The oversweet smell of food just beginning to rot emanated from Terry Messenger’s kitchen. Georgia tried not to notice as he led her into the condo that afternoon. It had only been six days since Chris Messenger died—barely enough time for a funeral and memorial service—but time enough to be swimming in casseroles, platters, and baked goods brought by concerned friends. Most of the dishes, uneaten and still wrapped in plastic, were crammed on counters and the tiny table.
Terry saw her eyeballing the food. “You want to take some? We’ll never eat it all. Neither of us is hungry.”
Georgia shook her head and resisted the urge to start putting things away. “How’s Molly?”
Terry winced. “I think it’s starting to sink in that her mom isn’t coming back.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s sleeping. At last.” He flopped down in one of the easy chairs in the living room and let out a sigh. Georgia studied him. His crisp appearance, which she recalled from their earlier meeting, had wilted: his chinos were wrinkled, and she spotted a stain on his shirt. His bald head and face needed a shave, and the dark half-moons under his eyes were pronounced. If Molly wasn’t sleeping well, neither was her father.
She sat on the couch. “I want to fill you in on what I’ve found.” She summarized Chris’s actions surrounding the cashiers’ checks, services charges, and secret account, the incident at Sechrest’s Wisconsin cabin, and the link to Delton Security. As she explained, Terry’s eyes widened. By the time she finished, he was leaning forward. “This is—unbelievable. Mercenaries? Cashiers’ checks? Are you sure?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just—so alien from the life she and I led together.” He brushed his hand across his forehead. “We were just your average, normal family, you know? A doctor and a banker. A little girl. But this—this sounds like something out of a movie.”
He looked like he was telling the truth; nevertheless, Georgia was careful. “So, nothing rings a bell? Nothing you can add?”
“Like I said, Chris and I haven’t lived together in three years. I had no idea her life was this—extreme.”
“There’s something else...” Georgia bit her lip. She didn’t want to mention it but knew she had to. “Chris was pregnant when she died.”
Terry’s expression grew weary. “I know.”
Georgia frowned. “How? Oh. The police.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t surprised.”
Georgia remembered Chris’s reluctance to call Terry when Molly was first kidnapped. Her fear that he would blame her, accuse her of being a bad mother. “Why not?”
“She’d been leaving Molly with baby sitters a lot. When I’d call, Molly would say she was out. So I figured she was seeing someone.” His jaw tightened.
Georgia caught it. Was there some truth to Chris’s fears after all?
“Do you know who it was?” he asked.
“I was going to ask you.”
He spread his hands. “I have no clue.”
“Would Molly know?”
Terry’s face hardened. “What does Chris being pregnant have to do with Molly’s kidnapping?”
“I’m not sure. But until we know who took Molly and why, everything is on the table.”
“Molly’s still not talking much. About anything. She’s definitely regressed. I talked to one of the kid shrinks at the hospital. She says that isn’t unusual.”
“Terry, I really need to talk to her.”
“About her mother being pregnant?” He scowled. “I don’t think—”
“About the kidnapping.”
“No. It would be too much of an ordeal.”
Was he just being a concerned father? Or was his unwillingness motivated by something else? Georgia pressed. “You asked me to find out who was behind Molly’s kidnapping. Especially in light of Chris’s ‘accident.’ That’s what I’m trying to do. Molly might be able to tell us something that will move this thing forward. But if you’re denying me access, I don’t really know how much more I can do.”
“It’s not that. But you, the police, everyone wants a piece of her. I just can’t risk it. Not yet. When she’s stronger.”
Georgia clasped her hands around her knee, trying to think of a way around the stand-off. She decided Terry wasn’t trying to stall. Or throw her off the trail. He seemed sincere. And he had a point. Molly had been traumatized. Her recovery would take time and patience and love. Even then she would always bear scars. At the same time, following up on bank records could only tell Georgia so much. It wouldn’t prove the events were connected. She needed more.
She rocked forward and took in a breath. Another odor overlaid the food smells—the musty smell of humans who’ve been cooped up too long. The air conditioning kicked on with a steady hum. As cool air began to circulate, Georgia dropped her hands from her knee. “I have an idea.”
• • •
The temperature had to be just right. Georgia knew. Her grandmother had tried to give her baths, but she’d invariably make them too hot or too cold. The only one who ever got it right was her mother. Georgia tested the water with her fingers. Never mind the elbow—that was an old wive’s tale.
The water was perfect. She went back into the living room where a sleepy Molly sat on her father’s lap, sucking her fingers.
“Okay, I think we’re good to go, Goldilocks.”
When Molly frowned, Georgia reminded her of the story. “This is your chance to play Goldilocks. If it’s not exactly right, you say so, and I’ll fix it.”
Molly cocked her head, as if the idea was intriguing, but she wasn’t convinced. Terry Messenger played it well. “I bet you and Goldilocks would have been good friends, don’t you think?”
Molly, still sucking her fingers, didn’t answer.
“Just give it a try, okay?” Georgia said. “If you don’t like it, you can get out of the tub right away. Deal?”
Molly looked Georgia up and down. Then she reluctantly detached herself from her father. Georgia held out her hand. Molly took her fingers out of her mouth, slipped her hand into Georgia’s, and they walked into the bathroom. Georgia hoped the water hadn’t cooled too much.
Georgia had found Barbie bubble bath on the rim of the tub and dribbled it into the water. Now a mass of fluffy white bubbles floated across the surface. Molly’s face registered approval, but you couldn’t really call it a smile. Georgia helped her take off her bathrobe and Disney princess nightgown. Her ribs protruded. She wasn’t eating enough.
“In you go...” she lifted Molly into the water.
Molly sat down, stretched out her legs and studied the bubbles. She scooped some of them up and deposited them on one arm.
Georgia smiled. “Is that a new blouse?”
Molly’s eyes narrowed, as if considering the idea. Then she scooped up more and coated her other arm. She looked over at Georgia. Georgia smiled more broadly. Molly’s expression smoothed out, her mouth twitched, and she cracked a tiny smile. Georgia’s heart flipped. This had to be the first time in a week.
“It’s gorgeous,” she said. “And just your size.”
A sly look came across the girl and she wiped the bubbles off her arms. She lowered her hands into the water, but this time, instead of scooping up more, she started to slap them. She glanced at Georgia then swatted more forcefully, creating waves of white foam that sloshed against the side of the tub. As the waves gathered steam, the water spilled over the top and onto the floor. She giggled.
Georgia dipped her hand in the water and gently splashed Molly. Molly splashed back. Then Georgia scooped up a handful of bubbles and smeared them on her chin. “See my beard?”
Molly giggled and mimicked her.
“You too?”
Molly nodded.
“I guess we’re two bearded ladies.”
“Girls don’t have beards.”
Georgia feigned surprise. “They don’t?”
“No, that’s just silly.”
Georgia shrugged. “Oops.”
That made Molly laugh. A real laugh.
Georgia let her splash a while longer, then asked, “Would you like your back soaped?”
Molly nodded. Georgia found a washcloth on the towel rack, dipped it in the water and scrubbed Molly’s back.
“Up here,” Molly said, snaking her hand around her back.
Georgia rubbed the spot Molly pointed to.
“Now down here.” Molly moved her hand down.
Georgia complied.
“Now over here.” Molly placed her other hand on her back.
“I bet down here, now,” Georgia said, moving the cloth.
“No!” Molly ordered. “Not till I say so.”
“I’m sorry, your majesty.”
When the water finally cooled, Georgia lifted her out, wrapped her in a towel, and dried her. She examined Molly’s bathrobe. It needed laundering.
“You have another one?”
Molly shook her head.
“No problem.” Georgia went back out to the living room and asked Terry for a clean t-shirt. Returning with one, she put it on Molly. It hung to the middle of her calves. “Now that’s a perfect fit.”
But Molly didn’t say anything, and she stuck her fingers in her mouth, as if she somehow understood that her bath had been just a respite, a special but temporary moment of happiness in the midst of grief.
Again Georgia held out her hand. “How about we put some food in your mouth instead of your fingers?”
When they came back into the living room, Terry was on his laptop. Georgia told him she was going to fix Molly something to eat. She bypassed the food on the counter and scrounged the cabinets. She found a can of chicken soup, bread, and in the refrigerator, sliced cheese. She started the soup on the stove, got out a pan, and prepared three grilled cheese sandwiches.
Molly watched carefully. She took her fingers out of her mouth. “I can’t eat all those.”
“One’s for me. And another for your Dad.”
Molly blinked as if she needed time to process the information. “I don’t like crusts.”
“Then you shall not eat them.”
Ten minutes later the three of them were at the dining room table with soup and crustless sandwiches. Georgia watched as Molly slurped down soup, glad the girl was eating something. Terry seemed relieved too. Georgia didn’t really need a sandwich, but she pretended to enjoy it. Determined to keep the mood light, she made small talk about the Taste of Chicago, which had just ended, all the while wondering how to—or if she even could—bring up the subject of Molly’s abduction.
When Molly finished her sandwich, she put her fingers back in her mouth. Georgia was disappointed. But Terry, who must have cottoned to the idea of keeping things light, laughed. “You keep sucking your fingers, baby, you might suck them right off.”
Molly dropped her fingers. “Like the man who stole me.”
Georgia froze. Terry Messenger paled. His smile vanished. After a moment he managed to ask, “What was that, freckle-face?”
Molly looked at Terry, then Georgia. “The man who stole me. He sucked his finger off.”
“How do you mean, sweetie?” Georgia asked softly.
Molly held up her hand. “This finger.” She pointed to the index finger of her left hand. “There wasn’t anything there. Just a lump.” She cast her eyes down. “He got mad at me for staring at it.”