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"We'd just seen a news story about the gangs around here? They drive around in flatbeds and, you know, scoop up cars parked in deserted areas. That's what Mom was talking about."
"You know the model?"
"No, not really. Just the style, you know. Accord or Civic. A lot of kids at school have them. Mom and I talked about calling the police to report it, so it wouldn't get stolen. But we didn't. I mean, if we'd done that, maybe..." The girl's words ran out of steam and she cried quietly for a moment. Dance reached over and gripped her arm. Trish gave no response. She calmed eventually and took a sip from her cup. "You think that's his car?" Trish asked.
Dance replied, "Possibly. It's the sort of place somebody would park, out of the way. Did you notice the plate, what state it came from, the number?"
"No, just the color, silver. Or light colored. Maybe gray."
"And nobody nearby?"
"No. Sorry."
"That's a big help, Trish."
Dance hoped.
She sent a text to TJ, instructions to compile a list of light-colored Hondas in the area. She knew this was a weak lead. Honda Civics and Accords are close to the most plentiful sedans in America--and therefore the most difficult to trace. She wondered if their unsub had bought or stolen the car for this very reason.
She also asked TJ to hit the list of witnesses from Solitude Creek once more. And see if anyone had spotted the car and had any more information that could be helpful. He should put it out on the law enforcement wire.
A moment later:
On the case, boss. :-)
Trish glanced at her iPhone. "It's late. I should go." No teenager had a watch anymore. "Dad'll be bringing his stuff back to the house soon. I should be there." She finished her coffee quickly and pitched the cup out.
Maybe destroying evidence of a furtive meeting.
"Thanks." Trish inhaled and then, her voice breaking, said, "Not okay."
Dance lifted an eyebrow.
"You asked me how I was. And I said 'Okay.' But I'm not okay." She shivered and cried harder. Dance pulled a wad of napkins from the holder and handed them over.
Trish said, "Not very fucking okay at all. Mom was, like, she wasn't the best mom in the world--she was more of a friend to me than a mom. Which drove me fucking crazy sometimes. Like she wanted to be my older sister or something. But despite all that crap, I miss her so much."
"Your nose," Dance said. The girl wiped.
"And Dad's so different."
"They had joint custody?"
"Mom had me most of the time. That's what she wanted and Dad didn't fight it. It was like he just wanted out."
To be with a coworker or waitress or secretary. Dance recalled her earlier speculation about the breakup.
"It's just going to be so weird, living in the house again, with him. They got divorced six years ago. Everybody tells me it goes away, all this stuff, what I'm feeling. Just time, it'll be all right."
"Everybody's wrong," Dance said.
"What?"
"I lost my husband a few years ago."
"Hey, I'm sorry."
r /> A nod of acknowledgment. "It doesn't go away. Ever. And it shouldn't. We should always miss certain people who've been in our lives. But there'll be islands, more and more of them."
