“Um, last week when I stopped by my sister’s house to bring her some persimmons.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about Riley?”
Silence.
“Does she have any hobbies, likes or dislikes, things like that?”
“She’s a straight-A student. Talented too. She plays the piano and the flute. She loves to read and help her parents in the garden.” Sara Croche’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I don’t think there’s anything that girl can’t do.”
“So she’s happy?”
“Of course.”
“Never talked about running away?”
The woman frowned.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” Sawyer asked.
“She’s only twelve! Of course not.”
“I’m sorry. I’m simply trying to—”
The taller woman grabbed Sara’s arm and pulled her away, muttering something about reporters all being heartless.
Sawyer exhaled. Asking for detailed information was part of her job. If she was going to write about Riley Addison, she needed to know as much about her as possible. But Sawyer realized too late that she’d come on too strong, too fast.
Back inside the used black Toyota Camry Sawyer had found on Craigslist after her Honda Civic died, she looked up the telephone number for Patrick Addison, Riley’s father, and made the call. After three rings, a robotic voice said to leave a message after the beep. Sawyer stated her name, letting Patrick Addison know she worked for the Sacramento Independent and she wanted to help. She left her number and told him to call anytime. She then looked through her file for Paige Owens’s address, the girl who had escaped her abductor, and plugged the information into the navigation system. The Owens lived seven miles away, off La Riviera Drive in Carmichael.
On the way Sawyer found herself thinking about Derek. Despite what he’d said, she missed him. Everything about him: his voice, his jokes, the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her.
She was definitely into him.
Some people overanalyzed their relationships. She tended to do the opposite. But she thought of Derek all the time. For instance, last week she’d seen what looked like a drug deal going down right outside her apartment, and her first thought had been to call Derek. But she hadn’t. A few days ago she’d heard a gunshot that turned out to be a car backfiring, and again she’d thought of Derek. And what about the time she saw an elderly couple holding hands and wondered what Derek was up to? She thought about Derek constantly, and yet she hadn’t called him. Why?
Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. She knew exactly what her problem was. Ever since returning home from River Rock a month ago, she’d been apprehensive, constantly worried that something bad would happen. She’d always known Mom and Dad were selfish and neglectful. But nothing had prepared her for the shock of discovering that they were monsters.
Sawyer couldn’t think about her parents without feeling numb inside. It wasn’t surprising that her anxiety had ramped up a notch after she returned home to Sacramento. Everything freaked her out these days. Whenever her heart raced, she found herself wanting to call Derek. But if she did that, she would appear needy. She liked to think she was independent and didn’t need anyone else, and maybe that was partially true. Maybe she could live her entire life all alone. But was that what she wanted?
She drove up to the front of the Owens’s house on La Riviera, pulled out her cell phone, and left Derek a text: I need to talk to you. Please call me back.
Pushing thoughts of Derek away, she reached for the manila file on the passenger seat where she’d put her notes and a copy of the police report Rene Owens had filled out five years ago. Most of the report had been blotted out using a black marker, rendering it useless.
Sawyer stepped out of the car and made her way toward the house. If not for the colorful blooms lining the walkway, the box-shaped house would have looked like a clone of every house on the street—one story with four small windows and a single-car garage.
Sawyer knocked and waited.
“Who is it?” asked a female voice from the other side of the door.
“Sawyer Brooks with the Sacramento Independent. I was hoping I could talk to Paige Owens.”
“What about?”
The door opened a couple of inches, enough for Sawyer to see the woman’s thick dark hair interweaved with wiry gray strands. Her lips were pressed into a straight line. “Are you Rene Owens?” Sawyer asked.
“I am.”
“I was hoping I could talk to you and Paige about her near abduction five years ago.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Every time another little girl goes missing, you people come knocking on my door. We have nothing to say to you. Leave us alone.”
Sawyer caught a glimpse of a young girl in the background. The dark eyes framed by thick lashes and the heart-shaped face told her it was Paige. She’d hardly changed from the picture Sawyer had seen online from five years ago. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important,” Sawyer said.
Rene Owens snorted. “Ratings and personal glory is all you people want.”
Sawyer didn’t back down. Although it might be a stretch to think this newest abduction was related to what happened to Paige Owens, Sawyer wanted to know more about every girl on her list and see where it led, if anywhere. “As you might have seen on the news, a young girl named Riley Addison went missing,” Sawyer said. “Maybe someone saw something and yet they’re afraid to come forward. Your bravery in talking to me could help authorities find her.”
“Mom,” the girl said. “Let her in. We should help if we can.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman told Sawyer. “We can’t help you.”
Sawyer placed a hand on the door to stop Rene from shutting it so she could hand her a business card through the gap. “Take my card, please. If you change your mind, please call me anytime.”
The woman took the card and promptly closed the door in Sawyer’s face. More than one lock clicked into place.
Sawyer exhaled. Rene Owens knew she was one of the lucky ones. Her daughter was home, safe and sound, and Rene planned to keep it that way. As Sawyer walked back to the curb where her car was parked, she scanned the neighborhood. Paige had been eleven when she was walking to the bus stop. Exactly what happened after that wasn’t yet clear.
Her phone vibrated as she slid into her car. There was a text from an unknown number: This is Paige Owens. Meet me at Starbucks on Rosewood Avenue in fifteen minutes.
A jolt of excitement shot through her. Eager for the chance to talk to Paige, Sawyer looked toward the house and saw Paige’s mother through the front window, most likely waiting for her to drive off, so that’s what she did. When she was far enough away, she pulled over and looked up the Starbucks address and logged it into her navigation system.
Twenty minutes later, Paige walked into the coffee shop where Sawyer had been waiting.
“Sorry it took so long,” Paige said as she plopped onto the seat across from Sawyer. “I had to wait until Mom calmed down.”
“Not a problem,” Sawyer said. “Thanks for meeting with me. Can I get you anything?”
“No. I don’t have a lot of time. My mom is a good person,” Paige said, not wasting any time. “She wants to help, but she’s scared.”