“More than you know,” Karla Mepps replied, gazing at him, making a show of putting on her jacket. “C’mon. You walk me to my car? I’d feel safer.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, sure.”
Ignoring the gapes of the other boys in the coffee shop, Damon led her outside. The wind had picked up. Twice during the short walk to the visitors’ lot, she seemed to stumble against him and he had to hold her up.
“So strong,” she said the first time.
“So fast,” she said the second time.
When they reached the car, a blue Honda sedan, Karla Mepps pressed the unlock button, turned to him. “I very much liked meeting you, Damon.”
“Uh, yeah, me, too, Ms. Mepps.”
She reached out to shake his hand and held on to it a second too long, whispering, “Here’s a little something to keep you awake. Some night—who knows when?—Karla just might come out of the woods behind your dorm and climb in your window. So leave it unlocked and open.”
Damon blinked, pulled back his hand. She chuckled like a cat purring, climbed into the car, and started it.
Then Karla Mepps drove off into the gathering night.
Chapter
39
I watched a crime scene tech dusting the Lancasters’ doorbell for fingerprints. Little Evan aside, it was the only thing we knew for sure that the kidnapper had touched. Other techs were inside the foyer, working. Ned Mahoney was triggering an AMBER alert across Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. Bree was with the Lancasters, going through the house, trying to determine whether the nanny had taken anything of note besides their only child.
I was about to join them when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Tugging it out, I saw the caller ID: Damon.
“Your phone does work,” I answered, walking away from the front stoop. Television camera trucks were already camped out beyond the police tape, no doubt having come from outside the apartment building of Joss Branson’s parents. The only thing that will draw the media off a missing child case these days is another missing child.
“Well, sure my phone works,” Damon said.
“You don’t answer it much.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, I was leading a late tour and there was someone—a woman, the aunt of some kid from Louisiana who’s interested in applying. She stayed behind and, I don’t know, asked a lot of questions.”
I’d forgotten he was working as a campus tour guide.
“No problem,” I said.
“What did you call about? You didn’t leave a message.”
“Hate leaving messages,” I said.
“You could have sent a text.”
“I like hearing the sound of your voice in real time, is that okay?”
“Is that why you called six times?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Oh,” he said, and paused. “Well, what do you want me to say?”
“The alphabet.”
“Really?”
“No, I just…how was your day, kiddo?”