Greg noticed Jake had wrapped himself in one of Jenn’s old sweaters, one she wore when Jake was a toddler.
Maybe that’s what he was looking for?
Lowering himself, Greg took Jake into his arms. Jake stirred but didn’t wake as Greg carried him upstairs to their bedroom, loving Jenn’s scent mingling with Jake’s.
Kat and Vince said nothing, shutting lights and doors behind them.
Exhausted, Greg got into bed next to his son, his heart racing, staring into the night, thoughts tormenting him.
Not knowing if Jenn’s alive... Jake in her sweater... Tearing at my heart—we can’t lose Jenn... Jake can’t lose his mother like I lost my mom. No... Was Jake looking for something in the decorations, or just for Jenn’s sweater? Jenn... Was she having an affair with Sellwin? Is that why she was withdrawn? Will the detectives find out when they look on her phone and computers?
His heart pounded faster.
They have mine, too.
Thirty-Three
Location Unknown
Jennifer Griffin couldn’t understand her captor’s message.
It had come from a printer in bold uppercase.
YOU’RE NOT READY. BUT SOON YOU WILL KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE.
Not ready?
How many times had she stared at the words, her captor’s first communication with her?
I don’t know what this means. Ready for what? To be killed?
Jennifer didn’t know how long she’d been imprisoned—three days? Four? She felt time was ticking down on her. I’ve got to find a way out. She stood, wincing because her ankles were sore from kicking at the door.
Breathing hard, she focused on the two lower delivery doors.
That’s it!
She opened one, removed the pail then placed her head and shoulders into the space. Tricky, but she could squeeze through. The only thing stopping her was the door on the other side.
She pushed at it. It didn’t move.
She got down on her back and inserted both feet, pressing her shoes against it. She pulled her legs back and drove her heels into it. Her ankles hurt. Nothing happened. She kicked and kicked, gritting her teeth, growling.
The door didn’t budge.
Grunting and cursing, spittle flying, she kicked and kicked until her feet and legs were inflamed with pain.
It was futile.
Wiping at tears, she continued taking inventory of her cell. She had no tools. Nothing. Moving to replace the white pail in its storage compartment, she picked it up by the handle then stopped.
An idea came.
The bucket had a steel handle. Her captor had used buckets with plastic handles, metal handles, and some with no handle at all.
She worked the metal handle free from the connector bolts on the bucket. The u-loop ends had edges to them. Jennifer tried folding the handle, like a hanger, but couldn’t. Positioning it against her lower leg, she used her foot and her weight, clenching her jaw at the pain, as she bent the ends together, then she got a towel and twisted it around forming a grip.
The little metal tool with its looped edging felt good in her hand.
Jennifer then went to the big door.
She looked at the hinges, which were mounted on the inside. Strange, but that’s how the room was constructed. She studied the steel hardware of the hinge and bolt assembly. There were two steel assemblies, one upper and one lower, each secured by three flathead star-point screws.
Gripping her new tool, Jennifer got on her knees and began scratching at the wood around the lower assembly. The steel edge produced a tiny curl of a shaving.
She continued scraping.
Another tiny shaving of wood curled from the frame.
Then another.
Thirty-Four
Lancaster / Elma, New York
Kozak and Carillo parked their Taurus among the pickups and vans on the hardened soil in front of the white job site trailer for Phase 2 of Pine Castle Park development.
They went inside and asked for Al Clayton with Solid and Strong Contracting.
Eyeing their badges, project supervisor Pavel Hatch grunted, clamped his teeth on the unlit cigar at the side of his mouth, leaned over a worktable, and ran his finger over a map.
“Solid and Strong’s in the upper nine hundreds. You’ll find Clayton there. Just go right when you step outside.”
“Thanks,” Kozak said.
“Wait. You’ll need these. Rules.” Hatch handed them white hard hats. “You can give ’em back on your way out.”
They moved along the evolving neighborhood of houses. Some were finished; some were shells. All had crews working at stages of completion. Lot numbers were spray-painted on fragments of fiberboard leaning in the window frames, or affixed to a stake in the yard. Walking on the new street, uneven with stones and dried mud tracks, Kozak was glad she was not wearing open-toed shoes.
Passing trucks sent dust swirling. The air smelled of lumber, earth, and cement, echoing with the punch-thud of nail guns and the roar of excavation equipment. Earlier that morning, Kozak and Carillo had received some forensic results. They were expecting more soon. For now, they were tracking down witness leads. It was part of the job. You followed them wherever they took you, and Kozak’s instinct told her this one was a thread to a hidden truth.
When they reached the high nine hundreds and asked for Clayton, they were directed to a man supervising lots #975 and #976. He had a full beard, a strong build, with the hint of a paunch beneath his flannel shirt and jeans.
“Al Clayton?” Kozak said.
“Yeah.”
Introducing themselves, the investigators presented their badges.
“Can we talk?” Kozak said.
“Is this is about Jenn?” His face brightened. “Have you found her?”
“It’s about Jennifer and no, we haven’t located her.”
Clayton’s face fell. He nodded.
“Sure, we can talk, but so you know, I got a concrete mixing truck coming to pour at any moment. Greg wants us to keep the work moving. We have deadlines.”
“Just need a couple minutes,” Kozak said.
Clayton nodded to a pickup truck and they went to it. Leaning on the fender, he removed his hard hat, dragged his forearm across his forehead.
“First,” Carillo asked, “can you show us some ID?”
Clayton pulled his driver’s license from his wallet. Carillo took a good look then took a picture of it before returning it.