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  Brandon looked up at the stranger’s eyes and saw in their faint blue glow something he recognized but couldn’t name, something that brought back his fear, doubled it. Something twisted, ancient, and tortured. Something—

  “Shhhhh,” said the bad man, grabbing Brandon’s arm. He seemed to sense Brandon’s uneasiness. “Calm down.”

  But Brandon couldn’t calm down. He was no longer mesmerized. Something evil was about to happen, and it had something to do with this doll. He had to put a plan together quick. After a fraction of a second to think, he took the only action he could come up with: He threw the doll across the room.

  The bad man grabbed Brandon’s arm to stop him, but was too late.

  The doll shattered on the wooden floor. More than a dozen large chunks of ceramic and an uncountable number of smaller pieces slid away from the point of impact. A few of the tiniest shards made it all the way under the bed or into the pile of toys.

  Afraid to struggle or look away, Brandon kept his attention on his abductor.

  “Why did you do that, Brandon? That was a gift.” Although the bad man didn’t raise his voice when he spoke, every word was doled out with an equal measure of anger. A vein bulged in his forehead. Brandon was certain he was about to get smacked or worse.

  Instead, after a long silence, the bad man released Brandon’s wrist and sighed. “It’s okay. I’ll make you another one.” He straightened his jacket, walked out of the room, and locked the door.

  Somewhere beyond these walls, his mom was looking for him, Brandon told himself. She had to be. She was a good mom.

  Chapter 8

  SARAH FROZE, TRYING TO SLOW HER BREATHING so she could better hear the world around her and, in particular, the raccoon she couldn’t see. After the threatening hiss, it had been as quiet as she was. Was it sizing her up for an attack or had it slipped away into the night?

  As she struggled to listen, she also strained to see form in the darkness beneath the trees. She looked for shifting shadows that would reveal movement. She saw none. She was losing time. The police were out there—rallying, circling, searching. Still, an angry raccoon could cause serious harm.

  After another moment of hesitation, she decided the hiss might not have been directed at her. It might not even have been as close as she had thought. Come on, Sarah. It’s more likely to run away than bite me. It’s not like I’ve got it backed into a corner.

  She burst forward, twigs and rocks once again tearing at her feet. Nothing attacked.

  As she surmounted this side of the hill, she came up behind neighboring houses. No cops were swarming the backyards before her, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could have outwitted them so easily. They were nearby. They were coming.

  There was no time to think about which way to run. Instead of crouching and proceeding at a cautious pace, she broke into a full-out sprint, headed straight for the road. Crossing the neighbor’s backyard with soft grass underfoot, she could run faster than she’d been able to before—not as fast as she could have when she was on the high school track team, but at an impressive pace, nonetheless.

  When she reached the house, she pressed her body flat against the bricks. Her heart was pounding. She could feel her brain buzzing with activity, sorting out what she should do next.

  The shadow thrown by the wall behind her hid her for now, but she couldn’t stay there long. She was thankful no one had awoken and turned on any lights. She was muddy, dirty, and barefoot. If anybody saw her, they’d be alarmed for sure. She didn’t know many of the neighbors on this street and who knows what they’d think of someone in her condition. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

  She crept along the driveway. At the front of the house, she peered down the street in both directions, weighing her options. Fortunately, there were no cops. Not yet.

  The quiet street reminded her of the way hers had been only hours before. Streetlamps watched over cars parked along the curb. Small bungalows and manicured lawns marked the residences of socially conscious, middle-income families. Those same families slept, oblivious to the dangers that lurked just on the edges of their lives, hungry to strike them down as swiftly and sharply as they had her son.

  Half a mile away, the street opened up to a four-lane road. A quarter of a mile from there stood a 24-hour supermarket. A Kroger, to be precise. She knew it well because she did all her grocery shopping there.

  She needed to get to a phone. She needed help. At a run, she could be at the supermarket in six minutes, and despite the scratches and pricks on the bottoms of her feet, she could run. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and charged forward. She prayed for a little luck and told herself to Go! Go! Go!

  She darted up the driveway, past the Suburban, and turned right onto the sidewalk. Her blood thumped through her veins as heavy as tar. After she passed a couple dozen sleepy houses, hope took root in her soul. She was close enough to see the intersection, the traffic light, the late-night motorists. She only had a block and a half to go when the nose of a police cruiser appeared from the final intersection between her and the four-lane road. A search light mounted to the car swept toward her.

  Without a moment of hesitation, she dove over the hedge to her right. The ground punched all the wind out of her in an audible huff. Almost comically, she skidded a couple inches, ripping up grass and further dirtying her already filthy face, hands, and clothes.

  She rolled onto her back and took a couple of deep breaths. She looked at the house to her left to see if anyone had heard her. No lights came on. She looked back to the street, which she could see with minimal obstruction as she peered around the base of the hedge. The police car rolled past. The officer scanned his search light across the landscape, looking for their suspect.

  This must be happening all over the neighborhood, Sarah realized.

  She held her breath as she watched the wheels of the police car go by, as if the cop had bionic hearing and could detect the sound of air escaping her lungs. That was ridiculous, of course, but she still held her breath.

  Once it had passed, she crawled to her knees and waited. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. She counted seconds the way she’d taught Brandon. She felt a lump in her throat as sadness washed over her again. There he was in her mind’s eye, sitting at the kitchen table with her, feet dangling off the booster seat, pronouncing “Mississippi” as “Missisitppi.”

  After twenty seconds, she dared to look over the hedge to see how far away the cop was. Seven houses down. Still close, but she couldn’t wait any longer. With enough officers scouring the neighborhood, another one could hit this street soon. She might not be as lucky next time.

  Her rational mind reminded her that, in reality, the police force was undermanned and overworked. This case couldn’t possibly be their highest priority. They’d put out an APB, but would they really dispatch a chopper or go to any extreme lengths to find her?

  She guessed Detective Hammond would prioritize a search of the residence, looking for evidence that their prime suspect had left behind. He’d park an undercover vehicle near the house to watch for her return. He might even put someone outside Jim’s house, since he would expect her to turn to Jim for help. Hammond was—to be blunt—an ass, but he wasn’t stupid. She’d left without her wallet, her keys, her phone. He knew her options were limited.

  Fortune favors the bold, she told herself. She couldn’t wait. Hoping that the cop wasn’t watching his rearview mirrors, she backtracked to the driveway. She stayed low until she was on the other side of the hedge.

  The cop car was ten houses away now and still moving.

  She reached the sidewalk and kicked back into a run, going as fast as her tired legs would take her. She prayed the cop wouldn’t look back. The intersection was so close now. So close. A few more steps. Move faster. Don’t look back. So close...

  Then she was there. Thanks to the hour, traffic was light. The cars that were out whizzed past. Neon lights flashed and flickered. A billboard
across the street for Burt’s Electronics advertised discount computers. Sarah felt like she had stepped from one world into another.

  She turned left and kept running. No cops. No cops.

  Since she couldn’t keep an eye open for the police coming from behind, she watched for places to hide. If she heard sirens, she needed to know her next move. She reassessed her situation with every building she passed. There was a narrow alley. There was a loading dock. She reached the Kroger without being arrested and ran through the deserted parking lot, stopping only when she reached the sliding glass doors.

  A sign warned: NO SHOES. NO SHIRT. NO SERVICE. No way was that going to deter her from entering.

  Remodeled some ten years ago, the grocery store featured everything from a bank to a Starbucks. The two cashiers and a few customers watched her with suspicion as she headed for the customer service counter.

  A skinny, pimpled-faced kid with blond hair parted down the center sneered at her from behind the counter. The nametag on his button-up blue vest announced that he was Frank, Assistant Manager. She recognized him from a dozen or so encounters they’d had at the desk he was working now and the registers. From the disgusted sneer on his face, however, that recognition was clearly one-sided.

  “No handouts,” he said. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the cops.”

  Sweaty, dirty, and shoeless, Sarah was not surprised by the greeting. “Please,” she said, breathless. “Please, I’m not homeless. I just need to use your phone.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “Just let me use your phone for thirty seconds and I’ll go,” she said. “I promise.”

  “To call who? Your pimp?”

  “Sir,”—you snot-nosed arrogant brat—“I... I...” Her face crumpled and she started to cry crocodile tears. “I was just robbed,” she lied, hoping he wouldn’t ask how she got so dirty in the process. “I just need to use your phone. Just for thirty seconds to call my husband to come get me. Please...” The words trailed off into a bubbly, incomprehensible whine.

  Frank’s disgust vanished. His hands dropped from his hips. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Let me call the police.”

  “And what good will that do? They’ll never catch him. I just want to go home.”

  “Sure. Sure, I understand. Here.” He placed the phone on top of the counter. Then he lifted the receiver and pressed 9 to get an outside line. “Call whoever you need to.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah pulled herself together. Aside from her babysitter’s phone number, Jim’s cell phone was one of the few she could recall from memory. She remembered the look on Jim’s face when Detective Hammond had told her she was under arrest. Despite that, his was also the only number she wanted to dial.

  He answered on the third ring. “Where are you?” he asked, just louder than a whisper.

  “I’m at Kroger.”

  “What were you thinking running like that?”

  “Not now, please. You can scold me later. Are you still at my house?”

  “Where else would I go?”

  “Can you come get me?”

  “You want me to bring you back?”

  “No.”

  “Sarah—”

  “If I go back, they’ll just arrest me, and then nobody will be looking for my son.”

  He sighed. “Fine. Okay. But we’re going to talk about this. You should be working with the police, not against them.”

  “Can you come now?”

  He thought for a second. “Not yet. Detective Hammond’s going through everything in the house. I was following him room to room until my phone rang. If I leave now, he’ll be suspicious.”

  “Okay. Just come as soon as you can. I’ll be in the restroom.”

  A little too loudly, he said, “I have to go, Mom. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night. I love you, too.” Then he ended the call.

  Sarah knew those last few sentences had been for Hammond’s benefit. She hung up, relieved to know that he was still on her side.

  “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

  “Certainly not. Would you like a bottle of water or anything else? We have a couple of vending machines in the break room. My treat.”

  Frank wasn’t so bad, she decided. “No, you’ve been kind enough already. My husband will be here soon. Thank you.”

  She offered him a weak smile, then followed the signs to the restroom. She went into a stall. She closed the door. Locked it. Put down the seat. Sat down to wait. She felt safe for the first time since Hammond had told her to put her hands behind her back. Relief opened the floodgates to pain. She broke into tears again, and thought they’d never stop.

  Chapter 9

  CUNNING JIM WAS NOT. Devising a plan to get away from the house without drawing attention to himself was not going to be easy.

  Although Hammond’s partner had not yet arrived, Jim had heard him on the phone with her and knew she would be here soon. Mark had said something about the babysitter. He’d told his partner not to bother, to come here instead. After he got off the phone with her, he called in a search warrant. Search warrants take time, though, and Hammond wasn’t a patient person. He tore apart Sarah’s bedroom without regard for her privacy and, apparently, without feeling any need to wait for permission.

  Sarah had kept old lesson plans and abandoned student projects in boxes under her bed. She kept the lesson plans to reuse them, the projects for sentimental reasons. The boxes were well organized and labeled. Since she went into these boxes often to reminisce, there was no sense in storing them in the attic.

  All that organization was ruined now.

  Hammond sifted through the drawers of Sarah’s dresser, then dumped one box after another onto the floor to examine their contents.

  In the dining room, a couple of techs sat at laptops that had been wired into the phone lines. Even though Sarah had run, Hammond had advised them to stay just in case she called.

  Either they didn’t know that Hammond’s search was illegal, or they didn’t care.

  AFTER SARAH HAD MADE her escape, Mark Hammond had run to the window, shouting for her to stop. He was too large and too out of shape to give chase. Despite what those CSI shows led people to believe, Hammond would say that detectives don’t spend a lot of time pursuing people on foot. They make phone calls, conduct interviews, examine crime scene evidence. They were expected to be more brains than brawn.

  When he was being especially cynical, he would call himself a glorified janitor. Rarely did he ever stop anything bad from happening. He just came in after the fact to make sense of the mess somebody else had left behind.

  Instead of chasing Sarah, he ran to the front of the house and hollered to a couple of uniformed officers outside, telling them to put out an APB on her and canvas the neighborhood. Then he made two calls: one to his partner and the next for a search warrant.

  He had no doubt he’d get the warrant, even if a judge wouldn’t be available to sign it until the morning. By the time a trial came around, he’d talk the judge into remembering an urgent late-night phone call. The judge would also remember issuing the search warrant immediately, then staying up all night to worry about the missing child. The times on the search warrant would conveniently support the judge’s statement. Even though exigent circumstances gave Hammond the right to search the property without one, he didn’t want some sleazy lawyer throwing evidence out of court on a technicality. This was about a child, after all, and the chances of finding him alive dwindled by the minute.

  Before tearing apart Sarah’s bedroom, he’d skimmed through the diary he’d found earlier—paying special attention to the last fifteen pages. They described in detail, day after day, the burden Brandon was on her life. He was odd. Perhaps autistic, Hammond speculated, based on the entries.

  As if raising that brat on my own weren’t enough, he’s so damn difficult, Hammond read. So many troubling idiosyncrasies. He’d spin in circles when he got stressed. He’d flip the light switch
dozens of times upon entering a room. He’d throw tantrums almost daily. He’d break toys and wet his bed.

  If he’d never been born, maybe I’d have a normal life.

  Although the diary did not contain any details of a specific plan to commit murder, it demonstrated more motive than he’d come across in many cases.

  IF JIM HAD SEEN THE CONTENTS of the diary, he would have been shocked. He’d have recognized the handwriting as Sarah’s and yet still be adamant that it wasn’t hers. She couldn’t have written such things. Not only did Sarah love her son more than anything, Jim had never seen Brandon demonstrate any neurotic behavior.

  Watching Hammond invade Sarah’s private world made Jim nauseated. Nothing about this search had looked like appropriate police procedure to him, but he’d been too nervous to say anything. He had simply stayed in the room, just inside the doorway, to make sure Sarah’s valuables didn’t disappear. He had left only when his cell phone vibrated. When he returned, Hammond glanced up at him just before dumping the contents of a third box onto the floor.

  Jim wanted to say, “That was my mom on the phone.” But that would sound suspicious, so he kept his mouth shut. He watched a little longer. More dumping, sifting, searching. Finally, he knew how he was going to get out of the house.

  Jim summoned up the little courage he had and said, “You got a search warrant to go through all that stuff?”

  Hammond had been on one knee in front of the mess when Jim asked. He stood up. “Excuse me?”

  “I heard you call for one, but I’ve read enough to know they don’t come in that fast.”

  “Oh, you have, have you?”

  “Yeah. I have.”

  Hammond stepped forward. “Listen, you little shit. You don’t know a damn thing about cops or search warrants or anything else. Right now, I’ve got a child to find and your little lady friend’s turned out to be quite the suspect.”