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Elliot was staring down at his desk. “Do you really think she’s still alive?”
“I don’t know. Time’s not on her side. She’s been missing for nine days. Statistically, that’s way too long. On the other hand, we haven’t found a body. Until we do, I’ve got to believe she’s alive.”
“Determined, optimistic Sloane.” Elliot’s expression was as dubious as it was grim. “You’re one of a kind. But somehow I doubt the cops share your opinion.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
DATE: 31 March
TIME: 1130 hours
I had to leave work and come home to check on her.
She was lying on the floor in a pool of her own vomit. She was barely moving. And her color was bad—pale and greenish. This couldn’t go on.
I got her up, gave her some water, and half carried her to the bathroom. She whispered a plea to shower, and I agreed. I’m not cruel. I couldn’t deny her that shred of dignity. I gave her a fresh chiton to change into and made sure she was strong enough to stand on her own. Then I gave her a pail of toiletries and left the bathroom. I locked her in, waiting outside as always.
She still looked sickly when she came out. Her eyes were huge and dazed, and her skin was clean but chalk white.
I brought her back to her room and gave her a tray of food, which she ate without incident. As a reward, I mopped and disinfected her room, and put a fresh blanket on the bed, along with a newly printed copy of the chapter on Athena. No one could live in that stench of vomit.
She murmured something that sounded like thank you, and then she asked if she could lie down. She curled up like a child, covered herself, and fell fast asleep.
As I was leaving the room, I heard her call out for her mother.
That’s when the voices told me what to do.
Mount Sinai Hospital
100th Street and Madison Avenue
New York City
Sloane wondered whether the meeting with Penny’s parents would be as difficult as the one she’d just had with Carole Alexander.
Walking out of the parking garage onto East ninety-ninth Street, Sloane headed toward Madison Avenue and Mount Sinai, replaying the conversation she and Cynthia’s mother had just
shared. It had started with, “I just wish they’d find my baby” and ended with, “All I care about is getting Cynthia home safe and sound.”
In between, Sloane had heard the story of an all-around camper who loved sports, reading, cultural studies, and family. The den in the Alexander house had an entire shelf of swimming trophies Cynthia had won, both in high school and college. She was quiet, but strong-willed, and refused to give up when she wanted something badly enough. She dated, but not heavily, and there was no one special guy in her life. Between her studies and her athletics, there hadn’t been time. But she had lots of male friends, and all those relationships were normal and healthy.
Carole went on to explain that Cynthia worked hard to perfect her skills. But the only person she was fiercely competitive with was herself.
Sloane had more than understood. In fact, listening to Carole Alexander speak, she’d gotten a déjà vu feeling. It was as if she were hearing her own mother talking about her high school and college years, rather than Cynthia’s. There was no doubt that Carole and Cynthia Alexander shared the same unique mother-daughter bond that Sloane’s mother shared with her—a bond that couldn’t be explained or denied.
That thought brought a rueful smile to Sloane’s lips. She’d been so crazy busy this week that she hadn’t had a chance to give her folks a call. At this particular time, that was probably a good thing. Her mother could read her like a book, even over the phone, sometimes perceiving things about her even before Sloane did. And since crossing paths with Derek had thrown a monkey wrench into her life—one she wasn’t ready to get into with her mother, or with herself, for that matter—it was best that she deferred calling Florida until she’d gotten a better grip on her emotions.
As she entered the teaching hospital’s atrium, her thoughts were interrupted by a security guard asking where she was going.
She gave him Dr. Truman’s name, then headed for the elevators, mentally switching gears from Cynthia’s case to Penny’s.
Dr. Ronald Truman had aged a lifetime since Sloane had last seen him, although she suspected that much of that aging had occurred since Penny’s disappearance.
“Sloane.” Hope Truman rose from her chair, gesturing for Sloane to take the seat next to her. “Thank you so much for coming to the hospital. Ronald couldn’t get away, and he wanted to be here for this meeting.”
“Of course.” Sloane sank down into the leather chair that Dr. Truman held out for her, and waited until he and his wife were seated.
