The Girl Who Disappeared Twice (Forensic Instincts 1)

It was this kind of crap that made Marc glad he wasn’t the heavy-relationship type.

The second-floor staircase was deserted, and Marc emerged without a hitch. The hall was a different story. There were three lawyers standing outside their offices, discussing a litigation case. Marc moved slowly past them, noting the numbers on the doors. Good. Sherman’s office was around the bend. As long as the attorneys stayed where they were and Marc didn’t run into anyone else, he’d be able to do his job without a problem.

Almost home free.

“He just left for lunch.”

Marc heard Ryan’s voice in his ear as he rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Dr. Sherman.

“No shit,” Marc muttered under his breath. Aloud, he murmured a heavily accented, “Excuse me,” keeping his head low. Ryan almost lost it and cracked up laughing, as he heard Sherman call Marc a clumsy idiot, before tromping off.

Marc spied Sherman’s office, his name on the door in big letters. Reflexively, he gave a quick scan of the hall. Empty.

Satisfied, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then, he extracted his flathead screwdriver and file, carefully inserting them in the lock and feeling his way, listening until he heard the telltale click. He pushed open the door and tucked away his tools. Dragging the maintenance cart in behind him, he yanked the door shut, walking through the reception area and into the main office behind it.

“What took you so long?” Ryan inquired through the air duct.

Marc arched a brow. “Nice warning. Timely, too. I almost flattened the shrink. What happened to not drawing attention to myself?”

“Sorry. Let’s get to it. Sherman takes short lunch breaks. That gives us maybe thirty minutes tops.” Ryan fell silent for a moment. “I think I see a file room in the back.”

“Yup, you do. And fortunately there’s no lock on the door.” Marc picked up the pace, striding across the floor and shoving open the door. “Are you in here?” he asked Ryan.

“Sure am. There’s an air-conditioning vent to your left. Gecko followed you in.” A low whistle. “I knew Sherman was a pack rat, but this lends new meaning to the phrase. There are file cabinets everywhere.”

“Lucky me.” One by one, Marc scanned the labels on the cabinets, which listed the files inside by date. “These only go back twenty-five years. Shit. Where are the rest?” He scrutinized the room.

There were loose stacks of files in the far corner.

“Let me try those,” he said to Ryan, pointing.

“Good idea.” Ryan waited while Marc squatted down and began rummaging through the files. He was careful to keep them in the same order he’d found them.

“These are the oldies but goodies,” Marc muttered, going back thirty, then thirty-plus years. “Bingo.” He stopped when he saw the name: Turner, Linda. “I got it,” he told Ryan.

“Great. The copying machine’s in the reception area. I’m moving Gecko to the main corridor outside the office. He’ll watch the door and the hallway.”

Marc headed right for the reception room and the copying machine, which was in plain view. He turned it on, and it whirred to life. Opening Linda’s file, he took out the stack of handwritten pages, and fed them into the machine.

It took about fifteen minutes to complete the job, and three minutes to return the reassembled file to its pile in the back room.

Leaving the office, Marc shut and locked the door behind him. He looked up at the vent and snapped off a salute. “See you back at the van, little guy.”

I’m scared, Mommy. Please come and find me.

It’s been a bunch of days. My cartoons have been reruns five times. I counted. She puts them on for me every day. And then she sits and watches me watch them.

It’s creepy, Mommy. She’s creepy.

I keep crying and crying—not when she’s here, because it makes her act weird and mushy. And that’s scarier than when she watches me play or tries to play with me. I only cry when I’m alone with Oreo and Ruby.

I don’t want to play the stupid computer game she gave me. She said she made it. I don’t care. I want my games back. I want to play them in my room, on my computer. But every time I ask if I can go home, she says I am home. I don’t know what she means. I’m in a pink room. She says it’s my princess room. I’m afraid to tell her that it’s not mine.

She’s wearing your necklace. And she smells like you. I don’t know why. But it makes me want to hide.

Oreo’s fur is all wet. Ruby’s feathers are, too. My crying did that. But they understand because they’re crying, too.

Why does she keep telling me that she’s my mommy? She’s not my mommy. You are. But when I tell her that, she gets mad at me. She says weird stuff. I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid she’ll do something bad. So I don’t say it anymore.