Yesterday's Gone (Two Daughters Book 1) (2 page)

The girl said, “You know, I keep thinking you look familiar.”

“Well, if you’ve eaten here before...”

“No, friends told us it was good. You don’t work at Warner Brothers, do you?”

Um, no
, she wanted to say.
I work at Canosa.
But really that wasn’t fair. Living expenses were high in Southern California. She knew people who worked a part-time job or even two on top of a full-time one just to pay the rent.

“Afraid not,” she said cheerfully. If the girl had looked even faintly familiar to her, she might have mentioned being a student at the University of Southern California, but, honestly, she didn’t care if they might have crossed paths before.

The guy handed her an American Express card. She took it with another smile.

When she returned to the table, it was to find them both staring at her.

“I figured it out,” said the girl, a stylish brunette whose handbag was either a genuine Fendi or an amazing knockoff. She sounded excited. “I saw your picture on, I don’t remember, Facebook or Tumblr or someplace like that.”

“Couldn’t have been me,” Bailey assured her. “I’m not a celebrity in disguise here.”

“No, it was amazing! Everybody has been passing it around. It was about this little girl who disappeared and an artist drew what she’d look like now. And...wow. I’d swear it’s you.”

The darkness inside Bailey rose, dimming her vision for a minute. But she didn’t let her expression change. “Really? That’s weird. Pretty sure I’ve never disappeared.”

“Yes, but you ought to look at it. It’s totally uncanny.”

She managed a laugh. “Okay. What’s my name?”

The young woman frowned. “Hope something.” And then her face brightened. “Lawson. Hope Lawson.”

Oh God, oh God. Could any of this be true?

“I’ll look,” Bailey promised. “Gotta see my doppelgänger.”

They were still looking over their shoulders at her on their way out. She was so engaged in holding herself together, she didn’t even check to see what kind of tip they’d left. She had another hour before she could leave.

Part of the act of maintaining was convincing herself she wasn’t going to bother to look at the
totally uncanny
picture that supposedly looked like her. It probably really didn’t. And if it did? Why would she care? Nothing would ever make her Hope Lawson, even if by some bizarre chance that had been her name.
Hope
. She almost snorted. How sweet.

Long after she collected her tips for the shift, as well as her paycheck, and went out to her car, dying to take off her very high heels even if it mean driving home with bare feet, she stayed in the mode that could be summed up as No Way. There’d been a time she would have given anything to be found, to have it turn out she had a perfect family somewhere who would welcome her back with cries of joy and who’d kept her bedroom exactly the way it was when she disappeared. Then, she’d imagined it as very pink, with a canopy bed. Every so often, she made alterations in what that perfect little girl’s bedroom would look like, but the canopy bed always stayed.

By the time she was thirteen or fourteen, though, she realized she didn’t belong in that bedroom, and the family wouldn’t want the girl she was now back anyway. Not long after that, she quit believing they even existed.

Now—was she really supposed to open herself to the possibility they actually did? That they were still looking for her? The idea would be ludicrous, except she’d occasionally, just out of curiosity, scanned websites focused on missing persons and seen the kind of age-progressed pictures the girl tonight had talked about. She’d read a little about how it was done, combining knowledge of how a face normally changed with age—what thickened or sagged or whatever—along with details of how that child’s parents’ faces had changed as they grew up, to achieve an approximation that was sometimes astonishingly accurate.

As she turned onto West Sunset Boulevard, she thought,
it might be interesting to take a look
. And then she could dismiss the whole silly idea, instead of leaving it to fester. Which it would. She knew herself that well.

Besides, if anyone else mentioned it, she could say,
Saw it—definitely not me.

She hated that her apartment house didn’t have gated parking, but that was one of those things you had to pay for. And she did, at least, have an assigned spot underneath the aging, three-story apartment house, so she didn’t have to hike a block or more when she got in late. Even so, she had to put her heels back on, because she knew all too well what she might step in—yuck. She took her usual careful look around when she got out and locked her car. Her handbag was heavy enough to qualify as a weapon, and she held it at the ready as she hustled for the door that let in to the shabby lobby and single, slow-moving elevator.

Safely inside, she ignored the guy who was getting mail from his box. He had a key to it, so he must actually live here, too. He didn’t make any effort to get in the elevator with her, which she appreciated.

There were only four apartments on each floor. She let herself into hers, turned both locks and put the chain on, then groaned and kicked off her shoes again. It sucked to have a job that required torturing herself like this, but sexy paid when it came to tips.

Her laptop sat open on her desk where she’d left it. She didn’t let herself so much as glance at it, instead shedding clothes on her way to the bathroom, where she changed into the knit pj shorts and thin tank top she slept in at this time of year. Then she used cold cream to remove her makeup, brushed her teeth and stared at herself in the mirror. The light in here was merciless. She leaned in closer, the counter edge digging into her hip bones, and made a variety of faces at herself. It wasn’t as if she was so distinctive looking.

But she knew that was a lie. She kind of was. Her cheekbones were prominent, almost like wings, her chin pointed, her forehead high enough she had her hair cut with feathered bangs to partly conceal it. Without makeup, her face was ridiculously colorless, given that her eyebrows weren’t much darker than her ash-blond hair, and her eyes were a sort of slate blue. She looked young like this, more like the girl she didn’t want to remember being. The one who had been invisible when she desperately wished someone would
see
her.

“Fine,” she said aloud. “Just do it. Then you’ll know.”

While her laptop booted, she turned on the air-conditioning unit even though she tried not to use it any more than she could, but today had been
hot
.

Then she perched on her cheap rolling desk chair, went online and, in the search field, typed
Hope Lawson
.

* * *

A
MONTH
LATER
, Seth admitted, if only to himself, that he’d done everything he could think of to do to bring resolution to the Lawsons.

He had interviewed witnesses afresh, at least those who could still be found. He’d talked to the first responding officer and the investigator who’d pursued the case thereafter. He had tracked down neighbors of the Lawsons’, even those who had since moved. Hope’s teacher that year. He’d studied investigations and arrests made anywhere around the time of Hope’s disappearance, looking for parallels no one else had noticed. He’d read every scrap of paper in the box he recovered from the storage room in the basement.

Meantime, he’d made sure her DNA and a copy of her dental X-ray were entered in every available database, along with the two photos. He’d worked social media sites to the best of his ability.

The result? Something like a thousand emails, not one of which pinged. His best guess was that Hope had been raped and killed within hours of her abduction, and her bones were buried somewhere in the wooded, mountainous area bordering Puget Sound in northwest Washington state. Maybe those bones would be found someday, but given the vast stretches of National Forest and National Park as well as floodplain that would never be farmed, it was entirely possible no one would ever stumble on them.

Sitting at his desk, he grimaced. He owed the Lawsons a phone call. If he didn’t get on it, Karen Lawson would pop up, sure as hell, apologizing but still expecting an explanation of what he’d done
this
week to find her missing daughter.

And, if he was honest, he’d have to say,
Nothing. I’ve done everything I can. I’m sorry
.

If he was blunt, would she accept his failure and go away?

“Nope,” Kemper said behind him. “Not happening.”

“What?” He swiveled in his chair.

“You were talking to yourself. You asked—I answered.”

He swore. Good to know he’d taken to speaking his every thought aloud. Was he talking in his sleep, too? Wouldn’t be a surprise. He’d been having a lot of nightmares lately, too many populated by Hope. In the latest unnerving incarnation, she was a ghost. Sometimes a little girl, sometimes a woman, always translucent. Either way, he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t escape her no matter what he did.

The idea had apparently sparked his unconscious imagination—hey, pun! and not in a good way—because Cassie Sparks’s ghost had joined Hope last night. She’d seemed kind of protective of little Hope.

Hard to imagine, considering her dark path, which had turned out to be even uglier than they had known when they found her body along with her parents’. He and Ben had discovered what precipitated that hideous final scene, and part of him wished they hadn’t.

Shifting his thoughts back to Mrs. Lawson, he said gloomily, “She brought me cookies last week.”

Ben’s mouth quirked. “And they were good. Peanut butter cookies are my favorite.”

“She brings pictures, too.” He yanked open his center desk drawer and brandished the small pile. The one on top, the most recent, was a baby picture.
First smile
, someone had written on the back.

Radiant, open, delighted, it was unbearable to look at when he knew that baby’s fate. He’d shoved it into the drawer the minute Mrs. Lawson walked away. Angry at her unsubtle emotional manipulation, he wanted to throw them in the trash. Because he saw her pain, week in and week out, he didn’t.

His phone rang and he turned back around, reaching for it.

“Someone here to see you,” the desk sergeant said, his tone odd. “Her name is, uh, Bailey Smith.”

“Never heard of her. She say what she want?”

“To talk about Hope Lawson.”

Seth sighed.
She looks EXACTLY like this girl I know, except...well, for her nose, chin, cheeks and eyes.

“Conference room empty?” he asked.

“Yes, Detective.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Ben had gone back to whatever he was doing, and no one else paid any attention as Seth walked out and took the stairs.

He emerged through the heavy, bulletproof door that led to the desk sergeant’s domain behind the counter, beyond which was the waiting room. As usual, half a dozen people slumped in seats, some sullen, some anxious. One woman stood, her back to him—and a very nice back it was. Interested, he enjoyed taking a good look. She was midheight, slender, with a tight, perfect ass and fine legs. Chinos cut off just below her knees bared smooth calves. One foot tapped, either from nerves or impatience.
Nice foot, too
, he thought idly; since she wore rubber flip-flops, he could see toenails painted grass green with some tiny decoration he couldn’t make out centered on each nail.

He lifted his gaze to her hair, bundled up and clipped on the back of her head. It was so pale a blond, at first sight he thought dyed, except it had some natural-looking striations of color in it.

Something inside him went still.

“Detective,” the desk sergeant said in an urgent undertone.

As if hearing his low voice, the woman turned to face the two men, pointed chin held defiantly.

Stunned, Seth couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe.

She was alive. And...damn. How could the artist possibly have got it so right?

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
MAN
STARING
at her in open shock was not quite what Bailey had expected, although she didn’t know why that was. She’d looked him up online and even found a newspaper photo of him taken as he left the scene of a recent, really horrible crime.

The coloring was the same—dark hair, worn a little longer than she thought cops usually did. Brown eyes. Broad-shouldered, solid build. She had been reassured by a hint of bleakness the photographer had captured on that hard face.
He must be human
, she had thought, although, really, she knew it wasn’t as if
he
mattered at all. If it turned out she really was this Hope person, he’d introduce her to her supposed parents, hold a press conference and bask in his victory as he sailed off to meet new challenges, while she was left to grapple with what, if anything, this meant.

Now, seeing the expression on his face, she felt like a fish in a very small glass bowl. She suddenly, desperately wanted not to be here. It was too much. He cared too much, she thought in panic. Why?

She slid one foot back, then the other. The door wasn’t that far. If she took off, what were they going to do? Arrest her?

Seemingly galvanized into motion, he pushed through the waist-high, swinging door. “Ms. Lars— Smith,” he corrected himself. “Please. You’ve come this far. I’d really like to talk to you.”

Only a few feet away from her now, he was even more intimidating. Something in him seemed to reach out and grab her. Her feet refused to keep edging backward. It was as if they were stuck in some gluey substance.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she blurted.

He shook his head. “You need answers, don’t you?” he told her more than asked, in a deep, soothing voice.

Maybe. Yes. She did want answers, just not the complications that would come with them. She didn’t relate well to people on any but a superficial level. Whatever it was she saw boiling inside him scared her.

She did some deep breathing, not taking her gaze from him, feeling him as a threat on some level she didn’t understand. Stupid.

“Yes. All right. I’ll talk to you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Good.” He produced a smile gentler than she would have imagined him capable of. “There’s a small conference room back here. We can talk there.” He stepped back and gestured toward the swinging door that led behind the long counter.

She studied it warily, then the police officer behind the counter who had also been watching her. Finally she pretended a confidence she didn’t feel and walked forward.

Although Detective Chandler followed, he kept a certain distance between them she appreciated. She was afraid she’d given away her irrational panic, and
that
scared her. If she had one skill in life, it was an ability to hide all the craziness she carried inside.

She hesitated until he waved her toward a hallway, and then she stepped back while he opened the first door, glass-paned to allow passersby to look in.

“Please, have a seat,” he said.

She took the first chair, the closest to the door. It also offered the advantage that nobody going by could see her face.

He circled the table and sat across from her, then did nothing but look at her for long enough to have her fidgeting. Finally, he gave his head a faint, incredulous shake.

“I assume you’re here because you saw the picture,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Just out of curiosity, where did you come across it? Were you searching for information about your background?”

“No,” Bailey said flatly. “A total stranger thought she knew me, then remembered a story she’d seen online about this little girl who was abducted. She said someone had come up with a picture of what that little girl would look like now, and I was right on.”

He winced.

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve read or heard that these past several months. Except usually they say we got the nose or the chin or the eyes wrong.” The shock in his eyes was back. “We didn’t.”

Much as she’d like to, she couldn’t deny that.

“So, you went online to see if this total stranger was right,” he prompted.

“I did.”

“And made the decision to come to Stimson.”

“Actually,” she said coolly, “that was a month ago. In fact, I made the decision to pretend I’d never seen it. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had any interest in finding out where I came from.”

Instead of appearing shocked or disapproving, he studied her with interest. “You didn’t believe anyone out there cared.”

“No, I didn’t.” Her usual breezy persona was failing her. She was coming across as hard. No, brittle. Probably unlikable.
Yeah, so what? I am unlikable.
“Let’s be honest, Detective. Even if you run a DNA test and it’s a match to Hope Lawson, I am not her.” She leaned forward, her gaze boring into his, her voice rising despite herself. “Do you understand? I can’t
be
her. I don’t intend even to try.”

He raised dark eyebrows. “And yet you’re here.”

And there was the conundrum.

“I suppose, in the end, curiosity got to me. Also...” She frowned. This was the part she didn’t understand. She thought of herself as utterly self-centered. Life hadn’t taught her to be anything else.

“Also?” he prodded, that deep voice now easygoing, undemanding. He was going out of his way not to put pressure on her, because he’d read her with unerring accuracy.

“I suppose I thought it might mean something to these people. I mean, if they’re still searching for—” Oops. She’d almost said
me
. “Hope,” she substituted.

“Never knowing what happened to someone you love is incredibly hard.” That sounded personal, as if he had lost a loved one. “Worse than seeing her murdered. Worse than burying her. Actually seeing you, knowing you are alive and well, will mean everything to the Lawsons.”

“You’re assuming I
am
Hope.” She made it a challenge.

“We’ll definitely run a DNA test, if you’re willing.” He waited for her nod. “Unfortunately, dental records won’t be helpful. At the time of your disappearance, you were only beginning to get your first adult teeth. However, Hope did have a birthmark.”

Bailey flinched. She hadn’t seen mention of that.

“It’s a small detail held back after your disappearance. DNA matching was then in its infancy.”

She nodded. He waited. Finally she sighed. “I have one on my left hip. It’s...sort of heart shaped.”

“May I see it?”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

He was right. She certainly wasn’t a shrinking virgin. After a moment, she stood, went around the table, unbuttoned and unzipped her chinos, and pushed them down enough to reveal the waistband of her panties—and the tiny, dark heart that always intrigued guys and disturbed her. She used to wonder if it was a brand
he
had put on her.

Detective Chandler looked for a moment that stretched and had her heart beating hard and fast. His expression never changed—but she also wasn’t surprised to see that his pupils had dilated when he finally lifted his head. They stared at each other, and she thought,
Don’t let him want me.
Because she was tempted? No, no, no. Because it would be incredibly unrewarding for him. Men...well, she didn’t do men. Not anymore.

She fumbled hastily to fasten her chinos. When she looked at him again, his crooked smile sent a jolt through her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hope Lawson,” he said.

“Just...don’t call me that.”

“All right.” There was that astonishing gentleness again. “Bailey it is. Unless you prefer Ms. Smith?”

“Either is fine.” She retreated to her side of the table. “Thank you, Detective.”

“If you’re going to be Bailey, I’ll be Seth.”

The flutter in her belly wouldn’t let her respond to that.
We’re not friends
, she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to alienate him, either. This desire to cling to him was completely unfamiliar to her.

“Can you tell me what you remember?” he asked.

She had known he would ask but had hoped for a reprieve. Still, maybe it was better to get this over with.

“If you mean about this town or the Lawsons or...” She stopped. “Nothing. I think
he
punished me if I asked questions or said anything about...about home. So I forgot. He made me call him Daddy.”

Seth Chandler’s face hardened. “He’s the one who snatched you.”

“I think so.” She’d blocked out so much. “He might have gotten me from someone else. I’m not positive.”

“But he kept you, this man.”

“For a while. I don’t know how old I was for sure, but I think about eleven when he ditched me.”

“Ditched you?”

“We moved a lot.” She did remember that. “Stayed in crummy places. Sometimes he’d get an apartment, sometimes it was those motels that rent rooms by the week. You know.”

He nodded. She saw that much, although she could no longer meet his eyes. The police and then social workers had dragged some of this out of her back then, but she hadn’t told them everything, out of fear or loyalty, she didn’t know which.

“It was a really scuzzy motel that time. In, um, Bakersfield. California,” she added, in case he didn’t know. “It was night. He said he was going out. He did that a lot.” And she’d been relieved. Maybe he wouldn’t wake her up when he came in. “Only this time, he never came back. When he wasn’t there in the morning, I realized he had taken my stuff into the room but not his. He meant to leave me.”

A shudder passed through Seth—no, Detective Chandler. His hand that rested on the table knotted into a fist so tight, his knuckles showed white. Bailey eyed that fist, knowing it should frighten her and wondering why it didn’t.

What was truly remarkable, considering the rage vibrating in him, was the kindness in his voice. “What did you do?”

“I waited. I don’t know, two or three days, I think. If he came back and I was gone, he’d have been furious. I sneaked out a few times and stole some food. There was a Burger King a couple of blocks away. If you sort of lurk in a place like that, people throw food away, or they just leave it on the table. Eventually, the motel manager let himself into the room because
he
hadn’t paid. That’s when the police came.”

“Did they try to find out who you were?”

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I said he was my daddy, and I think they believed that. I know they looked for him, but he was gone. So I went into foster care.” She shrugged. Habit. A way of saying,
No biggie, that’s the way it was.

“Why do you think he left you then?”

She looked down at her hands. “I think because my body was changing. He didn’t like that.”

“He used you sexually.” Detective Chandler sounded almost calm.

Bailey flashed a dark, scathing look at him. “What do you think?”

He closed his eyes. Tendons stood out in his neck and a nerve pulsed in his jaw. She waited while he fought for control.

Finally he looked at her with eyes that were almost black. “I’d like to get my hands on him.”

Surprised, she said, “That was a very long time ago. You didn’t know me.”

“I feel like I did. I’ve immersed myself in your life. In that day. What everyone did, said, thought. The child you were is very real to me.”

“I’m glad she is to one of us,” Bailey joked.

His eyes narrowed a flicker, as if she’d startled or even shocked him.

“That girl is a complete stranger to me,” she explained. “It’s why I wasn’t sure I wanted to make this pilgrimage.” Her word choice caught her by surprise. Was that how she saw this?

“I understand, although it’s going to be hard on the Lawsons.”

“I can’t help that.”

He nodded. “Are you ready to meet them?”

She had a feeling he’d been about to say “your parents,” and appreciated the fact that he didn’t.
Parents...
Well, there was an unreal concept.

Hoping her panic wasn’t visible, she asked, “Would they be home at this time of day?”

He glanced at his watch. “I don’t know, but we can find out.”

Bailey almost begged him to give her time.
Maybe this evening
, she could say. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow sounded even better. But she guessed he wouldn’t let her out of his sight if he could help it. He suspected her of wanting to bolt, she knew.

And, oh, he had no idea how much she did want to.

“You’re so sure?”

His eyebrows rose again. “That you’re Hope? Yeah, I am. They had a photo of you naked in one of those little kid pools. You were maybe two. Investigators had it blown up because the birthmark was visible.”

After a moment, she nodded.

“I’ll remind the Lawsons that DNA confirmation is still a good idea, but that could take weeks. It would be cruel to leave them in the dark. They’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time.”

She nodded, wringing her hands beneath the table where he couldn’t see. “First, will you tell me something about them?”

“Of course I will. I’m sorry. I should have thought of that. Kirk owns an auto body shop and tow truck. He’s a quiet man. I don’t know how much of that has to do with what happened to you, or if he always was. Your mother—Karen—was a schoolteacher. She quit to devote herself full-time to hunting for you. Eventually, she started working part-time, but out of the home. She couldn’t work with children, she said. She does machine-quilting.”

Bailey blinked. “That’s a big cut in pay.”

“I get the impression she stays as busy as she wants to.” He hesitated. “Three years after your abduction, they took in a foster daughter and eventually adopted her. Eve is a year younger than you, I believe.”

So they’d tried to replace her. Bailey wondered how that had worked. If she remembered them, she might be hurt, but as it was, nothing he’d said yet had triggered even the smallest of memories.

“It turns out I’m a little younger than I thought I was.” She made a face. “We guessed I was at least twelve when he left me. Because of the way I was developing.”

His gaze flicked to her irritatingly overabundant breasts.