Reed rolled over in the morning, expecting to find Ellery weighing down her side of the bed, but instead, a sixty-pound barrel-chested, hound-scented mound of fur stared back at him. Reed squinted and plopped his head back down on the pillow. “Good morning,” he said to Bump with a sigh. The dog wagged and slurped Reed’s elbow in return. Reed ran his palm down the sheets where Ellery wasn’t, figuring she must have gone out for an early run. Unlike his previous lovers, Ellery did not linger in bed.
He’d been naïve, he supposed, a romantic sop who figured his love and tenderness could erase her years of PTSD. She’d survived Coben by divorcing herself from all physical sensation, by pretending it was some other body he’d tortured with his farm tools. Sex had always been mechanical, she had explained to Reed, whenever she’d bothered to attempt it at all. She never allowed herself to feel anything—not even, she’d confessed to him once in the darkness, when it was just herself alone in the privacy of her bedroom. It was hard not to feel fury when she said these things. He fantasized about walking into Coben’s cell on death row with a gun and ending him forever. The knowledge that this wouldn’t fix anything—that the damage was unending—only made Reed angrier somehow, and anger wasn’t what she needed from him.
Figuring out what to do instead wasn’t always easy. Ellery was playful and generous in bed as long as he was on the receiving end; when it was her turn, she had difficulty permitting him to take the lead, relaxing, and letting him make her body feel things. He’d learned to ease into lovemaking with her, gently retreating and advancing like the overlapping waves of a slowly rising tide. The tsunami of her pleasure when he got it right made his patience worth it every time. He stroked the bed again, missing her and the intimacy he’d hoped to be sharing with her on this trip.
Bump repositioned himself under Reed’s hand, stretching his legs luxuriously as he settled in for a massage. “You are no substitute at all,” Reed informed him, offering a last scratch or two before rising from the bed. He checked his messages and found two key developments. First, the Philadelphia PD had answered his inquiry about the gun recovered from the shed at the old Stone house. It was registered to someone named Dale Goodwin, who lived on East Lombard Street in Baltimore. They’d followed up at that address and found Dale’s widow, who said she hadn’t known the gun was missing. Her husband had kept it in a shoe box in the closet.
“Baltimore,” Reed mused to himself. The deceased housekeeper, Carol Frick, had lived in Baltimore before moving to Philadelphia. He wondered about the timeline and whether there could be a connection.
The second message he had was from Sarit:
TULA NEEDS NEW SHOES FOR THE START OF SCHOOL. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD TAKE HER? THEY NEED TO HAVE STURDY RUBBER SOLES—SOMETHING BASIC LIKE GRAY OR NAVY THAT WILL GO WITH HER UNIFORM. BUCKLE PREFERRED OVER VELCRO, AND NOTHING THAT ROLLS, LIGHTS UP, OR MAKES NOISE.
He was aware, dimly, that Tula like most growing children had already burned through eleventy-billion pairs of shoes, but not one pair of these had been purchased by Reed. Sarit simply cared more, as evidenced by the detailed instructions in her email. This request then, he decided, must be a trap, a test designed for him to fail so Sarit could score points in the coming custody war. Your Honor, her father can’t even manage her a single pair of shoes for school. It’s clear she should be in Houston with me.
This was how he found himself later that morning, not at the station with Ellery mucking through Stephen Wintour’s child pornography, but at the local mall with Tula and Ashley. Ashley had tagged along only when it became clear Tula wouldn’t go without her. It was perfect, really—the girl kept Tula engaged picking out shoes while Reed sat in a chair with his laptop, trying to make a timeline of the events he’d uncovered so far:
The gun was stolen in Baltimore, exact date unknown.
One month prior to the murders of Trevor Stone and Carol Frick, someone set Ethan Stone’s car on fire at the university where he works.
Trevor Stone and Carol Frick were murdered in the Stone home in Philly seventeen years ago.
Two years later, Teresa Stone married Martin Lockhart. Two years after that, Chloe was born.
Chloe was kidnapped not far from what would have been the anniversary of the murders at the Stone household.
Reed frowned at the bullet points on his list. Carol had a third child, he remembered. There was Lisa and Bobby and a teenage daughter who died in a car accident some weeks before Carol herself was killed. Reed made a note to find out the precise date.
“Daddy, look at these.” Tula crashed into his lap, forcing him to put aside the computer. “Aren’t they awesome?”
He regarded the pink sneakers on her feet. The had blue flames on the sides and blinking lights around the edges. “They are spectacular.”
“Show him what they do,” Ashley prompted.
Tula stomped her foot and a rocket noise came out of the shoe. “Blast off!” she cried, leaping into the air.
“Those are impressive,” Reed said. “I don’t think they will work for school.” Sarit would have his head.
“Aw, I don’t want boring old stupid shoes,” Tula complained, kicking at the floor.
“Maybe we can find some in between,” Ashley told her. “I’ll help you look.”
Reed opened his mouth to thank her when he noticed Ashley’s ancient pair of Chuck Taylors. They were worn and dirty, and the sole had started to separate on the left one. “Why don’t you find a pair for yourself?” he said, nodding at her feet. “You have school starting soon, too.”
Ashley’s face flushed the same shade as Ellery’s did when she was embarrassed. “Thanks, but I didn’t bring the money.”
Didn’t have the money, Reed guessed. He knew that cancer treatment sent many families into bankruptcy. “It’s my treat.”
The girl cast a longing glance at the rows of shiny sandals and bright white sneakers. “No, that’s okay. The ones I have are still good.”
“It’s a thank-you,” Reed clarified. “For looking after Tula.”
Tula grabbed her hand and tugged. “Come on. I’ll help you look,” she said, and Ashley relented with a grin. Reed took out his computer again and began to search for any information on Carol Frick’s daughter. What he found instead surprised him: Carol’s husband, Vincent, had not been killed in an accident as described by Lisa. He had been shot to death in a mugging attempt on the streets of Baltimore several years prior to the murders at the Stone household. Reed added this to his timeline. He didn’t know yet what to make of the disparate events, but the Frick family’s recurring tragedy seemed like it had to be deeper than a run of bad luck. Dead father, dead mother, dead daughter. Trevor Stone was the odd one out in this pattern. Maybe Carol the housekeeper had been the target all along.
Reed fired off a note to an old friend he had in the Baltimore PD, asking for any insider information on the Vincent Frick homicide. The internet search he’d performed suggested it was unsolved.
Ashley and Tula appeared in front of him again with more shoes. “The sales guy said these are good to go with school uniforms,” Ashley said, indicating the sensible pair of navy shoes on Tula’s feet. They were buckled, not Velcro, so to Reed they seemed to pass muster.
“They don’t jump as good,” Tula said as she made a halfhearted attempt.
“What about for you?” Reed asked Ashley.
“I found some new Chuck Taylors. I can’t decide whether to get the red or the black.”
“Well then, both, obviously.” His sisters at Ashley’s age had rows upon rows of shoes in their closets. He suspected Kimmy still did.
“Oh, I can’t.”
“You can,” Reed said as he put away his computer and scooped up the original pair of sneakers that Tula had selected. “In fact, you both can.” Tula launched into a celebratory dance, and Reed reflected how easy it was to make her happy now with a single pair of rocket ship shoes. Sarit would be livid when she saw them, probably thinking he’d bought them just to spite her, but if she ever bothered to ask him he would tell her it had nothing to do with her. He’d cleaved his family at Sarit’s request, leaving the home and agreeing to see his daughter on a fixed schedule, like she was a dentist’s appointment. He’d willingly made himself smaller in her life because that’s what Sarit had argued was best for Tula. Stability. Harmony. But, oh, how his heart ached whenever he had to send her off again, when the weekend was up and he had to watch her face in the backseat of Sarit’s car, disappearing down the road. It seemed to him as though Tula grew two inches between visits. Gone was the chubby-cheeked toddler and the preschooler who always had paint on her nose. His daughter was growing up and away from him, eventually for good. At least now she’d be taking a piece of him with her when she left.
Reed paid for the shoes and then dropped both kids at his rented hotel suite. He gave the key card to Ashley. “Stay on the property, but feel free to use the pool or rent a movie. You can order room service for lunch and it will just go to my bill.”
“What should we get?” She looked anxious again. “Like, what’s the limit?”
He momentarily blanched, thinking of the six-dollar candy bars in the mini-fridge. Then he remembered he was leaving these girls to go in search of another one, a girl who had a fridge full of food at home but was perhaps starving nonetheless. Reed decided he would take whatever quick win the universe offered to him. He clamped a gentle hand on Ashely’s thin shoulder. “Order whatever you want.”
At headquarters, Reed checked in with Jeff Zuckerman to see if they had been able to identify the ball-capped figure from the security video he’d seen of Chloe. “We think we located him about an hour earlier, buying a bottle of water inside this convenience store. The hat’s still on, but he took off the glasses, so you have a better view of his face.” Jeff showed Reed a clip of what looked like the same man—white, trim build, mid-twenties, maybe early thirties—at the register paying for the bottle of water. The black Northeastern T-shirt appeared to be the same one from the earlier shots. Jeff drew up a still shot, zoomed in on the man’s face. “This is the best we can do.”
Reed leaned in to get a better look. The man had dark hair that curled out under the edges of his hat. No visible scars or tattoos that Reed could discern. Still, there was a familiarity to his eyes and nose that continued to bug Reed. “At the very least, he’s a potential witness,” he said to Jeff. “We should get it out to the media immediately. Try to ID him.”
“We’re already on it. Also checking with Northeastern to see if he could be a student there.”
The door behind them burst open and Ellery came in, radiating a kind of tense excitement. “I heard you were in here,” she said, looking to Reed with bright eyes.
“What is it?”
“We got a tip just now. Chloe’s been sighted at a Target store.”
Reed didn’t feel similar elation. “We’ve had dozens of similar sightings so far,” he reminded her. “None has panned out.”
“This Target is in Providence,” she replied. “Also, look at this.”
She went to an open computer and called up an image that was clearly taken inside of Target’s trademark red store. It showed a woman in shorts and a T-shirt, perhaps thirty years old, trailed by two children. One was a boy of about five or six. The girl was a blonde who matched Chloe Lockhart in build and coloring. “She’s quite similar,” Reed agreed.
“No, she’s a dead ringer.” Ellery showed him a still shot of the girl’s face taken from a moment when she’d looked almost right into the camera. Reed felt her stare like a blow to his chest. Chloe’s bright blue eyes bore right into him. “It’s her, right? It’s got to be.”
“Chloe’s hair was chopped off. This girl has her original shoulder-length hair.”
“The video is two days old,” she told him impatiently. “The manager just reported it this morning after a cashier saw Chloe’s picture on the news and remembered the girl.” She tugged on his arm. “Come on, let’s go.” He could feel his own excitement rising. He heard it in Ellery’s voice. “Let’s bring her home.”