Abby pressed her fingertips to her eyes, swept with the hard longing to have that time back. It seemed somehow vital that she understand it. She had the sense that Nick had been trying to tell her something. Warn her? Was she making too much of it now? Should she mention the incident to Sheriff Henderson after all? But suppose she was the nutcase?
There were so many questions, too many questions.
Wheeling abruptly, she went downstairs to the kitchen, found Samantha’s telephone number, and before she could think better of it, she dialed. It was something she could do, a concrete step she could take, but when Samantha answered and fell into an immediate silence, Abby realized Sam was steeling herself to hear something awful, and she rushed to reassure her.
“You didn’t find them?” Sam asked, and the bump of tears in her voice wrenched Abby’s heart.
“No, honey. No. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Sam sighed. “I wish I could go there, look for them, do something.”
“It’s all right, Sam. Maybe you can help me another way.”
“Sure,” Sam said, but she was wary.
And Abby was sorrier still that she’d called, but she pressed on explaining her quandary about painting Lindsey’s bedroom. “You two looked at colors, didn’t you? I was hoping you knew the shade of yellow she settled on.”
“Oh, gosh. We looked at a bunch.” Sam thought about it.
“It’s all right, honey,” Abby said.
“I just can’t remember exactly, but my mom was there. I bet she knows. I’ll get her.”
“No, don’t disturb her,” Abby said quickly, but Sam was already shouting for her mother.
Abby waited, feeling awkward and horrible. No one knew how to talk to her anymore. She’d somehow managed to lose touch with everyone who mattered to her. Except for her mother and Kate. And Jake, who blamed her. He hadn’t said as much, but still it was there. She was the mother, the adult, after all. She should have prevented what happened to their family. It was what everyone probably thought, that she should have kept them home, kept them safe.
“Abby? How are you?” Samantha’s mother Paula’s voice came on the line, holding measured notes of sympathy and caution.
“Paula, hi, I’m all right. I’m sorry, I think I scared Sam. There isn’t any news. I’m just back from—from my friend Kate’s and I’m thinking of painting Lindsey’s room.” Abby stumbled through the rest of her speech, then, realizing she was babbling, she pressed her lips together.
There was a considering silence. Paula was obviously taking a moment to pick the sense from the rush of Abby’s words or more likely wondering how to tactfully suggest Abby obtain psychiatric help.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember anything useful,” Paula said. “Do you know when this was?”
Abby could hear in Paula’s voice that, like Sam, she did truly want to be helpful. Abby could also hear the oh-you-poor-dear-sad-thing lamentation and beneath that were notes of glee, notes that echoed exultation. Not me, the notes sang. Thank God Almighty, it didn’t happen to me! Abby couldn’t blame her; it was only human and she did the only thing that made sense; she let Paula go.
* * *
Something woke her deep in the night. She didn’t know what time it was. The only clock in the den, where she was camped out because she couldn’t face the bed she’d shared with Nick, was on the mantel, and she couldn’t see it in the dark. She pulled the thin coverlet to her chin rigid with fear. When the sound came again, she realized the telephone was ringing, and she came instantly to her feet, heart pounding. Bad news, bad news. The words hammered through her brain, keeping time with her bare feet hammering the floor. In the kitchen, Abby yanked up the receiver, not checking the ID. “What? Yes? Hello!”
Nothing. Breath. A bit of static, then there was the smallest sigh, soft, liquid sounding. Female. Abby was certain of it.
She went still. “Lindsey? Honey, is it you?” The receiver trembled. “Where are you? Just tell me where you are and Mommy will come. Lindsey? Please, honey. Say something....”
Abby waited. Nothing. Dead air. “Nick?” She slid down the wall beside the desk onto the floor. “Please…?” The connection was held open a fraction longer, and then it broke with a soft click. Abby went up on her knees and switched on the desk lamp. The ID told her nothing. Out of area, it read. She dialed the operator who couldn’t help her either. She lowered herself back to the floor, keeping her grip on the phone, willing it to ring again. Finally it was morning, a decent hour, and she called Kate and told her what she’d heard.
She said, “I know it was Lindsey.”
“But how, Abby? If she didn’t say anything?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I just can’t stand for you to hurt anymore.”
“Is there a way not to? Is there a cure for this other than finding them? One of them called me, Katie. They’re alive. Can’t you even say it’s possible?”
Kate didn’t answer.
“I think someone was here.”
“In the night?” Now Kate sounded even more alarmed, and Abby filled with even more regret.
But she went on. “I mean while I was gone. Things aren’t—”
“Aren’t what?”
Abby said she didn’t know. She said, “You think I’m insane.”
“Honey, I think you’re exhausted. I think I should come.”
“No.” Abby didn’t want her. She didn’t need traitors, naysayers. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right,” she added for effect. “Jake’s coming home this weekend. I’m making him a meatloaf.”
* * *
Abby grocery shopped and managed to make a meatloaf—Jake’s favorite—before his arrival. To go with it, she made mashed potatoes and carrots she’d harvested from last fall’s vegetable garden. She did not plan to tell him about her middle-of-the night mystery caller. But he already knew. He said Kate had called him because she was concerned.
“She shouldn’t have bothered you,” Abby said. They were repairing the back porch rail. Abby was holding it while Jake filled the sockets with glue.
“She’s afraid you aren’t telling her the truth about how you are,” he said.
“So, what do you think?”
“About how you are?”
“No, the call. Do you think it’s possible?”
“I think stuff like that, thinking Lindsey and Dad are calling, thinking someone’s in the house—it’ll make you crazy.”
“According to Kate, it already has.”
“Come on, Mom. Let’s say it’s true, that it was Lindsey or Dad on the phone. Where does that leave us? I mean, do you think they’re out there somewhere? Like what? Kidnapped or something?”
“No,” she said, but her brain wanted to argue. Sheriff Henderson had questioned her in this regard. He had asked her if there might be someone who was a threat to Nick. Nadine Betts and the San Antonio D.A. had both insinuated they thought it was Nick with Adam Sandoval on the surveillance tape. Suppose it was? Suppose Adam was holding a gun on Nick, forcing Nick to help him? But no one could see that because the quality of the film was too poor. Stranger things had happened. Abby could have said all of this, but