color drained from his face.
It
was
Bailey, then.
Alex pursed her lips hard, willing her legs to hold her up. She’d known what the answer would be. Still, she’d hoped . . . “Agent Vartanian?” she whispered. “Is that woman my stepsister?”
He stared at her face, his color returning. “Please,” he said, his voice now low and taut. He held out his arm, gesturing for her to go in front of him. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Alex complied. “My office is through this door,” he said, “on the left.”
It was a stark office. Government-issue desk and chairs. Maps on the wall, along with a few plaques. No pictures, anywhere. She sat in the chair he pulled out for her, then he took his seat behind his desk. “I have to apologize, Miss Fallon. You look like someone else. I was . . . startled. Please, tell me about your stepsister. Miss Smithson said her name is Bailey Crighton and she’s been missing for two days.”
He was staring at her with an intensity that left her unnerved. So she stared back, finding it helped keep her focused. “I got a call from Social Services on Friday afternoon. Bailey hadn’t come to work and a coworker found her daughter alone in her house.”
“So you came to take care of the daughter?”
Alex nodded. “Yes. Her name is Hope. She’s four. I tried to talk to the sheriff down in Dutton, but he said Bailey had probably just taken off.”
His jaw tightened, so infinitesimally that she might have missed it had she not been staring at him as hard as he was staring at her. “So she lived in Dutton?”
“All her life.”
“I see. Can you describe her, Miss Fallon?”
Alex clenched her fingers in her lap. “I haven’t seen her in five years. She was using then and she looked hard and old. But I’ve heard she’s been sober since her daughter was born. I don’t know exactly what she looks like now and I don’t have any pictures of her.” She’d left them all behind when Kim and Steve took her away thirteen years ago, and later . . . Alex hadn’t wanted any pictures of the drugged-out Bailey. It was too painful to watch, much less capture on film. “She’s about my height, five-six. Last time I saw her she was very thin, maybe one-twenty. Her eyes are gray. Then, her hair was blond, but she’s a hairdresser, so it could be any color.”
Vartanian was taking notes. He looked up. “What color blond? Dark, golden?”
“Well, not as blond as yours.” Vartanian’s hair was the color of cornsilk, and so thick it still held the ridges from where he’d shoved his fingers through it. He looked up, his lips bending in a small smile, and she felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said kindly. Even though he still stared at her with that same intensity, something had changed in his demeanor and for the first time Alex let herself hope.
“Was the victim blond, Agent Vartanian?”
He shook his head. “No. Did your cousin have any identifying marks?”
“She has a tattoo on her right ankle. A sheep.”
Vartanian looked surprised. “A sheep?”
Alex’s cheeks heated again. “A lamb actually. It was a joke between us. Bailey and my sister and me. We all got them . . .” She cut herself off. She was rambling.
His eyes flickered once more, just barely. “Your sister?”
“Yes.” Alex glanced at Vartanian’s desk and saw a copy of the headline from this morning’s
Dutton Review
. Suddenly his extreme reaction on meeting her made sense and she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed. “You’ve already read the paper, so you know about the similarities between my sister’s death and the woman you found yesterday.” He said nothing and Alex decided she was annoyed. “Please, Agent Vartanian. I’m tired and scared to death. Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Fallon. I don’t mean to play games with you. Tell me about your sister. What was her name?”
Alex sucked in her cheeks. “Alicia Tremaine.
It
was
Bailey, then.
Alex pursed her lips hard, willing her legs to hold her up. She’d known what the answer would be. Still, she’d hoped . . . “Agent Vartanian?” she whispered. “Is that woman my stepsister?”
He stared at her face, his color returning. “Please,” he said, his voice now low and taut. He held out his arm, gesturing for her to go in front of him. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Alex complied. “My office is through this door,” he said, “on the left.”
It was a stark office. Government-issue desk and chairs. Maps on the wall, along with a few plaques. No pictures, anywhere. She sat in the chair he pulled out for her, then he took his seat behind his desk. “I have to apologize, Miss Fallon. You look like someone else. I was . . . startled. Please, tell me about your stepsister. Miss Smithson said her name is Bailey Crighton and she’s been missing for two days.”
He was staring at her with an intensity that left her unnerved. So she stared back, finding it helped keep her focused. “I got a call from Social Services on Friday afternoon. Bailey hadn’t come to work and a coworker found her daughter alone in her house.”
“So you came to take care of the daughter?”
Alex nodded. “Yes. Her name is Hope. She’s four. I tried to talk to the sheriff down in Dutton, but he said Bailey had probably just taken off.”
His jaw tightened, so infinitesimally that she might have missed it had she not been staring at him as hard as he was staring at her. “So she lived in Dutton?”
“All her life.”
“I see. Can you describe her, Miss Fallon?”
Alex clenched her fingers in her lap. “I haven’t seen her in five years. She was using then and she looked hard and old. But I’ve heard she’s been sober since her daughter was born. I don’t know exactly what she looks like now and I don’t have any pictures of her.” She’d left them all behind when Kim and Steve took her away thirteen years ago, and later . . . Alex hadn’t wanted any pictures of the drugged-out Bailey. It was too painful to watch, much less capture on film. “She’s about my height, five-six. Last time I saw her she was very thin, maybe one-twenty. Her eyes are gray. Then, her hair was blond, but she’s a hairdresser, so it could be any color.”
Vartanian was taking notes. He looked up. “What color blond? Dark, golden?”
“Well, not as blond as yours.” Vartanian’s hair was the color of cornsilk, and so thick it still held the ridges from where he’d shoved his fingers through it. He looked up, his lips bending in a small smile, and she felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said kindly. Even though he still stared at her with that same intensity, something had changed in his demeanor and for the first time Alex let herself hope.
“Was the victim blond, Agent Vartanian?”
He shook his head. “No. Did your cousin have any identifying marks?”
“She has a tattoo on her right ankle. A sheep.”
Vartanian looked surprised. “A sheep?”
Alex’s cheeks heated again. “A lamb actually. It was a joke between us. Bailey and my sister and me. We all got them . . .” She cut herself off. She was rambling.
His eyes flickered once more, just barely. “Your sister?”
“Yes.” Alex glanced at Vartanian’s desk and saw a copy of the headline from this morning’s
Dutton Review
. Suddenly his extreme reaction on meeting her made sense and she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed. “You’ve already read the paper, so you know about the similarities between my sister’s death and the woman you found yesterday.” He said nothing and Alex decided she was annoyed. “Please, Agent Vartanian. I’m tired and scared to death. Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Fallon. I don’t mean to play games with you. Tell me about your sister. What was her name?”
Alex sucked in her cheeks. “Alicia Tremaine.
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