This was far too pretty a girl to be wandering the streets alone at night, in any weather.
The sound of doors slamming and voices in the street penetrated Brandon’s sleep. He bolted awake, disoriented and full of hope. Stumbling to the window, he peered down to see a CTV media van parked in the street and two crew members lugging a shoulder camera through the snow to the front door.
The blizzard had spent itself, leaving sculpted swirls of snow across the front yard. Winter dawn washed the snow in a rosy glitter. For once, he was unmoved. Awash in fatigue and despair, he peered at his bedside clock.
Seven fucking o’clock, and the vultures were already out.
He’d managed two hours’ sleep after spending most of the night on the internet and on the phone, pacing the kitchen and speaking in low, urgent tones to avoid waking his mother. They had barely talked when he’d returned from his evening shift, but he’d felt her gaze upon him. There was doubt in it, but also pity. He kept his distance, not trusting himself to be civil should she reach out. Not trusting himself not to blurt out: “She didn’t leave me! You never did like her, and you know it. You made her feel common, unworthy, tolerated only because I insisted.”
Part of him knew that was immature and unfair, a deflection of blame to avoid looking at his own failings. At his own small niggle of doubt, which didn’t bear thinking about.
His mother was up now, and he heard her hurrying towards the front door to intercept the crew before they rang the bell. Reluctantly he headed down the hall. On two hours sleep, he didn’t feel up to facing the media, so he hung back in the stairwell as his mother opened the front door. A microphone was thrust in her face. If anyone understood the media, it was his mother. She understood the drama—had used it often enough herself—but how would she choose to play this scene? On Meredith’s side, or against her?
With the camera rolling, the media were the essence of respect. The young female reporter whom Brandon recognized from the local news introduced herself as Natasha, confirmed his mother’s identity and asked if they could do an interview inside. Their breath billowed white around them, and his mother hugged her velvet robe tightly around her.
“Certainly,” she said but without moving. “As long as I will do. My son has only just gone to bed after working and staying up all night tracking down leads—”
“That’s fine,” Natasha interrupted hastily.
His mother led them inside and left them to set up while she disappeared. In her absence, the cameraman positioned his tripod in the bay window and trained his lens on the loveseat opposite. Brandon knew his mother would be pleased with the choice. It captured the gentility of the room—carved mahogany frame, rose floral brocade, delicate antique lace pillows—and it went well with her royal blue dressing gown.
When she re-entered the room carrying a tea tray, Brandon felt a flash of frustration. Tea before Meredith—how like Elena Longstreet. To her credit, Natasha ignored the tea and ploughed straight into the questions with no chit-chat or preamble.
“I understand your son and Meredith Kennedy are engaged.
When is the wedding?”
“New Year’s Eve. A choice they may later consider unwise, but at the time it seemed romantic.”
“When was the last time you or your son had contact with Meredith?”
“I haven’t seen her in nearly a month, although she’s due to come to my annual eggnog party on Christmas Eve. She’s been extraordinarily busy—”
“But your son?”
“He had dinner with her Sunday evening, I believe.”
“How did she seem?”
“As far as I know, she was fine. She’s a bride, so she has a lot on her mind. She may have been a little anxious recently, but certainly nothing to worry about.”
“Any particular things she was anxious about?”
“Oh, the usual. One of her bridesmaids has withdrawn, and her family wants some young cousin to be a ring bearer, but he’s only two and naturally there are concerns—”
“Any disagreements with your son?”
Brandon saw his mother lift her chin to face the interviewer squarely. He knew the fluff she’d supplied so far would not survive the cutting room, but this question was the heart of the interview. The clip that would be replayed throughout the day and possibly across the country. The clip that would be dissected by the police. He found himself holding his breath.
“They are blissfully happy. They have both waited a long time to find each other, and I truly believe that their love is far more important to them than any disputes over menu or wedding procession. They always find a middle ground.”
“What do you think has happened to her?”
Elena hesitated, and Brandon wondered how she would answer. This too might play across the nation. To his relief, she settled on a message of hope. “I hope she simply wanted a day or two of solitude to regroup. We invest so much emotion in our wedding, as a highlight of our lives and expression of our hope for a perfect future. Yet the reality of planning it—balancing out the guest list, finding the right shoes for the dress, choosing between pecan-crusted salmon and Cornish game hen—robs the event of its romantic sheen. Brides in particular struggle with that. She did seem distracted of late, as if her mind were elsewhere.”
“Distracted by what?”
“Possibly the move. They were going to Ethiopia after the honeymoon for a two-year posting with Doctors Without Borders. Meredith worked in Haiti for a brief stint, but neither of them have ever been to Africa. Perhaps she was apprehensive. Natural enough.”
“Are she and her family close?”
Brandon moved down the stairs. So far, his mother had said all the right things, but he knew she was playing to the jury. He wasn’t sure he trusted her to keep her views of Meredith’s family quite so benign.
She must have heard his footsteps, for she raised her voice.
Warning him, he wondered? “Very. She comes from a lovely family.” She rose to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear—”
“There is no trouble,” Brandon said, striding into the room. He knew he was a sight, still dressed in yesterday’s rumpled hospital garb and sporting a day’s growth. His blue eyes were probably bloodshot and his thick hair plastered in unruly spikes. When the camera swung to him, he faced it square on. A spectacle for sure, but also raw truth.
“You need to get that message across,” he said. “Meredith was not an overwrought bride who got cold feet. She was excited about the wedding and looking forward to working overseas. She has not run off. Something has happened to her. An accident, a slip on the ice that knocked her out. She could be out there somewhere. Buried. In this weather, hypothermia could set in in minutes...” He broke off, quivering.
Elena moved to his side, deftly shielding him from the camera.
“The police are taking this very seriously,” she said. “I believe they have patrol cars on the look-out and are going to search her home for clues.” She glanced outside and allowed herself a small shiver. “We ask for everyone’s help. Check your driveways and the walks in front of your houses. If anyone saw her or has a clue where she might have gone, please call the police. The more eyes we have looking, the sooner we’ll find her.”
* * *
Once again, Green glanced at his phone. Almost eleven a.m. and Sergeant Li from Missing Persons still had not returned his call. He didn’t want to phone again, concerned that his impatience might arouse suspicions.