Yesterday's Gone. Janice Kay JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of protective of little Hope.
Hard to imagine, considering her dark path, which had turned out to be even uglier than they had known when they found her body along with her parents’. He and Ben had discovered what precipitated that hideous final scene, and part of him wished they hadn’t.
Shifting his thoughts back to Mrs. Lawson, he said gloomily, “She brought me cookies last week.”
Ben’s mouth quirked. “And they were good. Peanut butter cookies are my favorite.”
“She brings pictures, too.” He yanked open his center desk drawer and brandished the small pile. The one on top, the most recent, was a baby picture. First smile, someone had written on the back.
Radiant, open, delighted, it was unbearable to look at when he knew that baby’s fate. He’d shoved it into the drawer the minute Mrs. Lawson walked away. Angry at her unsubtle emotional manipulation, he wanted to throw them in the trash. Because he saw her pain, week in and week out, he didn’t.
His phone rang and he turned back around, reaching for it.
“Someone here to see you,” the desk sergeant said, his tone odd. “Her name is, uh, Bailey Smith.”
“Never heard of her. She say what she want?”
“To talk about Hope Lawson.”
Seth sighed. She looks EXACTLY like this girl I know, except...well, for her nose, chin, cheeks and eyes.
“Conference room empty?” he asked.
“Yes, Detective.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Ben had gone back to whatever he was doing, and no one else paid any attention as Seth walked out and took the stairs.
He emerged through the heavy, bulletproof door that led to the desk sergeant’s domain behind the counter, beyond which was the waiting room. As usual, half a dozen people slumped in seats, some sullen, some anxious. One woman stood, her back to him—and a very nice back it was. Interested, he enjoyed taking a good look. She was midheight, slender, with a tight, perfect ass and fine legs. Chinos cut off just below her knees bared smooth calves. One foot tapped, either from nerves or impatience. Nice foot, too, he thought idly; since she wore rubber flip-flops, he could see toenails painted grass green with some tiny decoration he couldn’t make out centered on each nail.
He lifted his gaze to her hair, bundled up and clipped on the back of her head. It was so pale a blond, at first sight he thought dyed, except it had some natural-looking striations of color in it.
Something inside him went still.
“Detective,” the desk sergeant said in an urgent undertone.
As if hearing his low voice, the woman turned to face the two men, pointed chin held defiantly.
Stunned, Seth couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
She was alive. And...damn. How could the artist possibly have got it so right?
THE MAN STARING at her in open shock was not quite what Bailey had expected, although she didn’t know why that was. She’d looked him up online and even found a newspaper photo of him taken as he left the scene of a recent, really horrible crime.
The coloring was the same—dark hair, worn a little longer than she thought cops usually did. Brown eyes. Broad-shouldered, solid build. She had been reassured by a hint of bleakness the photographer had captured on that hard face. He must be human, she had thought, although, really, she knew it wasn’t as if he mattered at all. If it turned out she really was this Hope person, he’d introduce her to her supposed parents, hold a press conference and bask in his victory as he sailed off to meet new challenges, while she was left to grapple with what, if anything, this meant.
Now, seeing the expression on his face, she felt like a fish in a very small glass bowl. She suddenly, desperately wanted not to be here. It was too much. He cared too much, she thought in panic. Why?
She slid one foot back, then the other. The door wasn’t that far. If she took off, what were they going to do? Arrest her?
Seemingly galvanized into motion, he pushed through the waist-high, swinging door. “Ms. Lars— Smith,” he corrected himself. “Please. You’ve come this far. I’d really like to talk to you.”
Only a few feet away from her now, he was even more intimidating. Something in him seemed to reach out and grab her. Her feet refused to keep edging backward. It was as if they were stuck in some gluey substance.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she blurted.
He shook his head. “You need answers, don’t you?” he told her more than asked, in a deep, soothing voice.
Maybe. Yes. She did want answers, just not the complications that would come with them. She didn’t relate well to people on any but a superficial level. Whatever it was she saw boiling inside him scared her.
She did some deep breathing, not taking her gaze from him, feeling him as a threat on some level she didn’t understand. Stupid.
“Yes. All right. I’ll talk to you. That’s why I’m here.”
“Good.” He produced a smile gentler than she would have imagined him capable of. “There’s a small conference room back here. We can talk there.” He stepped back and gestured toward the swinging door that led behind the long counter.
She studied it warily, then the police officer behind the counter who had also been watching her. Finally she pretended a confidence she didn’t feel and walked forward.
Although Detective Chandler followed, he kept a certain distance between them she appreciated. She was afraid she’d given away her irrational panic, and that scared her. If she had one skill in life, it was an ability to hide all the craziness she carried inside.
She hesitated until he waved her toward a hallway, and then she stepped back while he opened the first door, glass-paned to allow passersby to look in.
“Please, have a seat,” he said.
She took the first chair, the closest to the door. It also offered the advantage that nobody going by could see her face.
He circled the table and sat across from her, then did nothing but look at her for long enough to have her fidgeting. Finally, he gave his head a faint, incredulous shake.
“I assume you’re here because you saw the picture,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Just out of curiosity, where did you come across it? Were you searching for information about your background?”
“No,” Bailey said flatly. “A total stranger thought she knew me, then remembered a story she’d seen online about this little girl who was abducted. She said someone had come up with a picture of what that little girl would look like now, and I was right on.”
He winced.
She raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve read or heard that these past several months. Except usually they say we got the nose or the chin or the eyes wrong.” The shock in his eyes was back. “We didn’t.”
Much as she’d like to, she couldn’t deny that.
“So, you went online to see if this total stranger was right,” he prompted.
“I did.”
“And made the decision to come to Stimson.”
“Actually,” she said coolly, “that was a month ago. In fact, I made the decision to pretend I’d