Page 2 of The Hanging Dolls
She moved away and looked out the window into the gloomy skies. A flock of black birds formed like an arrow flew across. She heard her mother being taken away by the authorities. Something removed itself from her being and went out the door with her mother. But the tears still didn’t come, just a feeling of suffocation like she was breathing through straws.
“Zoe.” She turned around to find the detective solemn and sincere. “I’m sorry. I will find out what happened to your mother.”
“Thank you. But I already know.”
A frown. “What?”
“She was depressed. She killed herself.” Her voice didn’t crack at the lie.
He didn’t answer. But she knew he would buy her theory eventually. Her clear-cut, logical explanation for her mother’s death. This wasn’t a simple case of breaking and entering, with her mother being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was not a homicide. Months from now, the detective would eventually close the file, declaring that Rachel Sullivan did in fact commit suicide.
There were many things he wouldn’t have known.
Like how the window to the fire escape was open and there were water marks on the floor outside the bathroom.
He would never know because before Zoe called 911, she got rid of all evidence that someone else had been in the house. The person who killed her mother.
ONE
NOW
Detective Scott Cohen hadn’t slept a wink in the last four days, and his pulsing headache was only amplified by the seagulls circling overhead, taunting him with their screeching, grating cries.
“Terri?” he said to his sturdy deputy in uniform. “Do you think I could shoot these little devils and get away with it?”
She pulled a face at the gulls as they swooped down to tussle over a piece of seaweed. “I wouldn’t, boss. But aren’t you vegetarian and against hunting?”
“Shush. I have a reputation to maintain.” He fixed his tie. “Spread out the search pattern.”
Terri instructed the rest of the officers as they continued to comb the sandy beach dotted with pebbles. The shoreline was jagged, with rocky outcrops jutting into the restless waves of the Pacific Ocean. Driftwood, bleached and weathered, scattered along the long, uneven expanse in artistic shapes.
Scott sat on driftwood, watching five of his officers disperse in all directions. Hope was a fickle thing. It could shrink to the size of an atom but it would never entirely desert you. As the likelihood of anyone finding anything began to dwindle, so too did Scott’s optimism. He looked up at the heavy blanket of steel-gray clouds, mirroring the gloom blossoming behind his ribs. It wasn’t the best day for a beach day, which was why there was only a small group of high schoolers watching them from a distance, instead of being in school.
Terri returned, shaking her head. “Sorry, boss. There’s nothing here.”
He stood up. “Another anonymous tip leads to nothing. Shocking.”
“We’ll find her.” She swallowed. “How are the parents doing?”
“What do you think?” He sighed. “They were at the station early this morning.”
“I heard the mother was hospitalized.”
He nodded, his shoulders sagging. “She had an anxiety attack and had to be sedated. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.”
Seven-year-old Lily Baker had been missing for four days. Scott knew the statistics. The chances of her being alive were whittling down to zero every passing hour. That dreaded thought had been chewing at his sanity for the last few days.
“Let’s pack up,” he announced, inhaling the briny air. “I have to head to the station and talk to Travis.”
The seagrass along the dunes swayed as he waded his way through to his car. In the distance, he spotted a woman with curly, red hair in a blue dress watching the scene at the beach unfold. When she noticed him watching her, she waved at him. He locked his jaw tight, got in the car and drove away.
Harborwood Police Station was situated at the edge of a dense forest, surrounded by towering evergreens and thick underbrush. The one-story building was clad in weathered,cedar shingles that had taken on a silvery-gray hue over the years, dark green trim around the windows and a rustic wooden sign above the door.
When Scott was a little kid, his father would bring him here late at night. While his father swept the floors, Scott would sit watching the police officers on night shift. He was so fascinated by their uniform and the power they emanated. It was a child’s dream to be this close to real-life police officers. He’d only ever seen them on TV chasing the bad guys, and he loved the unexpected rush of adrenaline he experienced as he watched them hunt down murderers and get involved in high-speed car chases.
Upon entering the station, Scott ignored the few people sitting in the waiting area. He avoided everyone. There were too many eyes on him, being the lead investigator on the Lily Baker case. The prodding, piercing gazes had burned enough holes through him. They were loaded with accusing questions—Why hasn’t he found her yet? Isn’t he looking hard enough?
He was heading to the chief’s office past the cubicles when he stopped at the bulletin board next to the television. Flyers were stapled all over it—the usual missing pets and the unusual case of a missing child. Lily Baker had long brown hair, parted in the middle, almond-shaped hazel eyes, and slightly crooked tiny teeth. In the photo, she smiled like she was up to no good.
