When she opened her eyes, she was lying collapsed on the sheriff’s damp chest. Both of them were breathing hard. And someone was banging on her door.
“Molly? Molly, is everything all right in there?”
“Oh, no.” Molly lifted her head. “It’s Mrs. Filmore,” she whispered. “She’s in the room downstairs. She must have heard the books fall.”
“I’ll handle her.” John started to get up.
“John, no—you don’t have to say a word to her.”
“I’m not going to say a word to her.” John was already reaching for his shirt. “I’m going to say a lot of words to her.”
“John.” Molly couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of the situation. “Honestly, don’t.”
“As sheriff of this town, it’s my duty to keep the peace, even if that means shutting up noisy neighbors.”
“She’s not a noisy neighbor,” Molly insisted. “She’s a nosy tourist. She was supposed to check out this past weekend but she and her husband extended their stay because she’s so obsessed with the whole abandoned baby thing. She just wants to know what’s going on between us.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Filmore called through the door, “I heard something falling. Do you need help?”
“No, Mrs. Filmore,” Molly said, frantically looking around for her own shirt. “I’m sorry, that was just some books.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Filmore sounded unconvinced. “I thought I heard shouting.”
Meanwhile, John was tugging on his own shirt.
“No, no shouting, Mrs. Filmore,” Molly said, pulling her shirt on over her head, but John was faster. He already had his uniform trousers pulled up and zipped. “Everything’s fine in here. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I’m not worried, exactly.” Mrs. Filmore’s voice was filled with false concern. “It’s just that Fluffy the Cat has been crying to be let in, and you’re usually so—”
John yanked open the door and stood there, his uniform completely buttoned, everything in place except his gun belt, and smiled down at Mrs. Filmore. “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”
John’s body was mostly blocking the doorway—purposefully, so that Mrs. Filmore couldn’t see that Molly was only half-dressed.
But Molly could hear the astonishment in the woman’s voice, even if she couldn’t see it on her face.
“Oh, um, no, Officer,” said Mrs. Filmore breathlessly. “I’m—I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. I was only checking on Molly. I heard, um, a thump, you see, and I thought—”
“Sheriff,” John said.
“I—I’m sorry?”
“You called me Officer. But it’s Sheriff. I’m Sheriff John Hartwell.” He pointed to his badge. “See? I told you that before, downstairs.”
Molly, by that time, had her boxers back on. She hurried to join John at the door.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Filmore,” Molly gushed. “See? Everything is fine. We were just having some pie.”
Mrs. Filmore looked past Molly and the sheriff at the coffee table, which was covered with the empty plates from which they’d had pie earlier. Of course, the floor was also strewn with books, around which Fluffy the Cat was now sauntering. He’d managed to sneak in between their legs when they weren’t looking.
“Oh,” the older woman said. “Well. All right, then. I’m glad everything is okay. I’ll just—”
John’s cell phone began to chime, shrilly. He dug it from his trouser pocket, glanced at the screen, glowered, and said, “I have to answer this. If you ladies could excuse me for a moment—”
Then, his phone pressed to his ear, he stepped out of the room and into the darkness of the hotel’s second-floor balcony to take the call.
But not, unfortunately, far enough away to prevent Molly from hearing every word he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
John
John recognized the number on the screen of his cell and felt a spurt of irritation. Of course Tabitha Brighton’s parents chose this moment, of all times, to call him back.
But he supposed it was better than calling him ten minutes earlier, when his time had been even more pleasantly occupied.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Sheriff John Hartwell.”
“Sheriff?” The voice of the woman on the other end of the line sounded surprised. Surprised and agitated. “I didn’t realize . . . oh, dear. Not again. I’m so sorry, Officer. What’s Tabby done this time?”
He did not correct her use of the wrong title. “Well, that depends. To whom am I speaking?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m her mother, Beth, Beth Brighton. I’m sorry not to have called sooner, but my husband and I—Tabby’s father—we’ve been away, and cell phone service was a bit spotty, and . . . well, you know, we just receive so many complaints about Tabby—”
“What did she do now, Beth?” demanded a voice—male—in the background. “Whatever it is, I’m not paying for it.”
“Oh.” Beth Brighton sounded uncomfortable. “Sorry. That’s my husband, Tom. Like I was saying, Tabby’s been a bit . . . troublesome over the past few years, and we felt like we deserved to get away for a bit, so . . .”
“I see,” John said. “How long has it been since you last saw your daughter?”
“Oh, let me see. A year? I think it’s been a year or so since she ran off.”
“Ran off?”
“Yes. Well, for good this time. She’s done it before, but this time it’s seemed to stick. We had an argument about the SATs—her grades have never been the best, even though she’s a bright girl. Her IQ is at the genius level, according to one child psychiatrist we took her to. We’ve just never seemed to be able to make her understand that grades are important for getting into the right college. All her friends are going to lovely schools this year—Yale, Duke, Baylor. But last spring Tabby refused to sit for the SATs. She said they didn’t measure anything that’s actually important, only rote memorization, which isn’t real knowledge or intelligence—can you imagine?”
Remembering his own conversation with the Brightons’ daughter, John said, “Yes, I can.”
“Well, of course, we panicked. I mean, she’s our only child. What was her future going to look like if she didn’t go to college? How was she going to be financially successful?”
John wanted to point out that he knew quite a few successful people who hadn’t gone to college, and that there were many different ways to measure success other than financially, but instead he said nothing. He’d learned long ago that one of the most valuable tools in law enforcement was the skill of shutting up and listening.
“She’s always been this way, really—stubborn. Did you know she refused to get braces, too? Said she didn’t see why she had to conform to society’s standard of beauty.”
John wished that Katie had felt this way. It would have saved him thousands of dollars in orthodontia bills.
“But with the SATs, we really thought we got through to her,” Tabitha’s mother went on. “We took her to half a dozen life coaches and therapists, and thought she understood. And then the morning of the day of the test, I went to wake her up, and she was just . . . gone. She’d packed all the things she loved best—books, mostly—and disappeared. Without a word.”
“Except for my Platinum American Express card,” John heard Tom Brighton shout in the background. “I get the bill every month. I can see all the ridiculous things she’s been buying!”
“Oh,” Mrs. Brighton said. “Yes. The credit card. It’s in Tom’s name, but only his initial—T. Brighton. So we didn’t cancel it, because we thought it might help Tabby. She can still use it, even if someone asks for ID. The bills we get every month—and of course calls from people like you, in law enforcement—are the only way we know . . . that we know . . .” She sighed. “Well, that she’s all right.”
John said, “I see,” again. It was the only thing he could think to say. Truthfully, he was a little disappointed. Not about the credit card—although it had been missing from Tabitha’s wallet, so he presumed one of the Sunshine Kids had stolen it . . . most likely Beckwith.
No, he was disappointed that Tabitha’s relationship with her parents was so adversarial. That meant they were going to have no idea who the father of her baby was. Though Tabitha herself insisted it was Beckwith, and that Beckwith loved her and the baby, John was beginning to think this was doubtful. Why would Beckwith put his own offspring into a box and then leave her in a library restroom? He couldn’t imagine any father doing this. It was possible Tabitha was so crazy about the guy, she only wished the baby was his.
Then again, Beckwith was the worst. If anyone was going to abandon his own newborn, it would be him.
Why, though, had he abandoned the baby and its mother only to stick around town? In a decent boat, he could have crossed the Gulf and been in Mexico by now.