Tremaine. I’ve left a few messages with the sheriff down in Dutton. I want to get a copy of the police report from the Tremaine case. Maybe there’s something in it that can help me now.”
Chapter Three
Atlanta, Monday, January 29, 8:45 a.m.
A lex paused outside the office for the Investigative Division of the GBI and prayed Agent Daniel Vartanian would be more helpful than Dutton’s Sheriff Loomis. “Check Peachtree and Pine,” Loomis had snapped when she’d called his office for the fifth time on Sunday morning, trying to get someone to give her information on Bailey. She’d googled and found Peachtree and Pine was the location of several homeless shelters in Atlanta. If she was wrong . . .
God, please let me be wrong
. . . and this victim wasn’t Bailey, Peachtree and Pine would be her next stop.
But the years had made Alex a realist and she knew the chances were good that the woman found in Arcadia was Bailey. That she’d been found the same way as Alicia . . . A shiver of apprehension ran down her back and she took a moment to compose herself before opening the office door.
Focus on the quiet. Be assertive.
At least she was confident in her clothes. She’d dressed in the black suit she’d brought in case she needed to appear in court to get custody of Hope. Or if Bailey was found. She’d worn the suit to more than a few funerals over the years. Praying she wouldn’t be attending another, she steeled herself for the worst and opened the door.
The counter held a nameplate that said Leigh Smithson, Clerk. The blonde behind the counter looked up from her computer with a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Agent Vartanian.” Alex lifted her chin, daring the woman to refuse.
The blonde’s smile dimmed. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But it’s important. It’s about a newspaper article.” She’d pulled the
Dutton Review
from her satchel when the woman’s eyes flashed fire.
“Agent Vartanian has no comment for your paper. You reporters . . .” she muttered.
“I’m not a reporter and I don’t want information on Agent Vartanian,” Alex snapped back. “I want information on this investigation.” She swallowed hard, appalled when her voice broke. She controlled it, lifting her chin. “I think this victim is my stepsister.”
The woman’s expression instantly changed and she lurched from her chair. “I’m so sorry. I assumed that you . . . What is your name, ma’am?”
“Alex Fallon. My stepsister is Bailey Crighton. She disappeared two days ago.”
“I’ll tell Agent Vartanian you’re here, Ms. Fallon. Please have a seat.” She pointed to a row of plastic chairs and picked up a phone. “He should be with you any moment.”
Alex was too nervous to sit. She paced, looking at the wall covered with childish renderings of cops, robbers, and jails drawn by schoolchildren. Alex thought of Hope and her red crayons. What had that baby seen?
Could you even handle it if you knew?
She stopped midstep, the taunt catching her off-guard. Could she handle it? She’d have to, for Hope’s sake. The child had no one.
So you have to handle it this time, Alex.
Although in the quiet of her mind she knew she hadn’t handled it well so far.
She’d dreamed
the dream
last night. Dark and pierced with a scream so long and loud that she’d woken in a cold sweat, trembling so hard she thought she’d wake Hope. But the child never stirred. Alex had wondered if Hope dreamed, and what she saw.
“Miss Fallon? I’m Special Agent Vartanian.” The voice was rich and deep and calm. Still her heart raced.
This is it. He’ll tell you it’s Bailey. You have to handle this.
S
he slowly turned and had a split second to stare up into a ruggedly handsome face with a broad forehead, unsmiling lips, and eyes so piercingly blue she caught her breath. Then those eyes widened and Alex watched them flicker wildly for just a moment before his unsmiling lips fell open, and the
Chapter Three
Atlanta, Monday, January 29, 8:45 a.m.
A lex paused outside the office for the Investigative Division of the GBI and prayed Agent Daniel Vartanian would be more helpful than Dutton’s Sheriff Loomis. “Check Peachtree and Pine,” Loomis had snapped when she’d called his office for the fifth time on Sunday morning, trying to get someone to give her information on Bailey. She’d googled and found Peachtree and Pine was the location of several homeless shelters in Atlanta. If she was wrong . . .
God, please let me be wrong
. . . and this victim wasn’t Bailey, Peachtree and Pine would be her next stop.
But the years had made Alex a realist and she knew the chances were good that the woman found in Arcadia was Bailey. That she’d been found the same way as Alicia . . . A shiver of apprehension ran down her back and she took a moment to compose herself before opening the office door.
Focus on the quiet. Be assertive.
At least she was confident in her clothes. She’d dressed in the black suit she’d brought in case she needed to appear in court to get custody of Hope. Or if Bailey was found. She’d worn the suit to more than a few funerals over the years. Praying she wouldn’t be attending another, she steeled herself for the worst and opened the door.
The counter held a nameplate that said Leigh Smithson, Clerk. The blonde behind the counter looked up from her computer with a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Agent Vartanian.” Alex lifted her chin, daring the woman to refuse.
The blonde’s smile dimmed. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But it’s important. It’s about a newspaper article.” She’d pulled the
Dutton Review
from her satchel when the woman’s eyes flashed fire.
“Agent Vartanian has no comment for your paper. You reporters . . .” she muttered.
“I’m not a reporter and I don’t want information on Agent Vartanian,” Alex snapped back. “I want information on this investigation.” She swallowed hard, appalled when her voice broke. She controlled it, lifting her chin. “I think this victim is my stepsister.”
The woman’s expression instantly changed and she lurched from her chair. “I’m so sorry. I assumed that you . . . What is your name, ma’am?”
“Alex Fallon. My stepsister is Bailey Crighton. She disappeared two days ago.”
“I’ll tell Agent Vartanian you’re here, Ms. Fallon. Please have a seat.” She pointed to a row of plastic chairs and picked up a phone. “He should be with you any moment.”
Alex was too nervous to sit. She paced, looking at the wall covered with childish renderings of cops, robbers, and jails drawn by schoolchildren. Alex thought of Hope and her red crayons. What had that baby seen?
Could you even handle it if you knew?
She stopped midstep, the taunt catching her off-guard. Could she handle it? She’d have to, for Hope’s sake. The child had no one.
So you have to handle it this time, Alex.
Although in the quiet of her mind she knew she hadn’t handled it well so far.
She’d dreamed
the dream
last night. Dark and pierced with a scream so long and loud that she’d woken in a cold sweat, trembling so hard she thought she’d wake Hope. But the child never stirred. Alex had wondered if Hope dreamed, and what she saw.
“Miss Fallon? I’m Special Agent Vartanian.” The voice was rich and deep and calm. Still her heart raced.
This is it. He’ll tell you it’s Bailey. You have to handle this.
S
he slowly turned and had a split second to stare up into a ruggedly handsome face with a broad forehead, unsmiling lips, and eyes so piercingly blue she caught her breath. Then those eyes widened and Alex watched them flicker wildly for just a moment before his unsmiling lips fell open, and the
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