“Search dogs? What could they possibly find that these three officers in their rubber gloves can’t?”
“That’s not exactly the kind of dog this is . . . ,” Detective Ryan says.
The dogs come closer, and I know what they are. Cadaver dogs. “You think she’s dead?”
He clears his throat. “We don’t know anything for sure right now.”
A wave of nausea hits, and I bolt for the open powder room door in the hallway. I slam the door and sink to the floor, sitting against it with my knees against my chest, my forehead pressed to them, forcing deep breaths.
I can’t be out there while those people are looking through the house. While those dogs search for a body.
Mikayla isn’t here. She isn’t dead. She’s missing, and they are wasting their time searching here. They should be searching Fran’s house. The other day care locations. The workers’ homes. They should be trying to find Malcolm. My gut twists at the thought of him. He lied. He never accepted the position at the high school. Why would he lie about that? Where has he been all this time if not at the school?
Where is he now? What else is he lying about? And why the hell isn’t he answering the phone when his daughter is missing?
I try his number again, and the call goes straight to voice mail.
“This is Malcolm Jennings. Leave me a message.”
I hit the disconnect button and slam the cell phone onto the floor. I’ve called his number every five minutes for the last three hours. I’ve left sixteen voice mails. Each one more desperate, more pleading . . .
Where. The. Hell. Is. He?
I stay on the floor a long time, until I’ve gathered enough strength to stand. As I push myself up off the floor, I try to drown out the sound of footsteps upstairs while I strain, desperately praying I don’t hear the sound of dogs barking.
Just footsteps and silence.
I wash my face. The cold water splashing against my skin helps to wake me from the medicated trance. I open the medicine cabinet, moving aside bottles of prescription pills until I find a small tube of light concealer.
It works its magic, covering the dark circles beneath my eyes, but the bloodshot look of desperation will take a miracle to diminish. Reality of the situation sinks deep into my chest as the sedatives start to wear off.
Mikayla is gone.
September 6—2:17 p.m.
While the team searches the house and Kelsey Jennings tries to pull herself together in the powder room, I look around on my own. A lot can be learned about people by looking into the places they don’t want anyone to see.
The Jenningses’ home is impressive. All the homes in this neighborhood are big and expensive—normally outside a teacher’s salary—and this house has obviously been recently renovated. It has a modern feel, with upgraded appliances and real hardwood flooring throughout, but the structure of the old house hasn’t been destroyed; the curved archways and colonial moldings help to maintain its character as a home built in the early 1900s. It sits on several acres of land, the nearest neighbors far enough away not to get into one another’s business but close enough to form a quiet elitist group.
How can the Jenningses afford this place? Wise investments? An inheritance? Wealthy families?
This is a safe part of town. Rarely are there police cruisers lining the streets around here. The neighbors are less intrigued at the possibility of a crime and more annoyed at the disturbance this investigation is causing.
We will question them if needed, but the unpacked moving boxes and the FOR SALE sign in the front yard confirm Kelsey Jennings’s story that they’ve just recently moved into the home and back to Ellicott City . . . for her husband’s job, one apparently he hasn’t actually gone to every morning.
I start in the kitchen, since it’s the only room that seems to be completely unpacked already, and it’s the one that search crews tend to gloss over in preference of more interesting spaces—like attics, crawl spaces, and lingerie drawers. Other than the breakfast dishes still in the sink, it’s immaculate. Either they have a house cleaner, or someone in the home is a neat freak. Everything has a place. Countertops are clutter-free, and there’s not even a trace of a fingerprint on the stainless steel fridge. Odd, with a child in the house.
Besides a photo of Mikayla on the counter, the room is absent of any usual sign of a family living there. Even the “Busy Moms Calendar” hanging on the wall has yet to be filled in with appointments or obligations or events. I flip back through various months, but there’s nothing. I flip forward, and it’s completely blank.
I open the fridge and look inside. Milk, juice, vegetables, fruit . . . nothing unhealthy. No wine or beer . . . health freaks?
I open the pantry and dismiss that idea. Three different types of cookies, sugary cereal and boxes of rice, pasta and crackers reveal that the family likes their sugar and carbs. I’m not judging. My pantry is stocked with ramen noodles, and my fridge is an oversize beer cooler. Full stop.
I open the kitchen drawers. Cutlery in one. Spatulas, ladles, and other utensils I couldn’t name if my life depended on it in another. Dish towels in a third.
Where’s the drawer I’m looking for?
The junk drawer. The one that hides all manner of sins. The one that reveals more secrets than anyone realizes. We all have one. A drawer that catches all the odds and ends that don’t have their own place—a roll of tape, pens that don’t work anymore but never get thrown out, an old postcard from a friend on vacation, a hair elastic . . . paper clips . . .
This family doesn’t have that drawer.
The last one I open contains only a stack of cookbooks, splattered and stained, recipes stuffed in between the pages.
The living room is equally boring. New furniture that still hasn’t fully adopted the family’s scents, the lingering smell of the furniture warehouse to the fabrics. A few open boxes reveal photo albums and dust-collecting ornaments and trinkets that haven’t been unpacked yet. The hardwood floor is shiny and clean—again, an unusual occurrence in a home with a child. So far, it’s impossible to tell that a toddler lives in this home. Not a toy or book to be found.
Then I know why.
I open the door to what I assume is a playroom. There’s no bed, so it’s not Mikayla Jennings’s bedroom. This room is full of toys. Toys everywhere. Unlike the rest of the house, it’s messy and chaotic. There’s no organization or sorting bins for different items. Just lots of different kinds of toys.
Suspicion that Kelsey Jennings has fabricated a child fades. The photos and toys are proof that one existed at one time . . . but it’s not unthinkable that maybe the child has died and a mother’s grief is at play. Until Malcolm Jennings or his parents are located, there’s no way of knowing what the hell is really going on.
I close the door and head into the master bedroom.
Here is where most of the secrets hide.
Having done countless home searches, I’ve learned never to leave my house in a way that, if it is searched, I will be embarrassed or my secrets will be discovered.
It’s in the master bedroom where we find sex toys and lubricants for experimental play among couples. We find hemorrhoid cream and night guards . . . we find hair dye and Rogaine for Men. Push-up bras and Spanx. Everyone has secrets they keep to themselves. Things they’d rather no one discovered.