from closing. She directed her words to Paul. “Unless you want your wife to take questions about killing Adam Humphrey? Or perhaps you’d like to talk about your extramarital affairs?” She gave one of her icy smiles. “This is how it’s going to work: you’re both going to sit there on the dais and let the cameras roll. I am going to read from a prepared statement, while the press takes photographs, then you are both going to go home and wait for the second call from the kidnapper. Is that clear?”

Paul dropped his hands, fists tight. “Emma’s okay,” he told his wife, unable to let her have the last word. “This is a ransom, not a kidnapping. Kidnappers don’t hurt the victims. They just want money.”

Will glanced at Amanda, guessing she was thinking the same thing that he was, which was that Paul’s words pretty much confirmed he had hired an outside expert to advise him—and possibly more. The offer of extra money was a calculated risk, but men who were paid by the hour tended to be good at coming up with a scattershot of ideas that justified their large paychecks.

Hoyt spoke in a deep, resonant voice that perfectly matched his zillion-dollar suit and handmade loafers. “The only thing we’re going to do by waving around more money is convince the kidnapper that he should hold out for more.”

Paul shook his head. His lips were moving, no words coming out. It was as if his anger had a stranglehold on him. For Will’s part, he was surprised to find that Paul wasn’t more cowed by the father-in-law. He sensed a camaraderie between Hoyt and Amanda that Paul seemed to be missing. They had already decided how to approach this, the best way to get things done. Will was not surprised that the two would see eye-to-eye. In her own way, Amanda Wagner was a captain of her own industry. Hoyt Bentley would appreciate that.

Amanda suggested, “Why don’t we talk about this?” She indicated the long hallway before them, the skanky set of windows overlooking the railroad trellis.

Paul looked back and forth between his father-in-law and Amanda. He nodded once, then walked down the hallway with them. No one talked until they were far away enough not to be heard.

Will tried not to feel completely emasculated as he watched them—the child who wasn’t allowed to sit at the adult table. As if to put a fine point on it, he noticed that he was standing right by the women’s restroom. Will made himself look away, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Before he turned, he noticed that Paul’s opening tactic was the usual one—he jabbed his finger in Amanda’s face. Even from twenty feet away, Will could feel the tension his bluster created. There were just some people in the world who had to be the center of attention at all times. Paul was king of them.

Abigail said, “He’s not all bad.”

Will raised his eyebrows, his nose throbbing from the gesture. He realized he should stop feeling sorry for himself and take the opportunity to talk to Abigail Campano, whom he’d yet to find alone.

“I said some horrible things to him yesterday. Today. This morning.” She gave a faint smile. “In the bathroom. In the driveway. In the car.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“I’ve never been the type of person to strike out,” she said, though, to Will, yesterday’s performance in the carriage house had seemed pretty natural. “I think maybe I used to be. Maybe some time ago. It’s all coming back to me now.”

She wasn’t making much sense, but Will preferred talking to her rather than straining to hear the exchange between the adults. “You just need to do what you can do to hold on. The press conference won’t take long, and Amanda will handle everything.”

“Why am I here?” Her question was so straightforward that Will found himself unable to answer her. She continued, “I’m not going to make a plea. You’re not going to let me beg for the safe return of my daughter. Why is that?”

He did not tell her that if a sadist had her child, watching Abigail’s pain might inspire him to get more creative with his victim. Even without that, Abigail proved every time she opened her mouth that she was unpredictable.

He told the woman a softer version of the truth. “It’s easier if you let Amanda do all the talking.”

“So they won’t ask me about killing Adam?”

“Among other things.”

“Aren’t they going to wonder why I’m not at home waiting for the second phone call?”

He gathered she was speaking more for herself than the members of the press. “This is a very tense time—not just for us, but for whoever has Emma. We need the press to tone down the rhetoric. We don’t need them running with some wild story, making up clues and chasing down crazy theories while we’re trying to negotiate for Emma’s return.”

She slowly nodded her head. “What will it be like in there? In front of all those cameras?”

Excruciating, Will thought, but said, “I’ll be standing in the back of the room. Just look at me, okay?” She nodded, and he continued, “There will be a lot of cameras flashing, lots of people asking questions. Just stare at me and try to ignore them. I’m kind of easy to pick out of a crowd.”

She didn’t laugh at the joke. He noticed that she was holding her purse against her stomach. It was small, what he thought was called a clutch. Will had seen her closet, a spectacularly furnished room that was larger than his kitchen. There were evening gowns and designer labels and slinky high heels, but nothing in her wardrobe had appeared understated. He wondered if she had bought the outfit for the occasion, or borrowed it from a friend.

As if she could read his mind, she asked, “Do I fit the part of the bereaved killer?”

Will had heard the news call her as much this morning. The reporters were having a field day with the savage-mother-protecting-her-daughter angle. The irony was too rich to pass up. “You shouldn’t watch television. At least until this is over.”

She opened her purse. He saw a tube of lipstick, a set of keys, and a bundle of photographs that she rested her fingers on but did not take out. Instead, she pulled a tissue from the bottom and used it to wipe her nose. “How can I not watch? How can I not soak up every horrible thing that comes out of their mouths?”

Will did not know how he was expected to answer, so he said nothing.

One of Paul’s ubiquitous “fuck you”s came from down the hallway. Whatever Amanda said was more of a murmur, but the tone sent out a chill that could be felt even from this distance.

Abigail said, “I like your boss.”

“I’m glad.”

“She wrote my statement for me.”

Will knew this already. Amanda wouldn’t have trusted the mother to prepare a plea for the return of her child. The semantics were too important. One wrong word could send the wrong message, then they would suddenly find themselves going from working a kidnapping to working a murder case.

“She doesn’t lie to me,” Abigail said. “Are you going to lie to me?”

“About what?”

“Are they going to ask me questions about Adam?”

“If they’re any good at their jobs—yes. They’ll try. But keep in mind, you’re not here to answer questions. The reporters know the ground rules. That doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily follow them, but you have to. Don’t let them bait you. Don’t let them force you into a situation where you have to explain yourself, or where you say something that might later be used against you.”

“I killed him. In every sense of the word, I murdered him.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that to a cop.”

“I used to be a lawyer,” she said. “I know how this works.”

“How?”

“It all depends on how things go from now on, doesn’t it? Whether or not you charge me. If Emma comes back in one piece, or if she’s …” Abigail sniffed, wiping her nose again. “If the newspapers are with me, if they paint me as some kind of cold-blooded killer, if the parents push for prosecution … so many ifs.”

Will assured her, “I’m not going to charge you with anything.”

Abigail indicated Amanda. “She might.”

Will admitted to himself that the woman had a point. “It’s not my place to advise you, but you’re not going to do yourself any favors talking like this.”

“He was just a child. He had his whole life in front of him.” She pressed her lips together, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Think of all the things I took from him—from his parents. There’s nothing for them now. Just eighteen years, then nothing.”

Will wasn’t sure what he would be saying in her place, but he found himself wondering if Abigail was focusing so much on Adam Humphrey because the alternative—focusing on the fate of her own daughter—was too much to bear.

She asked, “What should I say when the reporters ask me about Adam?”

“Nothing,” he told her. “We told them from the start that they’re only supposed to direct their questions to Amanda. They won’t do that, of course, but you don’t have to talk to them.”

“What if I want to?”

“What would you say?” Will asked. “Because if it’s the things you just told me, I can tell you right now that they’ll have you nailed to a cross by nightfall.” He added, “If you want to punish yourself for what happened to Adam Humphrey, then take some pills or try experimenting with heroin. You’ll be much better off than throwing yourself onto the mercy of the press.”

“You are honest.”

“I guess I am,” Will admitted. “Save yourself for Emma. If you can’t be strong for yourself, then be strong for her.”

“I’m so sick of people telling me to be strong.”

Will wondered what else could be said—be weak? Fall on the floor? Rend your clothes? Wail? All of these things seemed like obvious reactions that a normal person might have, but they certainly wouldn’t play well for the cameras.

Abigail said, “I’m not usually this melodramatic. I’m afraid I might …” She shook her head. “What if he sees me on television and thinks that Emma deserves it? What if I do something wrong or don’t look grieved enough, or look too grieved, or—”

“You can’t keep playing this game in your head.”

“Game?” she asked. “I want this all to be a game. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and yell at Emma to get ready for school. I want to scream at my husband for screwing around on me. I want to play tennis with my friends and throw dinner parties and decorate my house and ignore my husband’s affairs and …” Her composure had held up longer than he’d thought it would. Slowly, she started to shatter. It started in her mouth—a slight tremble of her bottom lip that spread up her face like a tic. “I want to change places with her. He can do whatever he wants to me. Fuck me, sodomize me, beat me, burn me. I don’t care.” The tears came pouring now. “She’s just a baby. She can’t take it. She won’t survive …”

Even as he took her hand, Will felt the awkwardness of the gesture. He did not know this woman and certainly was in no position to comfort her. “Emma’s alive,” Will reminded her. “That’s what you need to hold on to. Your daughter is alive.”

Impossibly, the moment turned more awkward. Gently, she slipped her hand from his. She ran her fingers under her eyes in that magical way women do to keep their eyeliner from smudging. Unexpectedly she asked, “How do you know my husband?”

“We met a long time ago.”

“Were you one of the boys who bullied him?”

Will felt his mouth open, but could not find any words to answer.

“My husband doesn’t talk much about his childhood.”

Will could’ve told her some stories. Instead he said, “That’s probably a good thing.”

Abigail looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they’d met. He could feel her eyes scanning the scars on his face, the thin, pink line where his lip had been split so badly that there wasn’t enough good skin left to sew it back together straight.

Her gaze was so intimate that it was almost like a touch.

They both looked away uncomfortably. Will checked his watch to make sure the battery was working. Abigail rummaged around in her purse.

Footsteps clicked against the tiles as Hoyt, Amanda and Paul made their way back up the hallway. Paul looked positively defeated, and Will wished that he had paid more attention to the exchange. Paul silently took his wife’s hand and placed it on his arm.

Amanda said, “Thank you,” to Hoyt, shaking his hand. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, gave Paul a clap on the shoulder, then headed toward the exit. Will guessed the millionaire’s work here was done.

Amanda took both of Abigail’s hands in hers. The naturalness of the gesture was surprising, but women—even Amanda—could get away with that sort of thing. “Chin up,” she said. “Don’t let them see you break.”

Will chewed his lower lip, knowing that Amanda was hoping for the exact opposite. The grieving-mother card could never be played enough times in situations like this. Paul was simply an accessory. Knowing how these things worked, Will guessed that half the people following the story assumed that the father was the root of all this evil. If Abigail came across as too strong, then they would toss her onto the list of suspects, as well. Then, of course, there was the only opinion that mattered—that of the person who was holding Emma Campano. If the abductor thought that the parents were unworthy, then he might have second thoughts about returning their child.

“This way,” Amanda said, indicating the opposite end of the hallway. She opened the door to the pressroom and lights flashed like a strobe, blinding them all for several seconds.

Will stood at the edge of the door, making sure the cameras followed Amanda and the Campanos to the impromptu stage at the end of the narrow room. He didn’t want his picture in the paper. He didn’t want to answer their stupid questions. He just wanted the kidnapper to see Abigail Campano, her sunken eyes and chapped lips, her thin shoulders. He wanted the man who had taken Emma Campano to see what he had done to her mother.

The reporters shuffled around as Amanda took her sweet time adjusting the microphone, unfolding the prepared statement. There were about fifty reporters in all, most of them men, all of them giving off a slightly desperate smell in the cramped room. The air-conditioning wasn’t doing much to help matters, and hot air was blasting through a broken window like heat from a flame. Not much news had leaked out on the case, mostly because no one on Amanda’s team was stupid enough to open their mouths. This had left the press to their own devices, and from what Will had heard on the radio this morning, they had started to report on what other stations were reporting.

Without preamble, Amanda read from the statement. “The reward for any information leading to the safe return of Emma Campano has been increased to one hundred thousand dollars.” She gave the particulars—the toll-free number, the assurance that the call would be completely anonymous. “As you already know, Emma Eleanor Campano is a seventeen-year-old girl who attends a private school outside of the city. Emma was abducted from her home three days ago between the hours of eleven a.m. and twelve noon. At approximately ten-thirty yesterday morning, a call was made from a man claiming to be Emma’s kidnapper. A ransom demand was made. We are awaiting details and will brief you at this same time tomorrow morning. I will now read from a statement written by Abigail Campano, Emma Campano’s mother.”

The cameras flashed like mad, and Will could see Abigail Campano looking for him in the back of the room. He stood up straighter, his height giving him a natural advantage. She finally found him, and he could read the terror in her eyes.

Maybe Will had spent too much time with Amanda lately. He was glad to see the terror, glad that the cameras would pick up this woman’s fear. You could read every second of the last three days in the mother’s expression—the sleepless nights, the arguments with her husband, the absolute horror of what had happened.

Amanda read, “ ‘To the man who has Emma: please know that we—her father and I—love Emma and cherish her, and will do whatever you want in order to have our daughter returned to us. Emma is only seventeen years old. She likes ice cream and watching reruns of Friends with us on family night. Her father and I are not interested in vengeance or punishment. We just want Emma returned.’ ” Amanda looked up over her glasses. “ ‘Please return our Emma to us.’ ” She folded the paper. “I’ll take a few questions.”

A local reporter shouted, “Abby, what did it feel like to kill—”

“Rules, please,” Amanda cut him off. “Remember to direct all your questions to me.”

The reporter didn’t give up. “Are you going to press charges against Abigail Campano for the murder of Adam Humphrey?”

“We have no plans to pursue charges at this time.”

Abigail stared blankly at Will, as if unworried about the equivocation. Beside her, Paul seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.

Another local reporter asked, “What leads do you have at the moment? Are there any suspects?”

“Obviously, we’re full speed ahead on this investigation. I can’t tell you about particulars.”

And yet another question came. “You’ve posted police around Westfield Academy. Are you worried this is the work of a serial killer?”

The serial killer angle was a hot topic of debate on the talk shows. The Hiker Murders back in January were still fresh on everyone’s mind.

Amanda told them, “This has absolutely none of the markings of a serial case at this time.”

Will felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. The flashes seemed to be making the room hotter. He opened the door to let in some fresh air.

“When do you think an arrest will be made?” someone in the front asked.

Amanda artfully dodged, “As soon as we are certain we have our bad guy.”

“What other lines of investigation are you following?”

“We’re pursuing any and all leads.”

“Which are?”

Amanda smiled. “I can’t go into particulars at this time.”

Will caught Abigail’s eye again. He could see that she was swaying and did not know if it was the heat or the circumstances. Her face had turned completely white. She looked like she might faint.

Will tilted up his chin, which was enough to get Amanda’s attention. She did not need to look at Abigail to know what was worrying him. Instead of calling the meeting to a close, she asked, “Any more questions?”

A man in the back wearing a blazer that screamed New York and a sneer that screamed Yankee even louder, asked, “Don’t you agree that valuable time was lost due to the incompetence of the Atlanta Police Department?”

Amanda’s eyes found the man, and she gave him one of her special smiles. “At this point in time, we’re more focused on finding Emma Campano than we are on pointing fingers.”

“But wouldn’t—”

Amanda cut him off. “You’ve had your turn. Give the others a chance.”

Will heard some of the more seasoned local reporters snicker. For his part, Will was more interested in Abigail Campano. She was searching in her purse again, her head down. She was leaning too far forward in the chair. For just a moment, it seemed like she might fall to the floor, but Paul caught her at the last moment, putting his arm around her, shoring her up. He whispered something in her ear and Abigail numbly nodded her head. She looked up at the people crowding in on her, the crush of humanity seeking to drain every emotion from her face. Her mouth opened for air. The camera flashes blinked wildly. Will could almost hear the reporters trying to come up with adjectives for the captions: devastated, crushed, mournful, broken. Amanda’s plan had worked beautifully. Abigail had swayed them all without even saying a word.

More questions were allowed, each asking for details that Amanda skillfully sidestepped. Some were valid—they pressed again on what clues had been found, what progress had been made. Some were meant to be inflammatory, like the man who asked again whether or not this was the work of a sadistic serial killer who was “targeting affluent young girls.”

Amanda gave them nothing, rapping her knuckles on the podium like a judge ending a court session, then leading the Campanos off the stage.

Another barrage of photographs were taken as Amanda followed the parents back toward the exit. Abigail could barely walk on her own. She leaned into Paul like a crutch. The reporters kept their distance, not crowding the group. If Will didn’t know any better, he would have sworn they were being respectful.

Outside, Amanda made all the right noises. She took Abigail’s hand, saying, “You did perfectly.”

Abigail nodded, obviously not trusting herself to speak. The ordeal had taken the last bit of strength out of her.

Amanda said, “The second call from the kidnapper is in three hours. I’ll be with you at the house.”

Paul said, “Thank you.”

Amanda shook Paul’s hand. She gave Will a sharp look. “My office. Ten minutes.”

He nodded, and she walked off toward the stairs.

For the first time since this had all started, Paul seemed concerned about his wife. “Are you okay?”

“I just got a little too warm,” she murmured, hand covering her stomach.

Will offered, “There’s a bathroom down here.”

She didn’t look at him. Still leaning on her husband, she made her way to the ladies’ room. Outside the door, she put her hand to his face, then his chest. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

She pressed her fingertips to his mouth, then went into the bathroom. Paul stood outside, facing the closed door as if he could still see her.

Will found himself feeling something like jealousy, coupled with confusion. How could someone like Abigail love Paul? How could she have a child with this man? He’d never been attractive, but Paul had let himself go over the years. He’d put on more than a few pounds. His hairline was receding. This, coupled with his roving eye, did not exactly make him a catch. What did she see in him that was attractive?

And why was it that even after almost thirty years had passed, Will was still comparing himself to the bastard?

Paul let out a long sigh. He walked a few feet away, then turned on his heel and walked back, as if keeping sentry. Will put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, wondering why he kept ending up outside the ladies’ room.

Paul stopped. He indicated his own face, asking, “Does it hurt?”

Their fight the day before was the last thing on Will’s mind, though the bruise that spanned the bridge of Will’s nose and ran under his eyes was reminiscent of an Egyptian Pharaoh. Instead of answering the man, Will looked down at the ground, noting that his shoes were badly scuffed.

“Here.” Paul held out the stack of photographs that Will had spotted in Abigail’s purse. All of them, he knew, would show Emma in various stages of happiness. “My wife wanted you to have these.” He did not look at the photos. “She wanted you to know what Emma looks like.”

Will took the photos, but did not look at them, either. The girl’s face was already seared into his mind. He did not need more visual cues.

Paul lowered his voice. “You hit back a lot harder than you used to.”

Will tried not to take that as a compliment.

“Anyway,” Paul said, but nothing else followed.

Will could not stop himself. “You’re a dumb bastard to cheat on her.”

“I know.”

“She’s too good for you.”

“I can’t look at her.” He kept his tone low, mindful his wife was on the other side of the door. “You heard her yesterday. I know she blames me.”

Will felt his radar come on. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” Paul told him. “Believe me, I wish there was. I wish there was some guy out there I pissed off, or somebody I fucked over, who I could point to. I’d beat the shit out of the fucker.”

“What about this girl you’re seeing?”

“She’s a woman,” Paul said, putting emphasis on the word. “It’s a casual thing. She works at the dealership. She was there when I was talking to Abby—when all of this started.”

“Is she married?”

“No.”

“Does she have a jealous ex-boyfriend?”

Paul shook his head. “She lives with her parents. She knows I’m married. She was just looking for some fun. Trust me, she’s had fun like this before. Lots of times before.”

“I’m still going to need to talk to her.”

“I’ll write down—” He stopped himself. “Give me your business card. I’ll tell her to call you as soon as I get home.”

Will took out his wallet and fished around for a card. “You won’t listen to me, so listen to your father-in-law. Let us handle this. We know what we’re doing. I know what I’m doing.”

Paul looked at Will’s business card, his eyes moving back and forth over the words. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke. “You and me—we lived that life. We knew that there was always a bad guy around the corner. With Em, I thought it would be different. You saw my house, man. I’m a fucking millionaire. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.” He stopped, his emotions catching up with him, tears flooding into his eyes. “I’d give it all up if I could have my little girl back.”

Will was uncomfortable being in the position to assure the man that everything was going to be okay, not least of all because they both knew better.

“Fuck me,” Paul whispered, sniffing, wiping his eyes. “I’m like a fucking girl here.”

Will looked back at his shoes. He’d paid seventy-five dollars for them a year ago. Maybe he should get some new ones. He looked at Paul’s shoes. They gleamed as if they’d been freshly polished. He probably had people who did that. At night, he put his shoes in the closet all scuffed, and then in the morning they were perfect again. Or maybe he just bought new ones when the old ones got marked up. How many hand-me-down shoes had they both suffered through at the children’s home? Pinched toes, blistered heels. If Will had Paul’s money, he’d have a new pair of shoes for every day of his life.

Paul let out another stream of breath, oblivious to Will’s observations. “I’ve been letting myself think about all the bad things he could be doing to her.”

Will nodded. Paul would know firsthand the nasty things men could think to do to children. Will had seen the scars, the bruises. He had heard Paul screaming in the middle of the night.

“You’re the only one I can talk to about this kind of shit.”

“Abigail doesn’t know?”

“She’s still with me, isn’t she?”

Will could hear the shame in the man’s tone. It was a familiar sound to his ears. He looked back up at Paul. “Why did you hate me so much when we were kids?”

“I dunno, Trash, it was a long time ago.”

“I mean it, Paul. I want to know.”

Paul shook his head, and Will thought that was the only answer he was going to get until the man said, “You had it down, Trash. You knew how to do the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just accepted it. Being there, trapped at the home for the rest of your life. Not ever having anybody.” He stared at Will as if he still could not believe it. “You were content.”

Will thought about all the visiting days, all the times he combed his hair and changed into his best clothes and prayed that some couple would see him coloring pictures or playing on the swing and think, “That’s him. That’s the boy we want for our son.” No one did. No one ever did. That wasn’t contentment, that was resignation.

He told Paul, “It wasn’t like that at all.”

“That’s how you made it seem. Like you didn’t need anybody. Like you could handle everything. Like you were fine with whatever they gave you.”

“It was the exact opposite.”

“Maybe it was,” Paul admitted. “You know, when you’re a kid, you see things differently.”

Will heard the words come out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I’m going to get Emma back for you.”

Paul nodded, obviously not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re going to have to be strong for her. That’s what you need to be thinking about: how you can help her.” Will added, “She’s got you, Paul. That’s the difference. Whatever she’s going through right now, she’s got you waiting at the end of it to help her.”

“I wish I could be strong,” he said. “I feel so fucking weak right now.”

“You’re not weak. You were the meanest bastard in a house full of bastards.”

“No, buddy.” He seemed resigned as he patted Will on the shoulder. “I was just the most scared.”

Behind the door, the sink turned on, water flooding out of the faucet. The paper towel dispenser screeched as the crank turned, then the door opened. Abigail’s makeup had been fixed, her lipstick reapplied.

“Okay,” Paul said, more to himself. He reached out his hand and she took it, nothing awkward in the gesture. Will led them down the hall and pressed the call button. Abigail had her head on Paul’s shoulder, her eyes closed as if she was willing herself to get through this. When the doors slid open, Will reached in and pressed his code into the keypad. Emma’s parents got on.

Paul gave him a stiff nod—not a thank-you, but an acknowledgment that Will was there.

Abigail didn’t give Will a second glance as the doors closed.

Will looked down at the photographs in his hand. Emma Campano smiled back at him in a toothy grin. He thumbed through the pictures. In some, she was with her parents. Others showed her with Kayla Alexander. Younger shots showed Emma with a group of girls in the school choir, another group on a skiing trip. She seemed even more vulnerable with a group than when she was alone, as if she could feel her separateness, her outsider status, as keenly as the prick of a pin. He saw in her eyes the trepidation of a kindred spirit.

Will tucked the photos into his pocket and headed toward the stairs.

Amanda’s corner office was on the opposite side of the building from Will’s and a lifetime away from the squalor in which he toiled. Ahead was the ubiquitous view of the Home Depot parking lot. Up the street, the city loomed—skyscrapers, regal old buildings and in the mist-covered distance, the greenery of Piedmont Park.

Her desk was not the requisitioned metal type whose sharp corners had taken out more than one poor civil servant’s kneecap. Polished wood gleamed from under her leather blotter with its pink phone messages Caroline had left her. Her in and out trays were always empty. Will had never seen a speck of dust in the place.

Pictures of Amanda with various dignitaries hung alongside newspaper articles touting her triumphs. The walls were painted a soothing gray. The ceiling was made of crisp white squares rather than the dingy, water-stained tiles that were the hallmark of every other office in the building. She had an LCD TV and her own coffee bar. The air really was better up here.

“Get you anything?” Caroline, Amanda’s secretary, asked. She was the only woman who worked on Amanda’s team. Will supposed this was because Amanda had come up during the age of tokenism, when there was only one spot for a woman at the top. Or maybe it was because Amanda knew that men were easier for her to control.

“No, thank you,” he said. “Did Amanda tell you we’re—”

“Expecting a phone call?” she interrupted.

“Thanks.”

She smiled and returned to her desk outside the office.

Will had called Evan Bernard, Emma’s reading teacher, first thing this morning. The man had agreed to look at the threatening notes that Adam Humphrey had been sent. As Faith had suggested, Will was hoping the teacher could give his opinion as to whether or not they were looking at the work of a dyslexic. A cruiser had been dispatched to show him copies of the letters. Bernard was supposed to call as soon as he got them.

Will checked the time on his splintered cell phone, wondering where Amanda was. The numbers didn’t glow as brightly. Sometimes it rang when someone called, sometimes it flashed silently. Earlier, it had started vibrating for no apparent reason, and he had to take out the battery to get it to stop. He was worried about the phone, which was three years old and about three million models out of date. A new one would require him to learn a whole new set of directions. He would have to change over all the numbers and program in the functions. There went his vacation. Or maybe not. You needed a job to take a vacation.

“Looks like we’re getting good feedback from the press,” Amanda said, breezing into her office. “Paul Campano denied getting into a scuffle with you. He said it was an accident, that you fell.”

Will had stood when she entered the room and he was so shocked that he forgot to sit back down.

“Hamish Patel and his big mouth say otherwise.” Amanda eyed him as she fanned through the notes on her desk. “I’m going to guess from your appearance that Campano took a swing at you?”

Will sat down. “Yeah.”

“And I gather from the black eyes and swollen nose that you valiantly suffered his blows?”

Will tried, “If that’s what Hamish says.”

“Care to tell me why he took the swing in the first place?”

Will told her a favorable version of the truth. “The last thing I said to him before he hit me was that we needed a DNA sample.”

“That puts it nicely back on me.”

He asked, “Did Paul give the sample?”

“Yes, actually. So, either he’s extremely arrogant or he’s innocent.”

Will would’ve bet on both, but he still could not believe that Paul had covered for him. He hadn’t even hinted at the favor less than half an hour ago. Maybe this was the man’s way of paying him back for being such a jerk all those years ago. Or maybe he was still the same old Paul who liked to settle his scores when the adults weren’t watching.

“What about his affairs?”

“I called the dealership as soon as I got back to my office. If she doesn’t get back to me by noon, I’ll send a squad car to pick her up.” Will had to add, “My gut tells me Paul doesn’t have anything to do with this. Maybe if it was just a simple kidnapping—but it’s not.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Amanda said. “I’ve fast tracked the comparison between Paul Campano and the DNA we found on Kayla Alexander. Beckey Keiper at the lab is going to call you as soon as the results are in.”

“I sent a cruiser over to Emma’s school,” Will said, barely able to get past his shock. “Bernard should be calling us any minute.”

“It’s extremely ironic that our resident dyslexic can’t tell us, isn’t it?”

Will tried not to squirm in his chair. He had called his boss at home only one other time in the last ten years, and that was to tell her that a colleague had been killed. Last night, she had been even icier to him when he’d explained that he had been unable to see anything unusual about the notes someone, probably the killer, had slipped under Adam Humphrey’s dorm room door.

He cleared his throat. “If you want my resignation—”

“When you leave this job it’ll be with my foot up your ass, not slinking out the door like a wounded kitten.” She sat back in her chair. “God dammit, Will.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it right now.” She twisted the screw tighter. “Those letters are the first pieces of real evidence we have. ‘Leave her alone.’ ‘She belongs to me.’ Those are direct threats from our killer to one of our victims. If this is the work of someone with some kind of handicap—that’s our blood in the water, Will. We should have been circling this information as soon as we got it.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Where would we be right now in this case if you had followed up on the spelling yesterday afternoon instead of first thing this morning?” She didn’t let him answer. “We’re going on three days here. Three days. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

“What else do you want me to say?”

For once, she seemed to be at a loss for words. The condition was fleeting. “We’re burning daylight. When is this teacher supposed to call?”

“The cruiser should be there any minute.”

“What time is Gordon Chew supposed to be here?”

She meant the fingerprint expert from Tennessee. “Around eight-thirty. He was going to drive down first thing this morning.”

“He drove down last night,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. “What do we have?”

“A lot of nothing,” Will told her. “Charlie found fibers and footprints at the Ansley Park house, but we need someone or something to match them to before we can use them.” The gray dirt Charlie had found also came to mind, but he kept that information to himself, hoping against hope that something came of it. He cleared his throat before continuing. “The ransom call yesterday came from Kayla Alexander’s phone. It bounced off a cell tower that covers most of north Atlanta on up to Kennesaw Mountain.”

“We can try to triangulate the second call today, but I’m sure he watches enough television to know it takes time.” She paused, thinking. “I didn’t peg this for a kidnapping.”

“Neither did I,” Will said. “I’m still not sure I do.”

“There was proof of life.”

“I know.”

“Both parents confirm that it was their daughter’s voice on the phone. Are you still thinking that Emma Campano might be involved in this?”

“Something isn’t sitting right,” Will told her. “The scene was too sloppy.”

“Charlie says that based on the blood and shoe-print evidence he believes that only four people were in the house during the time of the crime.”

“I know.”

Amanda added another point that he had yet to consider. “If you’ve got a thing for young girls, you don’t leave one dead at the scene. You take them both with you.”

“Kayla was a fighter. Maybe she wouldn’t go peacefully.”

Amanda held up her hands. “We can talk in circles like this all morning and it won’t get us anywhere. I heard the proof of life from the call yesterday. The girl sounded terrified. Not movie terrified, not fake, this-is-how-I-think-I-should-sound-when-I’m-trying-to-sound-terrified terrified. She was making the sorts of noises you only make when you know that you are about to die.”

Will let her words sink in. Amanda was right. They had both heard true fear before—more times than either of them cared to remember. Emma Campano had not been acting. There was an ungodly tremble to her voice, a harsh rasp to her breathing. You couldn’t make that up. Absolute terror was a secret language you only learned by experience.

Will asked, “Was there any background noise on Emma’s part of the tape?”

“They say it’ll be noon at the soonest before they have anything substantive. Preliminarily, there’s traffic noise, a dog barking. The girl was in an enclosed area when her part of the recording was made.”

“So he drove her somewhere, took her out of the car, then made the recording.”

“That tells us that the ransom demand wasn’t an afterthought. We’ve seen how these guys work before. They get heated up, they take the girl, they rape her, they kill her, and then they make their plan. This was thought out from the beginning. Before he stepped foot in that house, he bought rope and duct tape. He found a knife. He had a place picked out where he knew he could take her.”

“If I were a more optimistic person, I would say that proves she’s still alive.”

“That was yesterday,” Amanda reminded him. “We’ll know about today in a little over two and a half hours.”

“Was the lab able to tell anything about the kidnapper’s voice?”

“You were right about him taping it off a computer and playing it back over the phone.” She read from one of the notes, “ ‘The VoiceOver utility is a standard feature found in Apple Macintosh’s universal access software. The voice selected by the caller is called Bahh.’ ” She looked up from the note. “So that narrows our suspect pool down to several million smug Apple computer owners.”

“Kayla Alexander’s parents should be—”

“They’re back,” she interrupted. “And you’re not to go within a hundred miles of them without an attorney.”

“Why?”

“They’re filing lawsuits against Westfield Academy, the Campanos and the Atlanta Police Department. I’m sure as soon as they realize we’re on the case, they’ll slap us with one, too.”

“On what grounds?”

“The school couldn’t keep the girl from leaving, the Campanos couldn’t keep the girl from dying and the police department couldn’t find their asses if you drew them a map.”

Caroline called from her office, “Evan Bernard is on line three.”

Will told Amanda, “Please let me handle this.”

“Are you trying to redeem yourself?”

“I’m trying not to piss off the man who’s trying to help us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pressed the speakerphone button. “Mr. Bernard, this is Amanda Wagner, I’m the deputy director of the special criminal apprehension team. I’ve got agent Will Trent here with me. Thank you so much for helping us this morning.”

“No problem,” he answered. “The policeman you sent came with his lights and siren blaring right up to the front door.” He gave a forced chuckle. “I have to admit, it was a little disconcerting.”

Amanda smiled her grandmotherly smile. “Consider it incentive to keep your nose clean.”

Will shook his head at the silence on the other end of the line. He took over the call, asking, “Mr. Bernard, can you give us your impression of the letters?”

“I have to admit, I find them curious.”

“Can you explain why?”

“The first one, which I would read as ‘she belongs to me,’ just doesn’t ring true. I told you yesterday that each dyslexic is different, and perhaps you’d be better off talking to a linguist for regional dialect and such, but in my opinion, you’re dealing with a phonetic speller, not a dyslexic.”

Will asked, “How can you be sure?”

“Well, I’m not.” He made a thinking noise. “All I can speak from is my own experience. With a dyslexic, I would expect the letters to be mixed up, not just misspelled or run together. Transposition is the most notable characteristic. For instance, Emma continually transposed the ‘e’ and ‘l’ in help, spelling it ‘h-l-e-p.’ ”

Amanda did nothing to hide her impatience. “What about the other ones?”

“The second one, ‘rapist,’ is correct, of course, but the third one, the ‘lev her along’ for ‘leave her alone’—and again, let me qualify this by saying that each person is different—but the ‘along’ seems odd. Typically, you would not expect to find the ‘g’ there. It’s what I would call a heavy letter, meaning it has a definitive sound within a word. You often see it used for ‘j’ or a ‘j’ used in its place, but you never see it just thrown in for no reason.” He made the thinking noise again. “But then the ‘lev’ gives me pause.”

Will was having a hard time following all the spelling, but he still asked, “Why is that?”

“Because, generally, that’s a dyslexic spelling. It’s the word in its purest form. No run-on, no ‘g’ thrown in for effect. I would assume that spell-check added it there.”

“So, what’s your opinion? Is someone trying to appear dyslexic or do they really have the disorder?”

“Well …” The man hesitated. “I’m not a doctor. I’m a reading teacher. But if you were to put a gun to my head, I’d say that you are looking at the work of an adult, probably of average intelligence, who simply never learned basic reading skills.”

Will looked up at Amanda and found her staring back at him. They were both unused to getting straight answers. Just to clarify, Will asked, “You don’t think this person has some sort of reading disability?”

“You asked for my honest opinion and I gave it to you. I would say that the person who wrote these letters never learned how to properly read or spell. At best, they’re on a second-or third-grade level.”

Amanda was obviously skeptical. “How is that possible?”

“I saw it more when I taught in the public school system, but it happens. Kids with all kinds of reading problems can slip through the cracks. You try to help them, but there’s nothing you can really do. That’s one of the reasons I moved to Westfield.”

In the background, they heard the class bell ring.

Bernard said, “I’m sorry, but I need to get to class. I can get someone to cover if you—”

“That’s okay,” Will told him. “Thank you for your time. If you could give those notes back to the patrolman who gave them to you?”

“Of course. Please call me if anything else comes up. I wish I could have been more help to you.”

“You were very helpful,” Will told him. “I would appreciate if you kept this conversation to yourself. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Emma’s situation.”

“Of course not. I think our students are damaged enough by this tragedy as it is.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Bernard.”

Amanda ended the call. “Did you follow any of that?”

“Yes,” Will said. “Our letter writer is an adult of average intelligence who happens to be a functional illiterate.”

“You don’t know how refreshing I find it for an expert to give me their honest opinion.”

Caroline came into the office with a file folder in her hand. “Background checks on the Copy Right employees, and Gordon Chew called to say he’s running half an hour late.”

Amanda did not bother to thank the woman. She opened the file and skimmed the pages, giving Will the highlights. “Everyone’s clean except for Lionel Edward Petty, who has a drug conviction. During a traffic stop, they found two ounces of pot in his glove compartment.”

“Was he hit with intent to distribute?” Will asked. Though it was discretionary, one ounce of marijuana would generally buy you a misdemeanor. Two ounces could be construed as drug trafficking.

Amanda told him, “He ratted out his dealer and they knocked it down to a fine and time served.”

“Faith found some pot taped under Adam Humphrey’s desk,” Will said. “It’s a tenuous connection, but the Copy Right is close to Tech. If he really was dealing, then he could easily walk to campus during his lunch hour.”

“I’m sure there are dealers living right on campus who have that business all wrapped up.” She closed the file folder. “I’m getting the runaround from the contractors who had construction crews outside the copy center. My gut says they were using illegals. Maybe we should go back and see if anyone in the store talked to the workers. There’s a Hispanic girl who works the morning shift.” She referenced one of the pages in the folder. “Maria Contreras. Maybe she had some contact with them. Maybe I’m racial profiling. Check the other girls, too. They may have flirted with the men.” She started to hand the sheet to Will, then thought better of it.

He held out his hand. “I can give it to Faith.”

She put the paper on the desk and slid it over, making her point loud and clear. “You need a partner, Will.”

“You know I don’t work well with others.”

“You seem to be working fine with Faith Mitchell.”

“Because she knows there’s an end to it.”

“Ah,” she said. “There it is. The famous Trent self-esteem.”

He bristled. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not your mama, Will, but it’s time to grow a pair and stop feeling sorry for yourself because you have a disability.”

He did not ask why she kept throwing his dyslexia back in his face if she thought his problem was so inconsequential. Amanda had built her career around knowing people’s weak points and exploiting the hell out of them.

She leaned forward, making sure she had his attention. “You see cases as puzzles and whatever it is that’s so different in your brain makes it possible for you to solve them the way no one else can.” She paused, letting that sink in. “I trusted you with this case because I knew that you could handle it. I don’t need a crisis of confidence from you right now. I need you to go out there and work with Faith and do your job the best way you know how.”

“Amanda—”

“And while I’m at it, you could probably do a hell of a lot better than Angie Polaski.”

“That’s out of line.”

“Probably, but consider yourself put on notice. When this case is over, I’m going to ask Faith to join the team.”

“She’s APD. She’ll lose her benefits and pension and—”

“I’ll worry about the details. You worry about finding a way to tell Faith about your little problem, Special Agent Trent. She’s going to figure it out on her own eventually and she’ll be furious at you for hiding it.” She added, “And I’m not too pleased myself about having to babysit you on this phone call when I could be off doing something that actually moves this case forward instead.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she talked over him.

“No more,” she commanded. Will stood up because she did. “Speaking of pissing away time, I’ve got to go talk to our lawyers about the Alexanders, then I’m heading over to Ansley to wait with the Campanos for the ten-thirty ransom call.” Her heels clicked across the floor as she crossed the room. “Wait for Gordon Chew to see what he comes up with on the threatening notes, then canvass the Copy Right again to see if they remember anything about those construction workers. We’ll reconvene outside the Campano house.” She paused in the doorway, repeating, “Outside the house, Will. I have no idea why Paul Campano covered your ass over the little contretemps you two had, but don’t think for a moment you’ve got me fooled.”