Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

“Then, they’re human, and their daughter may be lying in the morgue. Trust me, they’ll want to speak with us.”

Twenty-Six

By the time Amanda and Trent had briefed Malone and made it to Washington, it was nearing eleven in the morning. They arrived at the Fosters’ house, which was regal and spoke of money. Hired help answered the door and saw Amanda and Trent to a parlor. High ceilings, large windows, and wainscoting accentuated the space, and the morning sun drenched the room with light and warmth.

“Mrs. Foster will be with you shortly,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” Amanda told her.

The woman left, but neither Amanda nor Trent sat down on the high-end furniture that looked like it should be observed rather than used. Crystal wouldn’t have lacked for anything financially, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t neglected in other ways. Amanda couldn’t brush aside Doe’s childhood broken bones and that they could mean possible abuse. But was Jane Doe Crystal Foster?

“Detectives?” A blond woman with blue eyes, dressed meticulously in a white silk crepe pantsuit, entered the room.

Amanda bridged the gap. “I’m Detective Amanda Steele.”

“Yes, and you?” The woman looked past her to Trent, who stepped forward, holding out a hand to accompany his introduction.

The woman disregarded his proffered hand and crossed her arms loosely. “I am Leila Foster, though I’m sure you know that. Henry should be joining us shortly.” Leila lowered herself gracefully into a rose-patterned wingback chair. She sat with her legs tight together and clasped her hands in her lap. “Please. Sit.”

Amanda and Trent did as she asked.

“On the phone you said you may have news about Crystal.” Leila tilted out her chin.

Trent had convinced Amanda to call ahead on their way there.

“We believe—” Amanda was interrupted by a tuneful chime that started playing throughout the house.

“Never mind that,” Leila said. “It’s just the doorbell, and Tonya will get it. Henry’s likely here now. Please continue.”

It would seem the couple lived separately. “Let’s just wait a minute for him.” She smiled politely at Mrs. Foster and got the feeling she wasn’t used to being told what to do.

The woman pursed her lips and stared blankly across the room.

“Mr. Foster to see you,” Tonya announced at the entrance to the parlor.

At her side was a forty-something man dressed in suit and tie—both of which probably cost more than Amanda’s car—with gray hair and brown eyes.

“Hello,” he said to those in the room and settled his gaze on his wife.

Her eyes were ablaze, and it was obvious that the couple was in a rough patch—may have been for a while.

Henry sat down in a chair farthest from his wife. “When Leila called, she said you’d found Crystal?”

Amanda hadn’t exactly said that. Instead she’d kept things very vague and simply said she wanted to speak with them about their daughter. “Too soon to know yet, but we have questions we’d like to ask.” She paused there to take in the Fosters’ reactions. Leila was stoic, but Henry’s eyes were watery.

He cleared his throat. “What unit are you with?”

“Homicide.”

Leila gasped slightly and paled.

Henry gulped. “Then you believe she was, uh, murdered?”

“Let’s not jump ahead quite yet.” She smiled kindly at him. People like Henry always made her uncomfortable with how they wanted bad news delivered without delay, as if that would somehow make it easier to absorb. It was a “get it done and out of the way” mentality. But it was usually those people who had the hardest time processing loss. Amanda should know; she was one of those people. “I have a photo I’d like to show you. Now, please keep in mind that this girl was estimated to be sixteen. We understand that your daughter went missing three years ago, so if it is her, you may notice some differences.” Amanda pulled up the picture on her phone and did the rounds, holding the screen for each in turn. “Does that look like your daughter?”

Henry was biting his bottom lip while Leila’s expression lacked emotion, like she’d barricaded herself behind a wall to avoid feeling anything.

“It could be.” Henry looked at his wife, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Leila,” he prompted.