43. Sketch Artist
FORTY-THREE
Sketch Artist
CJ
When the FBI profiler finished with Angela, CJ tried to get Anna out of the swing. She didn’t want to let go of the chains, insisting he push ‘just one more time.’ He gave her three more pushes, sending her high into the air. Then he pulled her swing to a halt and coaxed the little girl off the playground.
Leaving Anna in the capable hands of Mrs. Collins, he tried to engage Angela in a contest of who could swing the highest. Angela didn’t want to play and walked off the playground to stand beside a bench. CJ followed, taking a seat on the far end. Angela pretended a deep interest in the grass at her feet, then bent to pick up a stick. She hit the back of the bench, jarring his teeth with each strike.
He brushed off his trousers and stood, giving her the space she needed. Anna might be young enough to really not understand, but Angela held the wisdom of an older soul. He remembered what that knowledge felt like. He’d been older, fifteen-years-young, and his circumstances had been much different, although no less challenging.
His father killed his mother while he watched. The memory haunted him and had been improved only slightly by what happened next. Rage powered the adolescent jangle of his limbs and developing muscles to action. Fury fueled the need to stop his father, but what he remembered was feeling cheated because his fists hadn’t killed the old man. He’d been smaller, weaker, and knew he wouldn’t last in an all-out brawl, but he’d been smart and gone for the gun. The shot rang out before it registered that he pulled the trigger. His arm jerked, then he blinked. Half his father’s face disappeared, and the ringing in his ears lasted until the police came.
His moment of retribution had been stolen in that one shot. All his anger bubbled to the surface and struggled for an outlet. He wanted to beat his father into submission, but the focus of his hatred lay dead on the floor. There’d been no satisfaction because his father hadn’t suffered.
Angela faced a different grief, but no less powerful. She’d seen the face of her mother’s potential killer. Growing up in foster care wasn’t easy, and he didn’t envy Angela the trials that might bring. He’d like to think Henrietta Jones was still alive, but he knew how these things usually ended.
Angela lifted her face and blinked against the sun. “My mom isn’t dead.” She pointed the stick at him. “You think she is. Mrs. Collins and those cops do too, but she’s not. My mom is strong, stronger than you know. She’s going to come home.” Wetness pooled at the corners of her eyes, but her cheeks remained dry, her upper lip was set with her conviction.
He held his hands up, unwilling to crush her hope. “I never said your mother wouldn’t come home.”
Her chin trembled.
“I see her in you; her strength is written in your eyes.”
She threw the stick toward the playground. “Do you think that man had something to do with Mom going away?”
He knelt down, eye-level with the girl. “Angela, why don’t you like this man?”
She shrugged. “I dunno.”
He turned to keep an eye on Anna, who spoke with great enthusiasm to the sketch artist. His watch showed half-past three. The backup team should be at the hotel by now. Melissa was safe, and he didn’t need to worry about leaving her alone anymore.
Jenny’s cell phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket. “Mac, what’s up?”
“Where are you?” A terseness clipped Mac’s words.
“Sitting at a park with two lovely little girls. The sketch artist is finishing with the younger one.”
He pinched his brows together and placed a hand over the spot above the bridge of his nose. A headache coiled behind his eyes, building with strength. It had been a long unproductive day.
“You need to get back to the hotel.”
“What happened?”
“Melissa’s gone. The team arrived, and she wasn’t in the room.”
His stomach churned with fear for her safety and rage for whoever had taken her. He would kill the fucker if he hurt Melissa.
Keeping his voice even so as not to alarm Angela took every ounce of self-control. He paced, needing to move. To act. To do something other than babysit two little girls at a goddamn park.
First, he needed to calm down. He focused on Mac’s deep voice.
“Did she leave, or was she taken?”
“Taken.”
“Struggle?”
“Door’s intact. She either knew the person, or they convinced her to let them in.”
He understood the subtext but didn’t think Scott Patterson would be stupid enough to brave a public hotel with video surveillance and security.
“You coming?”
“I’ll be there.”
Maybe he could pawn the girls off on the sketch artist and head straight to the hotel? He cut the connection and tried to appear as if his entire world hadn’t been snatched from under his feet.
He held out a hand. “Angela, let’s get your sister. It’s been a long day.”