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“What’s up?”
“Wanted you to know we’ve searched her cloud-based messages and emails. Didn’t find anything about running away. For that matter, she sounds like a well-adjusted, happy kid. When we receive her hardware, we’ll see if she uses an app called SnapChat.”
“Erik. I’m not ancient. I’ve heard of it.”
“Then you know we won’t have access to those conversations. So far, we’ve got nothing.”
“Anything on the security cams?”
“The security company hasn’t given us access yet.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s using a crap company with hourly IT. Said we’d have access tomorrow.” Unbelievable. “Given the situation, we hacked in and are accessing the feeds that are stored on the server.”
Our call ends as I climb into the back seat of a gray Chevy Impala. I lean back and consider the layout of the house. If someone wanted to break in, the public beach would be the easiest access. That would be the same if a person wanted to sneak out. A visual of the side path comes to mind. The gate with a latch. And past the gate, the racks of surfboards and paddleboards, then a higher gate with a lock on the inside.
Surfboards and paddleboards. Does his daughter surf? Could she have gone out on her own to surf after dinner?
CHAPTER7
26 Hours Missing
Alex
The flower-patterned file folder requires a tug to loosen it from the back. It bulges open, the contents stouter than the school papers in the neatly labeled folders, titled by subject. Printed photos overfill the folder.
A teen having printed photos qualifies as an enigma. I can’t remember the last time I printed my photos. I think I’ve only done it from sites that allow me to create my own holiday cards or for frames. I sit back against the wall, legs out before me.
The first photo is of Cassandra holding a baby bundled in a pink blanket. Cassandra’s hair is uncharacteristically a mess, and her skin is pale, but she’s wearing a tender smile. An expression of wonder brightens her face. The second photo is of Cassandra and Jack pushing a red stroller down a sidewalk. They both look so young. His hand overlaps hers on the stroller, but they are smiling for the camera. And then it hits me. I think my dad took that photo. I remember that day.
I thumb through the remaining photos. All photos from Sophia’s childhood. A happy childhood, judging from her smiles and sparkling eyes. My bet is these are photos she inherited from her mother. Sophia’s generation doesn’t print out photos, but I bet Cassandra, as a new mom, did.
The last photograph is of Cassandra and Jack. They still look young. Jack’s dark hair is lower on his forehead, and Cassandra’s is pulled back, and they are holding champagne glasses. Cassandra wears a sparkly strapless number, and Jack is in a tuxedo. The background is blurry. They look happy, but then again, they are posing for the camera. That’s the trouble with photographs. The truth a photograph presents is one-dimensional. And we humans are multi-faceted.
Footfalls announce the arrival of someone. It’s late. My ass tingles from being pressed against the hard marble floor. I move to get up, rolling forward onto my knees and hands. Two large black shoes come into view. My gaze travels upward. Light blue eyes stare down at me. Ryan’s suntanned hands spread across his hips, and his head slightly tilts. Based on his posture, I’d say he’s unsure what I’m doing, and he’s ready to pass judgment.
“Been going through folders and journals.” I scramble up off the ground. “What time is it?” I ask the question as I check my wrist.Jeez, I’ve been at it for hours.
“Find anything?”
“Nothing to help us.”
A sense of defeat suffocates me. Absolutely nothing is out of order. If she ran away, I would expect to find something. A sad drawing. Dark sketches. Hints in her journal. But I read all her journal entries. They are essentially a recording of the weather. It’s as if someone told her she had to journal, and she wanted to be obedient, but didn’t have the time or a desire to keep a journal going, so she kept pages and pages of entries along the lines of, “Chilly this evening. Clear day. Tomorrow there is a chance of rain.” Years of weather entries with the occasional, “Tomorrow Christmas vacation begins. Can’t wait.” She didn’t journal or record anything on the day Cassandra died or for the month after. Then her weather mentions resumed.
“What about you? Anything?” What has Ryan been doing? Jack returned and asked, so I know he wasn’t with Jack.
“Nothing so far. My team is still going through her electronics and social media. And security footage.”
Security footage. A twinge of hope flickers. “We should be able to see her leave.”
“If she went out the front door or the side door. He doesn’t have a camera on the back deck or over any of the sliding glass back doors.” His expression gives away exactly what he thinks about that. And any hope I have extinguishes. If she left on her own, she’d probably go out the back door. “Do you know if she surfed?”
“She did. Cassandra posted photos of her holding a surfboard. Years ago. I don’t know if she still surfs.”
His lips bunch. He doesn’t seem to like this information. Awareness dawns.
“Do you think she might’ve gone surfing? At night?”
