Текст книги "Stranger on the Shore "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Griff stopped too.

“I am not part of your investigation. My sister is not part of your investigation. I may not be able to stop you from digging through the Arlingtons’ personal business, but I sure as hell can stop you from poking your nose into my family’s private affairs.”

“I didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject.”

“The hell you didn’t.” But Pierce sounded cool, once more sure he was in control.

By now they had reached the tunnel of trees. “Enjoy your evening,” Pierce said, coming to a halt.

“I’ll do my best,” Griff told him.

Pierce strode away, there was really no other way to describe that swift, almost forceful gait. His trench coat flapped behind him. A man with things to do and places to go.

Griff continued into the archway of trees, thinking. The light filtering through the boughs seemed to sparkle green-blue, edging the plants and statues with a mysterious luminescence.

He had a lot to consider, so it was irritating that his thoughts kept circling back to Pierce. He kept seeing Pierce’s lean, long-legged image stalking away into the lengthening shadows. Griff had certainly touched a nerve there. Why? He didn’t really think Pierce or his sister had conked Brian over the head and shoved him in a toy box. For one thing, given the circumstances they could never have successfully hidden Brian’s body. And that being true, it was impossible to believe any adult would have aided them.

Griff left the archway of trees. The pink cottage lay before him like a house in a child’s nursery rhyme. The wide and pretty stream tumbled and shone beneath the ornamental bridge. The swans glided tranquilly across the glassy green surface of the upper and lower ponds.

It reminded him of something. Something important.

What?

Still preoccupied in thought, Griff crossed the grassy knoll and started across the bridge.

The breeze had changed and he could smell—or imagined he could—the brisk sea air, fancied he could almost hear the measured thunder of the distant waves.

Midway across the bridge one of the boards beneath his feet gave a sharp and sudden crack. With no more warning than that, an entire section of planks caved in, and Griff dropped through space to the water below.

Chapter Eight

The cold was a shock. The wet was a bigger shock. Brown-gold bubbles churned and streamed up before Griff’s bewildered gaze as he splashed down. Water rushed into his nose and mouth. He was choking, flailing, conscious of wooden missiles plummeting past, birds flapping in panic, taking flight around him.

What? Wait. What just happened?

Instinctively, he kicked and clawed, breaking the surface. The swans were in pandemonium, the chill air alive with wings and hissing. Had he landed on them? Overhead, another thick plank of wood from the bridge splashed down into the stream and banged into him. He swept it away.

Someone was yelling to him.

Still coughing, spluttering, Griff found his footing and stood up. The stream wasn’t much more than five feet deep, but it was wide and the current was surprisingly strong. He turned to see Pierce loping across the bridge.

Pierce leaned over the side. “Are you all right?” he called down.

“Watch it. The whole center section is gone,” Griff called back.

Pierce’s answer was lost as he ducked back. His footsteps thumped overhead as he continued across the bridge.

Griff waded to the bank, which turned out to be slimy and slippery and steeper than it looked. He was happy to see Pierce appear, slogging down through the reeds and mossy rocks, offering a hand. His fingers closed around Griff’s, his grip warm and surprisingly solid.

“Are you okay?” He sounded slightly out of breath.

“That was d-different,” Griff said, scrambling up the bank with Pierce’s help. His teeth were beginning to chatter.

Pierce let go of him as they reached solid ground. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” His shoulder felt bruised where one of the falling boards had hit him. He was lucky it hadn’t struck him on the head. Otherwise he was okay. More surprised than anything.

“Shit.” Griff grabbed at his shoulder. “My camera.” The strap had either snapped or slipped off his shoulder. Either way his camera was gone.

He turned to look at the stream which was slowly settling back into its usual lazy rhythm. No sign of his camera. He felt in his pockets and pulled out his cell phone along with his soggy notebook. “Hell.”

“Be glad that’s all it was,” Pierce said. He sounded terse, as though he didn’t want to encourage any sense of grievance on Griff’s part.

“I am.” It could have been his laptop. That really would have been a disaster. He couldn’t afford to replace his laptop. His phone would be bad enough. But the phone’s plastic case was supposedly watertight. So here was the test. He pressed and the small screen lit offering a screen saver image of surf and sand and the news that he had two messages. His lucky day.

Sort of. Griff stared at the bridge. It had seemed solid enough that morning.

“You’d better get inside and change those clothes.”

Griff nodded, shivering. He felt rooted in place. “It happened so fast.”

“Bad things usually do.”

Did they? Not always, but yes. Part of what made disaster so...so disastrous was the suddenness, the lack of warning.

Pierce touched his soggy sleeve. “Come on.” He sounded...not kind, but not as brusque as usual.

Griff turned and followed Pierce, squelching across the grass. It seemed a long way to the cottage. They climbed the dainty steps to the pink cottage door. Griff’s feet felt heavy. He felt chilled all the way through. He also felt weirdly nauseated. It was only a dunking after all, not a big deal, and he couldn’t have swallowed that much stream water, but yes. He did all at once feel pretty unwell.

He fumbled his keys out, but dropped them. Pierce retrieved them. Griff waited politely for Pierce to unlock and push open the cottage door, and then he brushed past with a quick, “Excuse me.”

He made it to the downstairs powder room—literally a powder room, there was no bath or shower—just in time, turning the sink taps on full and then crouching over the toilet and losing all that remained of his lunch. It was quick and comprehensive. Unpleasant but efficient. Afterward he leaned on the sink, splashing water on his blanched face and rinsing his mouth. He could still taste the stream, and the flavor of mud and wet bird made him shudder.

When he wobbled out of the bathroom, he found Pierce in the tiny kitchen filling a copper tea kettle. “Are we having tea?” he tried to joke. “I think I’m out of cucumber sandwiches.”

“Unless you want instant coffee.” Pierce gave him a measuring look. “After you shower.”

“I just had a bath.”

“How do you like the moss shampoo?”

Griff laughed, and was surprised at how shaky it sounded.

Pierce said, “I’m not kidding about the shower. I’d make it a good and hot one. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re in shock.”

“Shock.” This time the sound that came out was not remotely amused, so maybe Pierce was right. Being dunked in an ice-cold stream had certainly been a very unpleasant surprise. Griff still felt ridiculously unsettled. He said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had instant coffee.”

“And if you’re lucky you never will. Though this is purportedly flavored with French Vanilla.”

“I don’t know what French Vanilla is, but the idea of it is hurting my stomach. I like that you used the word ‘purported’ in conversation.”

Pierce snorted. “You’re definitely in shock, Hadley. Take your shower and put on some warm clothes. I want to talk to you.”

Another talk sounded exhausting. All Griff wanted to do was crawl into that extraordinarily comfortable bed upstairs and sleep for a century, but since that wasn’t looking like an option, it would be better to get this over with.

The hot shower helped. A lot. He examined his bruised shoulder in the square mirror over the highboy in the bedroom, and more clearly understood how lucky he’d been. If that board had hit him on the head, he’d have probably been knocked out, at least for an instant. He might even have drowned, though that was unlikely. Hopefully.

Griff pulled on a clean pair of socks, a dry pair of jeans and a warm navy fleece sweatshirt. He finger-combed his hair out of his eyes and headed downstairs again.

Pierce was drinking tea at the kitchen table and eating toast. He had removed his trench coat, suit jacket and muddy shoes. He looked impossibly poised for a man in socks and shirtsleeves. Studying Griff with open and not unfriendly appraisal, he said, “Feeling better?”

“Oh heck yeah. I’m fine. I was just cold.” Griff studied the freshly poured cup of tea sitting in front of the empty place at the table. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Drink your tea.”

It wasn’t worth arguing about, especially since a hot cup of anything sounded pretty good at the moment. Griff sat down, took a mouthful of tea, and choked. He reached hastily for the linen placemat.

“Er, that’s not a napkin,” Pierce said. “Not that I’m criticizing your table manners. Maybe in Wisconsin—”

Griff grimaced, putting down the tea and the placemat. “How much sugar did you put in there?”

Pierce looked momentarily self-conscious. “Sugar is supposed to be good for shock.”

“I’m not sure diabetic coma is an improvement.”

Pierce’s mouth twisted into something that was too close to a smirk. “Maybe I overdid it.”

“Maybe?” There had probably been half a cup of sugar in there. But somehow Griff was having to struggle not to smile back. “You really are kind of a jerk, Mather.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Pierce admitted, clearly untroubled by the fact.

“That I don’t doubt.”

Pierce’s dark, amused gaze met Griff’s, held, and Griff experienced an odd moment of recognition.

The next moment Pierce looked away, and he was sure he was wrong. Pierce’s expression was almost uncomfortable. Nah. No way.

But for a split second it had crossed Griff’s mind that Pierce might be gay.

Griff rose, dumped the tea down the sink and poured another cup, adding milk and a much more modest amount of sugar. “What did you want to tell me?” he asked over his shoulder.

Pierce didn’t answer. Griff turned.

Pierce’s gaze met his and flicked away again. He said, “I’ll talk to Jarrett about getting the bridge repaired as soon as possible.”

This was clearly not what he had originally intended to say. Griff eyed him and then nodded. “Thanks. Why did you follow me down to the cottage?”

“Hmm? Oh. I don’t remember,” Pierce said, and that too was obviously not the truth.

“Okay. If you say so.”

Pierce drummed his fingers on the tabletop in a quick, impatient tattoo, as though he was trying to come to a decision. “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Twenty-seven. Why?”

The black, disapproving bar of Pierce’s eyebrows relaxed. The line of his mouth curved into a grim smile. “You look younger.”

Griff sighed. “I’m nearly thirty. Look, I can’t help looking younger than I am. Lots of people of all ages write books. I know how to do my job. I’m good at my job.”

“But this isn’t your job,” Pierce reminded him. “You’re a reporter. You’ve never written a book before.”

True. Pierce had tapped into the wellspring of Griff’s insecurity without even trying.

“I haven’t, but everybody who ever wrote a book had to go through writing their first one.”

“True. But you can maybe see why I’m not in a hurry to have the Arlingtons’ tragedy be your trial run.”

“All I can tell you is I’ll do my best. It’s every bit as important to me to get this right as it is to you.”

Pierce said slowly, “But you see, that’s where we differ. You ‘getting it right’ isn’t my first concern.”

“What is your—Oh. I get it. Protecting the interests of your clients.”

“Yes. Absolutely. The Arlingtons are my clients and my friends.”

“Do you think the Arlingtons have something to hide?”

“Everybody has something to hide,” Pierce said.

Once again Griff seemed unable to look away from Pierce’s brooding gaze. “What are you hiding?”

Pierce smiled faintly, as though this was a predictable response. He rose and put his cup and plate in the sink. As he walked out of the kitchen, he said, “More to the point, what are you hiding, Griffin N. Hadley?”

* * *

The antique wall phone connecting the guest cottage to the main house rang a couple of hours after Pierce left the cottage. The crisp jingle of the brass bell startled Griff, who had been working at his laptop, transcribing what he could remember of his now sodden notes.

He picked up the bell-shaped handset and spoke cautiously into the mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“Griffin, my dear boy. Pierce told us at dinner what happened. I don’t know what to say.” Jarrett’s tinny voice sounded sincerely distressed.

“It’s okay,” Griff said. “I just got wet.”

“I had no idea the bridge was in such bad repair. Thank God it didn’t happen when you were walking back after dark.”

In the dark, Griff would have been more disoriented and would have had more trouble climbing out. For that matter, had Pierce not been there today, he’d have had more trouble getting out. Not so much trouble he’d have drowned, but the whole experience would have been a lot more disagreeable.

Griff missed the next thing Jarrett said, tuning back in to hear, “Pierce said you lost your camera. He said all your notes were ruined.”

“It’s all right. I think I remember which albums had the photos I need.”

“That’s something, I suppose. I’ll replace your camera of course.”

“I don’t see why you should.” In fact, the idea of Jarrett replacing his camera made him uncomfortable. If there was one thing his mother had drilled into him it was to be beholden to no one. He could not afford to owe the Arlingtons anything. He had to stay objective.

“Newland will be down there first thing in the morning to inspect the bridge and make sure the rest of the structure is sound. Pierce said he believed it was safe enough if you stayed well to the side when you cross, but if you’re not comfortable with that idea, there’s a longer way around. We could get a golf cart. We should have one anyway.”

“No, really. That’s fine,” Griff said. “I like to walk. I can use the bridge.”

“I feel criminally negligent in not having made sure the structure was properly maintained. It’s been decades since anyone inspected it. Or the other one either.”

Griff smiled grimly, thinking that Pierce would probably have a stroke at the casual use of “criminally negligent.” He had probably instructed Jarrett not to call Griff at all. The fact that Jarrett had phoned and did seem genuinely concerned warmed Griff to him.

“Stuff happens. It’s okay. Really.”

Jarrett fussed on for a few more minutes, and Griff tried to reassure him, and then finally, with one last apology, Jarrett disconnected.

Griff slowly replaced the handset. Stuff did happen. All the time. But Jarrett seemed so shocked. It started Griff wondering. Maybe he was paranoid. Probably. But just because you were paranoid...

Retrieving his mini flashlight, he put on his coat, and went outside. The night air was cold and clean. It was far too dark to see more than a few feet ahead of himself, but he could just make out the glimmering, ghostly ribs of the bridge. The stream chuckled over the rocks as it poured into the pool below, the only sound in the night. Once again Griff was reminded of how very much alone he was out here behind the fortress walls of trees and hedges.

He started cautiously across the bridge, the beam of flashlight darting ahead of him like a moth. The acoustics of the water rushing below the gap in the planks warned him ahead of the small light that he was getting close to the danger point.

One step and then another. The boards beneath his feet creaked ominously. Griff stopped, knelt, and gingerly stretched his full length. He peered down over the ragged gap. The shiny darkness of water swirled away underneath the bridge. The dank, chill smell of the stream floated up like a cold breath against his face.

Four boards were gone from the deck. But the beams and the girders still looked intact and sturdy.

Griff edged back from the rift, stood and dusted off his knees. He walked back to the bridge’s approach and left the path, following the grassy ledge down to the pool at the bottom of the cottage garden.

It took a while but at last he spotted one of the planks docked against the stone dam that ringed the pool.

Naturally it was on the other side of the pond. Griff swore quietly. This night was just getting better and better.

Not wanting to risk a fall on the slick rocks, he clamped the flashlight between his teeth and crawled along the rocky top of the stone dam on his hands and knees. He fished out the waterlogged board.

If crawling out had been fun, crawling back while only able to use one arm was even more enjoyable. By the time he reached solid ground he was drenched in sweat, and the flashlight beam bobbed erratically with his labored breaths.

Griff sat down on the grass and directed the flashlight beam to both ends of the board. As expected, one edge was splintered and torn. On the surface, the other side was also...

Griff turned the board over and ran his thumb against the neatly sawn edge.

Chapter Nine

He dreamed about the mechanical bird in the library and woke with the sound of real birds singing.

For a few minutes Griff lay blinking up at the ceiling, absorbing the pleasant strangeness of his surroundings. Outside the windows, the climbing rose bushes threw pewter-colored silhouettes, sharply cut as old-fashioned valentines, against the white ceiling. The room smelled faintly of orange and lavender, the sheets and blankets were luxuriously soft.

It was nice here. No point in pretending otherwise. It was lovely.

Then he remembered the bridge and his heart nosedived.

It couldn’t have been deliberate. It was too crazy to even consider the idea that someone had deliberately sawn partially through the planks on the bridge. And yet he couldn’t forget the jagged evidence spotlighted in the beam of his flashlight.

But what would be the point? The chances of his being killed were highly unlikely. He might have broken an arm or an ankle, but that was about the worst that could have happened. Barring some really bad luck.

Jarrett’s offspring hadn’t made any secret he wasn’t welcome, but was he that big a nuisance?

Or did the idea of this book really pose a threat to someone?

Griff sat up and threw back the covers. He went to the closet and pulled out the sawn board, which he had stashed behind his suitcase. He carried it to the window and examined it in the pure morning light.

Both ends were rough and splintered. But the underside toward the other edge of the board looked sawn to him. He was no expert in carpentry, but that was how it appeared. Not cut all the way through, but sawn enough to weaken the board so that it would eventually give way when someone put their full weight on it.

Even if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, two questions remained. When had the board been sawn through and who had been the intended victim? He assumed the sabotaged bridge had been intended for him, but maybe not. Maybe it had been like that for a while?

It seemed hard to believe, especially since from what he’d gathered the Arlingtons didn’t do a lot of grand-scale entertaining any more.

He stowed the board back in the closet. So okay. The dunking had been intended for him. A malicious prank, but probably nothing more. Not exactly heartwarming, but was he going to share his suspicions with Jarrett?

Griff considered this while he showered and shaved. By the time he had dressed and was gathering his keys, sunglasses and laptop, he had decided not to bring his suspicion of sabotage to Jarrett’s attention. It was just going to upset the old man, and Griff found he was reluctant to do that. He liked Jarrett. Well, at least what he’d seen of Jarrett so far. There could be a cold and manipulative side to Jarrett for all Griff knew.

Even so. Jarrett’s grief and determination to find out what had become of his grandson touched Griff. So no. He would not tell Jarrett about the sawn board. For now he would keep silent.

And he would be very careful.

* * *

He met Chloe on his hike up to the house. She was wearing a skintight black-and-lime-green jogging outfit. Her body was silvered with sweat despite the chilly morning air, giving the razor-sharp bones of her chest and shoulders an almost robotic aspect.

She removed the iPod ear buds from her ears as she caught up with him. “Are you coming up to the house for breakfast? If you are, I’ll go up with you.”

“No, I was just going to get my car. I want to head over to Oyster Bay early this morning.”

“What’s in Oyster Bay?”

The Nassau County Second Precinct, which had handled Brian’s kidnapping. But after the bridge incident Griff had decided to keep his plans to himself as much as possible. He said, “I was hoping to interview a couple of people.”

“Did you want some company?”

“No.”

She bridled. “Jesus. Don’t bother being polite on my account!”

Griff looked at her in surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m working, that’s all.”

“This is kind of my business, you know.”

“How?”

“Brian was my cousin. This is my family you’re investigating.”

“I’m not investigating your family. I’m writing a book about Brian’s kidnapping.”

“And you’re going to pretend that’s not the same thing?”

“It isn’t the same thing. Necessarily. Or do you know something I don’t?”

Chloe scowled at him, still jogging alongside. “You’re really not very good with people, are you? How the hell did you ever decide to become a reporter?”

He considered this. “I like answers.”

She rolled her eyes as though this was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Maybe it was ridiculous, but it was true. Maybe he wasn’t good with people, but he was interested in them and what made them tick.

He waited for Chloe to sprint off, but she continued to pace him with that bouncy step. Finally she asked, “Do you get along with your mother?”

“My mother passed away when I was in college.”

“Sorry.” She was silent for a moment, apparently paying her respects, then she said tersely, “I hate my mother. I don’t know why the fuck she’s here. She detests this place.”

“Why do you hate your mother?”

Chloe’s lip curled. “Is this off the record?”

“Sure.”

Instead of answering she asked, “Did you get along with your mother?”

“Off and on,” Griff admitted.

“Did you like her?”

“I never thought about it. She was my mother.”

“You can’t say now anyway because she’s dead and you’re from the Midwest.”

Griff laughed. Chloe was odd and abrasive, but he sort of liked her. Truthfully, his relationship with his mother had been difficult. Growing up, she had alternately smothered him with attention and ignored him. Now he understood how hard things must have been for her, widowed with a small child, and no immediate or even extended family to support her. It had to have been tough, but she had not been a complainer.

He said, “Forget about my mother. What’s wrong with yours?”

“You mean aside from the fact that she never wanted me?”

Griff looked at her. Chloe gave him a sideways look and then smiled. He didn’t trust that smile. “She shouldn’t have come back. That’s all. The only reason she did is because of you. Because of this book. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have brought him.”

“The Viking?”

Chloe nodded. “Grandy hates him. Of course he hates all of us. The only one he ever loved was Matthew. Matthew and Brian.”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious or just spinning him a line. Maybe she wasn’t sure herself.

“What about your father?”

Chloe drew back and stared at him. “Wow. There you go again. A tad insensitive, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

“Yes. As you’d know if you’d done your research.”

“I did do my research. I couldn’t find anything out about your father.”

“That’s because it’s a big fat mystery. My mother has never said who my father was.”

He stared at her. She stared back. She wasn’t kidding.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.

Chloe smiled with a hint of malice. “Pierce told us at dinner about you falling off the bridge last night. We all had a good laugh.”

“Yeah, I’m still laughing,” Griff said. He smacked the side of his head as though trying to get water out.

Chloe laughed and shot away.

Griff continued his walk up to the house. He could see Marcus on one of the distant lawns using it as a putting green. Head bent, Marcus methodically and neatly sank ball after ball into a hole in the otherwise unblemished grass. He was still swinging as Griff passed him.

Mrs. Truscott, the one-woman welcome committee, opened the mud porch door to his tentative knock. Her lips parted but then she folded them tightly. He understood her dilemma. As irritating as it was to be rushing to answer doors, she would find it more aggravating were he to waltz in as though he was a member of the family. And in fact, it was for Mrs. Truscott’s benefit that he was still knocking and requesting admission even after Jarrett had given him the run of the place.

“They’re still at breakfast,” she said grudgingly.

“Okay. Actually I was hoping to have a look at the nursery. If it is still the nursery?”

Her dark eyes got a strange, faraway look as though she was looking inward at something troubling. She said, “It’s still the nursery. But no child has slept there since.”

“I thought it might be less...I thought maybe it would be simpler if I asked you to show it to me.”

Mrs. Truscott’s eyes narrowed, but maybe she realized that he was up to nothing more sinister than trying to spare Jarrett the pain of walking into that room.

“All right then,” she said. “Come with me.”

He followed her into a kitchen that was roughly the size of his entire apartment. The room was very warm after the cold spring air and it smelled wonderfully of baked bread and coffee and bacon. Maybe he was making a mistake forgoing breakfast at the main house in favor of cornflakes.

Mrs. Truscott was moving briskly so Griff only had a quick impression of towering shelves laden with old china and gleaming pots and pans, stacked stainless steel ovens like you might see in a restaurant, an industrial-sized freezer, and sinks large enough to bathe in. A young, very round and very short woman in what looked like army boots and an apron stood at a table twice the size of most kitchen islands. She was flattening dough with a rolling pin, but she looked up and spared Griff a brief smile.

“This way,” Mrs. Truscott said as though she expected him to try and snitch a cookie.

Mrs. Truscott was moving fast for a woman of her age—granted, it was difficult to pinpoint what that exact age might be, but she was not young. Clearly she wanted to get this trek up marble staircases and down walnut paneled halls over as quickly as possible. In a weird way, so did Griff. In fact, he had put off seeing the nursery for this very reason. He wasn’t sentimental, but he wasn’t insensitive either. Something about seeing this room, the actual crime scene, made him uncomfortable.

He puzzled over it as they hurried along. He was missing a good opportunity to ask Mrs. Truscott some questions about the household staff back then, but he couldn’t seem to think of anything. All he could concentrate on was his own growing unease.

For God’s sake, he wasn’t going to have another anxiety attack over this, was he? He’d seen a photograph of the room—the same photograph over and over in all the magazines and newspaper articles—so he knew full well there was nothing disturbing to see. Certainly no blood spatter patterns, no crime scene outline, no...nothing. Those things didn’t unduly upset him anyway.

It was just a room. A room no longer in use.

They stopped before a closed panel door. The surface was dark glossy wood. The glass knob looked like very pale sea glass. Mrs. Truscott glanced at Griff and then away.

“They left everything just as it was,” she said. Her voice sounded strained. She opened the door.

His first impression was of sunlight. Bright spring sunlight cascading through large windows and glinting off the brass mobile of tiny galleons cresting the sudden disturbance in the air. Warm sunshine bounced off the wooden floorboards and fluffy sheep-shaped rugs. The furniture was heavy and old-fashioned, but it had been repainted in cheerful white and pale yellows and greens—all but the walnut crib, which was clearly an heirloom. In fact, every piece in the room was probably an heirloom, but only the crib had been left untouched.

“Chloe slept in the crib,” Mrs. Truscott said. “Brian’s bed was over here.”

Griff turned to the small bed with its pseudo-pirate ship frame, but he barely registered more than the amiable Jolly Roger over a headboard that looked like the miniature stern of a galleon.

He was still absorbing Mrs. Truscott’s words. “Chloe was in the room that night?”

“Yes.”

“She was in the room, lying in her crib when Brian was taken?”

“Yes.”

Griff stared at Mrs. Truscott. “But that was never in any news report or article.”

“I can’t help that.”

“But the police had to know?”

“I have no way of telling what the police did or didn’t know,” Mrs. Truscott said tartly. “Chloe was in her crib and Brian was in his bed.”

This was surely a vital piece of information, and yet Griff couldn’t seem to see its relevance. The kidnapper had the choice of two children and had taken Brian. Was that because an infant was more trouble? But trouble was relative. From one perspective an infant was less trouble than a small, active boy. And if the original intent had never been to return the victim, then which child was more trouble was irrelevant.

Why Brian and not Chloe?

Surely the answer to that would go a long way to identifying the kidnapper?

Griff slowly circled the room. There was a fireplace and a rocker in one corner. A toy box shaped like a treasure chest sat at the foot of Brian’s bed. A gigantic hutch was filled with picture books and stuffed animals and other old-fashioned toys like tops and jack-in-the-boxes. A sailboat the size of a small chair rested beside the window seat. One wall at the end of the room was covered in old-fashioned white-and-yellow stripes. The other walls were painted white—with the exception of a full-sized mural of the ocean. Colorful fish and dolphins swam and frolicked on the painted turquoise waves.