Amanda read, " ‘To the man who has Emma: please know that we—her father and I—love Emma and cherish her, and will do whatever you want in order to have our daughter returned to us. Emma is only seventeen years old. She likes ice cream and watching reruns of Friends with us on family night. Her father and I are not interested in vengeance or punishment. We just want Emma returned.' " Amanda looked up over her glasses. " ‘Please return our Emma to us.' " She folded the paper. "I'll take a few questions."
A local reporter shouted, "Abby, what did it feel like to kill—"
"Rules, please." Amanda cut him off. "Remember to direct all your questions to me."
The reporter didn't give up. "Are you going to press charges against Abigail Campano for the murder of Adam Humphrey?"
"We have no plans to pursue charges at this time."
Abigail stared blankly at Will, as if unworried about the equivocation. Beside her, Paul seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.
Another local reporter asked, "What leads do you have at the moment? Are there any suspects?"
"Obviously, we're full speed ahead on this investigation. I can't tell you about particulars."
And yet another question came. "You've posted police around Westfield Academy. Are you worried this is the work of a serial killer?"
The serial killer angle was a hot topic of debate on the talk shows. The Hiker Murders back in January were still fresh on everyone's mind.
Amanda told them, "This has absolutely none of the markings of a serial case at this time."
Will felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. The flashes seemed to be making the room hotter. He opened the door to let in some fresh air.
"When do you think an arrest will be made?" someone in the front asked.
Amanda artfully dodged, "As soon as we are certain we have our bad guy."
"What other lines of investigation are you following?"
"We're pursuing any and all leads."
"Which are?"
Amanda smiled. "I can't go into particulars at this time."
Will caught Abigail's eye again. He could see that she was swaying and did not know if it was the heat or the circumstances. Her face had turned completely white. She looked like she might faint.
Will tilted up his chin, which was enough to get Amanda's attention. She did not need to look at Abigail to know what was worrying him. Instead of calling the meeting to a close, she asked, "Any more questions?"
A man in the back wearing a blazer that screamed New York and a sneer that screamed Yankee even louder, asked, "Don't you agree that valuable time was lost due to the incompetence of the Atlanta Police Department?"
Amanda's eyes found the man, and she gave him one of her special smiles. "At this point in time, we're more focused on finding Emma Campano than we are on pointing fingers."
"But wouldn't—"
Amanda cut him off. "You've had your turn. Give the others a chance."
Will heard some of the more seasoned local reporters snicker. For his part, Will was more interested in Abigail Campano. She was searching in her purse again, her head down. She was leaning too far forward in the chair. For just a moment, it seemed like she might fall to the floor, but Paul caught her at the last moment, putting his arm around her, shoring her up. He whispered something in her ear and Abigail numbly nodded her head. She looked up at the people crowding in on her, the crush of humanity seeking to drain every emotion from her face. Her mouth opened for air. The camera flashes blinked wildly. Will could almost hear the reporters trying to come up with adjectives for the captions: devastated, crushed, mournful, broken. Amanda's plan had worked beautifully. Abigail had swayed them all without even saying a word.
More questions were allowed, each asking for details that Amanda skillfully sidestepped. Some were valid—they pressed again on what clues had been found, what progress had been made. Some were meant to be inflammatory, like the man who asked again whether or not this was the work of a sadistic serial killer who was "targeting affluent young girls."
Amanda gave them nothing, rapping her knuckles on the podium like a judge ending a court session, then leading the Campanos off the stage.
Another barrage of photographs were taken as Amanda followed the parents back toward the exit. Abigail could barely walk on her own. She leaned into Paul like a crutch. The reporters kept their distance, not crowding the group. If Will didn't know any better, he would have sworn they were being respectful.
Outside, Amanda made all the right noises. She took Abigail's hand, saying, "You did perfectly."
Abigail nodded, obviously not trusting herself to speak. The ordeal had taken the last bit of strength out of her.
Amanda said, "The second call from the kidnapper is in three hours. I'll be with you at the house."
Paul said, "Thank you."
Amanda shook Paul's hand. She gave Will a sharp look. "My office. Ten minutes."
He nodded, and she walked off toward the stairs.
For the first time since this had all started, Paul seemed concerned about his wife. "Are you okay?"
"I just got a little too warm," she murmured, hand covering her stomach.
Will offered, "There's a bathroom down here."
She didn't look at him. Still leaning on her husband, she made her way to the ladies' room. Outside the door, she put her hand to his face, then his chest. "I'm okay."
"You sure?"
She pressed her fingertips to his mouth, then went into the bathroom. Paul stood outside, facing the closed door as if he could still see her.
Will found himself feeling something like jealousy, coupled with confusion. How could someone like Abigail love Paul? How could she have a child with this man? He'd never been attractive, but Paul had let himself go over the years. He'd put on more than a few pounds. His hairline was receding. This, coupled with his roving eye, did not exactly make him a catch. What did she see in him that was attractive?
And why was it that even after almost thirty years had passed, Will was still comparing himself to the bastard?
Paul let out a long sigh. He walked a few feet away, then turned on his heel and walked back, as if keeping sentry. Will put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, wondering why he kept ending up outside the ladies' room.
Paul stopped. He indicated his own face, asking, "Does it hurt?"
Their fight the day before was the last thing on Will's mind, though the bruise that spanned the bridge of Will's nose and ran under his eyes was reminiscent of an Egyptian Pharaoh. Instead of answering the man, Will looked down at the ground, noting that his shoes were badly scuffed.
"Here." Paul held out the stack of photographs that Will had spotted in Abigail's purse. All of them, he knew, would show Emma in various stages of happiness. "My wife wanted you to have these." He did not look at the photos. "She wanted you to know what Emma looks like."
Will took the photos, but did not look at them, either. The girl's face was already seared into his mind. He did not need more visual cues.
Paul lowered his voice. "You hit back a lot harder than you used to."
Will tried not to take that as a compliment.