“Sam,” I say, pointing to the chalkboard.
“It’s the alphabet,” he says.
“Right. Do the letters look familiar to you?”
He pulls out his phone and compares images of the clues to the letters written across the board in white chalk.
“They look alike,” he says.
My heart drums in my chest so hard I can hear it.
“Sam, look at the letters.” Some of the letters are crossed out the way a teacher does while teaching small children to write letter by letter. But these aren’t random. I move my finger along the board, pointing to the crossed-out letters. “A, B. Alice Brooks. C, D. Caleb Donahue. E,F. Eva Francis. G,H. Gloria Hernandez. I, J.”
Our eyes meet.
“There’s another one,” he says. “Another child is missing.”
“Run, run, as fast as you can,” I murmur.
* * *
The next several hours are a flurry of names, school records, and phone calls. Every available officer scours pages and makes phone calls, checking on the children who match the right age range and have names that fit the alphabet order. Any child between the ages of ten and eleven with first and last names that start with I and J are on our list. Every call gets shorter, every check-in with a parent, babysitter, grandparent, or summer-school teacher more desperate. Finally, Sam bursts into the room where I’m hunched over a table looking at the journals, papers, and clues again.
“We got the name,” he says. “Isaac Jacobs. Ten years old. He was last seen this morning when his parents left for work, leaving him at home with his older sister. She went out with her boyfriend even though she wasn’t supposed to. Says she left around ten. His parents called to check on him at eleven but didn’t ask to talk to the sister. When they got our call, they called their daughter, and she went home to find him missing.”
“And…” I lead.
“He plays for the youth soccer team at the church,” he says.
“Shit,” I say in a gust of breath.
“We need to reach out to the parents of any child in that age range and make sure they keep them close. He’s moving faster now, and the next child could get taken at any time.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Start with K, L. They’re next in line. Any child between ten and eleven with those initials need to be kept at home with constant adult supervision until this is over.”
Sam starts to walk out of the room, but stops, his head lifting, and then frantic eyes turning to me.
“Vincent,” he says.
“What about Vincent?”
“Vincent Lam. His son.”
“Singer?” I ask.
“That’s just what they call him. His name is Kessinger.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Answer your fucking phone!” Sam shouts, hitting the button to end his fifth call to Vincent.
My phone rings in my ear. My third call to Valerie. Suddenly, it picks up.
“Hello?” she says.
“Valerie, it’s Emma Griffin.”
“What do you want?” she asks, the breeziness of her answer gone from her voice as soon as she hears my name.
“When are you coming home from your trip?” I ask.
“Tomorrow. Why? Do you need me there to dig through my house and humiliate my family more?” she snaps.
“No. I need you and Vincent to keep Singer away for as long as you can,” I tell her.
“Vincent? What do you mean?”
“We have reason to believe it’s not safe for your son to be in Sherwood right now. You and Vincent need to keep him away until you hear from us again,” I explain.
“Singer is in Sherwood,” she says.
“What?”
“He’s at home. He and Vincent didn’t come with me on this trip. I’m visiting my sister like I do every summer. What’s going on?”
“You need to get home as soon as you can,” I say and end the call before she can respond.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.
“We need to go. Right now.”
We run out to the car, and I snatch the keys from him so I can drive. I can’t sit and do nothing right now, even for the few minutes it will take to get to the Lam house.
“Vincent and Singer never left Sherwood. They didn’t go with Valerie. They’ve been here the whole time.”
“Oh, no.”
The door to the car doesn’t close behind me when I jump out, but I don’t bother to go back and close it. I run up the sidewalk as fast as I can and yank at the door. It’s locked, but not secure enough to withstand Sam’s boot slamming into the lock and his shoulder splintering the center. We run inside, screaming for Vincent and Singer. The silence that echoes back at us sends cold sweat down the back of my neck.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.
“Shit,” Sam mutters as we run toward the upstairs hallway, where I assume the family bedrooms are. “Why didn’t I think about Singer? Why didn’t it ever occur to me?”
One by one, we check every inch of the rooms upstairs but find no sign of Vincent or Singer. I open the last door, and a burst of white-hot memory sears across the back of my eyes. I squeeze my eyes closed, ridding my thoughts of the images from Jake’s basement, and open them again to see the fresh blood. It soaks into the pale rug positioned under the bed and stains the white comforter beneath Vincent’s body. His phone sits beside him, and a knife is on the floor directly beneath the hand hanging over the edge of the bed.
Sam runs up to the bed and presses his fingers to the side of Vincent’s neck.
“He’s alive,” he says. “His pulse is weak, but he’s alive. Call an ambulance.”
I run back out of the room as I call for the EMS. As I’m talking to them, I search every other room, closet, and corner of the house. The basement door mocks me. It dares me to open it. I call its bluff and take the narrow wooden stairs three at a time to get to the cement floor below faster.
It’s chilly down here, even with the summer heat outside. Boxes and plastic totes piled along the walls are carefully arranged by season or holiday. Everything is perfectly labeled, organized to exacting precision. The labels tell the story of which member of the family packed which, though I have no doubt the positioning of the boxes was already thoroughly planned before a single item went inside.
Vincent labeled the boxes for Easter and Halloween.
A messy, childlike hand-marked boxes of sports equipment and winter clothing.
Valerie’s smooth script is idyllic Christmas movie perfection on boxes of ornaments and lawn decorations.
I stop in the middle of the floor, staring at the stack in front of me. I reach out to touch the label before I think about the possibility of fingerprints.
Valentine’s Day.
The sound of sirens overhead draws me back up the stairs and to the front door. I direct the team of emergency responders up the stairs and stumble outside. A car skids to a stop across the street, and Jennings hops out. I stalk up to him to stop him from running into the house.
“Where is she?” he demands. I notice he doesn’t have his camera in his hands. “Where’s Valerie?”
“Back up, Jennings. You can’t go in there,” I say.
“Where is Valerie?” he asks again. “Why is there an ambulance here? Is she alright?”
“What are you doing here? How would you know something was going on?”
“I have a police scanner in my car. I heard the address.”
I’ve heard that excuse before, and hearing it again makes a metallic taste rise up the back of my throat.
“You need to leave. Your little game is over,” I tell him.