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“He’s adopted,” she explained, unsure why the woman cared that they didn’t look alike. Because Kevin was adopted, they didn’t share any physical features. Katie was pale-skinned with blonde hair and blue eyes; her brother had olive skin with dark hair and eyes. Maybe the old lady thought Katie was lying and Kevin wasn't her brother after all.
“Perhaps I should talk to your mother about the dangers of leaving a little girl to watch over her baby brother,” the old lady said, and took a step toward the bank.
“No, please don’t tell her. I’ll get in trouble,” Katie begged. Why couldn’t the woman just give her Kevin and let her go? An uneasy feeling began to brew in her tummy. Something felt wrong; she just couldn’t figure out what it was.
Then it hit her.
Kevin’s knees were dry.
Her brother could walk, but when he wanted to get someplace fast, he crawled. And whenever he escaped from their house to look at the snow, he always moved quickly. He would have crawled out of the bank. Therefore, his knees should be wet from crawling along the wet, snowy, footpath. But his knees were dry. Kevin hadn’t crawled from the bank on his own. Someone had carried him out.
Eyes growing wide, she looked up at the old lady and was about to demand she give her Kevin back, or she was going to scream for help when something jabbed her in the arm.
The world went swirling around her.
And then she fell.
* * * * *
10:17 A.M.
“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Jonathon announced as he entered the small interview room that someone had set them up in when they'd arrived at the police station twenty minutes ago. “I donotthink that you are involved in the recent copycat doll killer abduction and murders. But you and Thomas Karl were the only two victims who survived. After you escaped, the murders stopped. Then suddenly, after twenty years, the killings start again, and then you get carjacked by the other survivor, who gets himself killed by shooting at the police. You're all that’s left; you're the only link that we have. Surely you can understand why we need to talk to you?”
Clara simply glowered at him. What a jerk. How could her opinion of Detective Jonathon Dawson change so dramatically in less than twenty-four hours? Just yesterday he had been the only thing keeping her anchored when her world had been swirling around her, and now she viewed him as possibly the most despicable person on the planet.
How could his touch, his voice, have ever calmed her? Now both grated on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. She didn’t want to be sitting here listening to him, but what choice did she have? They were going to interview her at some point, so she may as well just get it over with.
Naomi had insisted on coming with her, much to Clara’s relief. She didn’t think she could face Jonathon and his partner on her own, especially given the topic they wanted to question her about. Her sister was annoyed that she’d agreed to come. They’d argued about it on the drive here, but no matter how frustrated Naomi was, Clara knew her sister would support her in whatever way she could.
“Clara, you understand, don’t you?” Jonathon looked pained by the idea she might hold this against him.
Well too bad for him, she did hold it against him. He couldn’t go from cradling her in his arms to all but accusing her of replicating the crimes she had been a victim of over twenty years ago.
“Clara?” Jonathon prodded, his gaze intent.
“Sure, whatever. Can we just get on with it?” She was tired and sore, and she had to stop by the bookshop to catch up on a few things before she could go home and get some rest.
Jonathon looked hurt but nodded and turned his expression professional. “Why don’t we start by going over your abduction? I’m sorry, I know it must be hard to talk about, but we need to know if we’re dealing with a copycat or the same perpetrators.”
“No.” She wasn't going to relive that horror again. She’d boxed it away many years ago and she had no intention of opening the lid.
Confused, Jonathon asked, “No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to talk about what happened to me when I was six. You have access to the case files, which include the statement I gave to the police at the time. I see no need for you to ask me questions when you already have my answers.” She had to fight to keep her voice calm, but she managed it.
“If we thought we could get all the information we needed from your statement, we wouldn’t have asked you to come down here, Ms. Candella.” Jonathon’s partner looked annoyed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name,” she addressed the other woman. Jonathon’s partner looked too young to be a cop, in every way except her eyes. Her eyes looked old. Old and there was something else there. Deep in the blue depths was pain. Haunted pain.
“Detective Bennett.”
“Detective Bennett, I don’t know what else you want me to tell you that isn’t already in my statement.”
“Your statement was vague,” Jonathon noted. “Both yours and Thomas’. You hardly said anything, either about your time there, or how you managed to escape.”
“I told what I remembered,” she replied.
“You were gone for six weeks, Clara,” Jonathon reminded her as if she didn’t know that already. “You must know more than you told the police.”
