“All right. All right, then. I’ll call my contact at the FBI.”
The man moved over to the desk and reached for the black phone sitting near the corner. The arguing next door continued, growing louder, tenser, but still unintelligible.
“If you’d please wait outside?” the chief asked, glancing at the wall between us and the fight.
“No. I want to be here for this,” my father said.
“I understand, sir, but I’m afraid it’s protocol,” the chief said, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted the receiver. “I can’t have civilians in the room while I discuss a case with the FBI.”
My father blew out a frustrated sigh but yanked the door open. He let me through first, then slammed it, causing another stoppage of noise in the lobby. I saw a few people staring at us over the counter and turned my back to them. Inside the office, Chief Grantz began to speak in low tones.
“I’m so sorry, Rory,” my father said, rubbing his brow with one hand and sitting down on a bench outside the office. He looked up at me, his eyes heavy. “I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “I didn’t even know what to believe. Until now.”
He reached for my hand and held it. “If I lose her…”
“I know,” I said, my voice full. “We can’t even think about that.” I took a breath. “Dad? Can I see your wallet?”
His brows knit, but he reached for his back pocket. “Why?”
“I just want to check something,” I said.
I flipped open the soft leather billfold and reached into the pocket where my dad kept family photos. Out came my sophomore picture, my bangs too short and my smile too big, and right behind it was Darcy’s photo. It was still there. He hadn’t lost it. Darcy hadn’t taken it and given it to Joaquin. No one had stolen it to make copies. So how the hell had the cops distributed it?
The door behind us opened, and the chief came striding out. “Good news. It’s not Roger Krauss.”
“What?” I breathed. My father stood up, still clinging to my hand. The voices in the next room escalated.
“I just spoke to an Agent Lawrence with the FBI,” the chief said, drawing himself up straight. “He says this Nell character took off for Canada, and they’re following several leads there. They seem to think they’re closing in on him. They want you to stay here for a few more days until they’ve brought him in, but they assured me that the man is nowhere near Juniper Landing.”
I let out a breath, relief flooding through me. Canada. Darcy was all right.
“Thank goodness,” my father said, relaxing slightly. “But then where’s Darcy? Where’s my daughter?”
“That’s what the search party is for, sir,” the chief said, placing his hand on my father’s back and leading him toward the counter, away from the quickly escalating argument behind closed doors. “Every now and then, one of our visitors gets lost on the beach or turned around in that nasty fog and we have to go out and find them. We’ve done this before, and we’ve always been successful. So if you’ll just let us go about our business…”
“Well, we want to join the search party,” my father said forcefully. “Rory and I can help.”
Someone nearby coughed, and the police chief tugged on his ear. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“Why not? The more people looking for her, the better, right?” I said.
“Well, yes, I suppose, in theory, but I think it’s better if you two wait for her back at your house. You never know. She might just come walking through the door, and if no one’s there, we have no way of knowing about it.”
My father looked at me, considering the logic of this. I could tell he felt much better, much more secure, knowing that Steven Nell or Roger Krauss or whatever we were calling him was out of the picture. I wanted to feel that way, too, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d had all week that something was off.
“Okay, fine,” my father said finally, putting his arm around me. “We’ll go home. But you’ll let us know the second you find anything?”
“Of course,” the chief replied solicitously.
An office door behind the counter flung open and angry voices echoed through the room.
“What makes you think you know more about this than I do?” a familiar voice shouted. I turned around just in time to see Joaquin, his face as red as blood, shout back over his shoulder into the office. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stormed toward the back of the building, not noticing me or my father, and slammed through a heavy metal door. One second later, Officer Dorn stepped into the doorway of the office, looking shaken—like he’d just taken a scolding.
“Who the hell was that?” my father asked me under his breath as we moved toward the front door.