I place the clear plastic container on the counter and go still. If there is no dinner prepared for tonight, then there was an engagement on the calendar.
“Oh shit.”
I drag out my cell, only then noting the four unopened text messages from David. One came late this afternoon.
Don’t forget we have dinner with the family tonight.
All the moisture evaporates from my throat. The next one came at five.
I’m sure you’re in the middle of something but don’t forget about tonight.
There is another of a similar nature at five thirty. The one at six is different.
Never mind. I’ve told Mother you’re working late.
My appetite vanishes in a cloud of frustration and regret. I check my phone’s calendar. Yep. The dinner was there. How the hell did I forget? And why the hell hadn’t he called me? It’s easy to ignore text messages. Usually I don’t ignore that many, but after seeing the doctor, I was a little shell-shocked. Taking the home pregnancy tests was one thing, but having my doctor tell me that I’m pregnant, and about all the things I should be doing, was truly life altering.
I could tell David, and all would be forgiven in a burst of astonishment and happiness and celebratory tears. He is the type of man who isn’t afraid to show his emotions. I’m the one who keeps things hidden. My father called it a self-protective mechanism.
No one can use what he doesn’t know against you.
Despite the missing appetite, I force myself to eat. The television on the kitchen counter is always on, but the sound is muted. Carl Fanning’s face flashes on the screen, and I look away. A child could go missing, and he or she wouldn’t garner the density of coverage focused on this disgusting pedophile. I banish the frustration that comes with the thought and finish off my dinner. If the media coverage helps us find the scumbag, then I should be glad for it.
A quick rinse of my bowl and I tuck it into the dishwasher. I should leave a note telling the cook, whose name I don’t even know, how much I enjoyed the pot roast. I saw her once when she was leaving for the day and I was arriving home. She reminded me of my mother. Red hair pulled back into a neat twist. Petite. She looked to be about the age my mother would be if she were still alive.
I stare at my reflection in the window over the sink, the blond hair, the blue eyes. I didn’t get my mother’s red hair or my father’s brown, or their dark-chocolate-colored eyes. But the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose is exactly as my mother’s was. My father swore I had his mind, and I probably do. As a psychiatrist, his life’s work was analyzing people. I suppose as a cop, my work, to some degree, is as well. He and I thought very much alike, that’s true. Looking back, I find the idea funny because most of my early years were spent primarily with my mother. She was my mom, my schoolteacher, my riding instructor.
As a young woman, Corrine Newhouse was an award-winning equestrian. Though I competed in my share of local shows early on, they never wanted that notoriety for me. They kept me close, protected me from the world until I was too old to be sheltered any longer. As much as they shielded me, they also prepared me. I had the best private self-defense classes. Knew how to shoot a weapon, how to escape trouble, all before my first day as a freshman at college.
Thinking back on what my father called the MacGyver classes, I smile. He taught me how to take the simplest objects and utilize them as tools for protecting myself and for escaping captivity.
The walls of any prison are only as impenetrable as you allow them to be. Escape is always possible, even if only in your mind.
I never talked about these lessons to my college friends since none of them ever mentioned having been taught such things. My dad took readiness to the next level. He was one of a kind.
My phone vibrates against the granite countertop. Easy to hear in the silent kitchen. I tell myself that if I’d had a moment of silence this afternoon, I would have realized David’s texts were waiting.
I pick up my cell, hope it’s him wanting to know if I ever made it home. It would be far easier to apologize via text than face-to-face.
Not David. Walt.
A photo of Dana Reeves and Janie Hyatt appears on the screen. The photo appears several years old. The two women look like teenagers. Reeves’s dark hair is longer and she is much slimmer. Janie is blond.
Where’d you get this?I reply.
Facebook. LOL. Apparently the two have been together since high school.
Nashville is a large city, but it’s not impossible that two of Fanning’s victims just happened to end up together after that, whether they attended the same schools or not.
Interesting, I type back. Then I remember the neighbor we interviewed—what was her name? Scoggins. I frantically type this to Walt.The neighbor said the two women surveilling Fanning’s place were white, one blond, one brunette.
I watch the ellipsis flash as he responds. My heart is thumping. This could be nothing, but it feels like something.
Holy shit. Hyatt drives a Range Rover.
Here I am knocking around memory lane and Walt has been working. I pull up the Facebook app and search for Reeves and Hyatt. The two went to college together. Hyatt owns a horseback-riding academy in Franklin. There are lots of photos. And, Walt’s right, there’s a Range Rover in one of them. There are also several photos of them at a cabin. Definitely not the dumpy south side apartment where Reeves lives.
Any ideas about the cabin?I send the question to Walt.
