“Anything else? Families who work in the same places? Same hobbies? Babysitters?” I ask.
“No. They all attend the elementary school, but that’s it. Two of them are girls. One boy. Alice is white. Caleb is black. Eva is white and Hispanic. They have different family arrangements. Different faiths. All the threads that usually link serial kidnapping victims… they just aren’t there.”
I spread out pictures of the three children and look at them, trying to figure out what could link them. There has to be something. Truly random victims are incredibly rare. Most of the time, criminals have something specific that leads them to choose the specific individuals they do. Sometimes it’s a simple as them being in a certain place when the perpetrator wants to strike. But these children were taken from different places in different circumstances. It wasn’t just a matter of convenience. Suddenly my eyes are drawn to the names scribbled under the images. I read through them several times, then adjust the position of the pictures, so they are in order of when they disappeared.
“Did you notice this?” I ask, pointing at the names.
He follows my finger, and his eyes widen. “It’s a pattern.”
I nod. “Alice Brooks. A, B. Caleb Donahue. C, D. Eva Francis. E, F. Their names are going in alphabetical order by first and last name.”
Bolstered by the tiny step forward, we dig through every piece of evidence and detail in the case files until I notice Sam’s eyes drooping.
“Have you been getting any sleep?” I ask.
“Some,” he says.
“Does ‘some’ mean you occasionally put your head down on your desk?” I ask.
“I’ve stretched out on the couch in my office a couple of times,” he nods.
“When we were in college, I watched you study for three days with no more than two hours of sleep. I supplied you with coffee to get you through some of it. And this is much more serious than Advanced Chemistry. You have to sleep. You aren’t going to be any good to anyone if you exhaust yourself.”
I’m lecturing even as the burn of my eyes reminds me of the hours I’ve lost.
“Let me go crash, and I’ll call you in the morning,” he says.
“Good idea.” I follow him to the door. “Thanks for the fried chicken.”
He smiles, and I’m torn down the middle. Part of me wakes up with that smile and part of me recoils.
“Any time. Good night, Emma.”
“Good night.”
I close the door behind him and clean up the remnants of dinner before heading into the bedroom I slept in when I was younger. It doesn’t look the same, but it feels just as it did. I change into pajamas and slip into the cool sheets, wondering if my nightmares can find me here.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning comes early. I feel like the sharp ringing of my phone under my pillow snaps me out of sleep almost as soon as I finally find it. First, it seems like the sun hasn’t even come up yet, but then I realize it’s just another densely clouded morning. Glancing at the clock at the side of the bed, I see it’s past dawn, but just barely. I pull myself up to sitting and run my fingers back through my hair to get it out of my eyes, then reach around for my phone without looking.
“Hello?”
“Emma, get dressed. I’ll be there to pick you up in ten minutes,” Sam says.
That opens my eyes the rest of the way but puts a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“A reporter thinks he has information about Alice Brooks.”
“A reporter? Are you talking about Jennings?”
“No. This is another local reporter. He got in touch with me about twenty minutes ago and apparently has something he needs to show me. He seems really worked up about it,” Sam tells me.
“I’ll be ready,” I say.
Questions and possibilities twist and turn through my mind as I throw on a pair of jeans and a black tank top. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and swipe on a couple of coats of mascara to make me look more awake. I’ve just finished putting my shoes on when Sam pulls up in front of the house. I climb in the passenger seat, and he offers a travel cup of coffee.
“Cream and sugar,” he says.
“Thank you,” I nod. “So, what’s going on? What is this reporter talking about?”
“I’m not sure yet. He says he wants to show me.”
“And you trust this guy? I mean, you know who he is?”
“I know him. Vincent Lam. He’s not like Jennings. He’s never had the chance to be,” he says.
We drive to the other side of town into a modest neighborhood and park in front of a meticulously kept brick house. The engine isn’t even off when a man appears at the screen door. He waits there as we walk up the sidewalk, and I notice his eyes lock on me.
“Good morning, Vincent,” Sam says.
“Morning, Sheriff. I was hoping to be able to speak only to you about this.”
I have to give him credit. He’s straightforward. Not beating around the bush saves a lot of time.
“It’s alright, Vincent,” Sam reassures him. “This is Emma Griffin. She’s helping me with the investigation.”
The sandy haired man scrutinizes me for a few seconds before he finally nods.
“Alright,” he says. “Come in.”
We follow him inside, and he leads us into a small office taking up the front corner of the house. Several pieces of paper spread out across a desk catch my eye. I walk up to the desk and look down at the papers.
“This is what you got?” I ask.
Vincent nods and walks up to the other side of the desk.
“I went out to get the paper this morning, and there was a big manila envelope on the porch. I opened it, and these were inside,” he explains.
“Was there anything written on the outside of the envelope?” Sam asks.
“Just my last name,” he says.
“Can I see it?” I ask.
Vincent reaches under the papers and pulls out a standard-sized manila envelope. He slides it across the desk toward me, and I look at the name. Written in basic block print in black permanent marker, it’s anonymous enough that nearly anyone could have written it. I peek inside, but there’s nothing else.
“These are the two that makes me think this has something to do with the first girl,” Vincent says.
He points out two of the papers, and Sam and I look at them. The first depicts the little blond girl in a blue dress seeming to tumble down from the sky. There is nothing else in the picture, no surroundings or objects, but it’s instantly recognizable.
“Alice,” I say. “Like Alice in Wonderland.”
Vincent nods and points to the other paper, which has a simplified pencil sketch of running water stretched diagonally across it.
“Brook. The little girl’s last name is Brooks, but that’s close.”
“It is,” Sam nods. “What about the other papers?”
The reporter reaches for another stack of papers, and I hear a door slam behind us.
“What’s going on here?” a woman asks as she comes into the room.
She looks distinctly unhappy to see us standing there.
“Honey, I told you I was going to call the sheriff about this,” Vincent says.
“Emma, this is Valerie,” Sam says.
“I’m Vincent’s wife,” the woman tells me forcefully, stepping up beside her husband and taking his hand.
“Hello,” I say, reaching out my hand toward her. “I’m Emma Griffin. I…”
“I know who you are,” she interrupts coldly. “What I want to know is what interest the FBI has in my husband.”
“As far as I know, there’s no reason for the Bureau to have any interest in your husband at all. I’m acting as a consultant for Sheriff Johnson. Your husband is the one who called us,” I tell her.