Page 109 of What She Saw
“Body snatchers took her yesterday. I’m a simulation.”
He regarded me. “Good to know.”
His scrutiny was unsettling. He saw something in me. I had no idea what, and I wasn’t comfortable with it.
I shifted my focus back to the images of Susan and Tristan. Family genetics were powerful—Patty and I were living examples—but something about these two women set off red flags. My head was starting to pound. I needed a quiet place to process.
“Call me as soon as you have results,” I said.
“Will do.”
“See you soon.”
“Where are you going?”
I tossed fifteen bucks on the table. “DC.”
He grabbed my wrist. “Wait.”
It wasn’t an unbreakable grip. It was a suggestion.Take a pause.A comma in a sentence. So, I waited.
Chapter Thirty-Three
CJ Taggart
Monday, May 30, 1994, 10:00 a.m.
10 Days After
Following the press conference, the office was inundated with calls. Taggart recruited a half dozen volunteers to operate the phones so Brenda could do her job as a dispatcher. The office received at least thirty calls a day. A good portion were either crackpots, attention seekers, or the lonely. He’d known when he held the press conference the flood gates would open. But in the chaos, he had the chance for a lead that would help him find these women.
A knock on his door caused him to look up from his case notes. Brenda stood in his doorway. “I have another guy ready to file a missing person report.”
There had been four additional missing person reports in the last twenty-four hours. Paxton had interviewed all the family members and located the four additional missing women. In each case, there’d been no foul play. Finding these women gave him hope the others would appear.
“Who do we have?” Taggart asked.
“His name is Brian Fletcher. He said his daughter Tristan was at the concert, and he’s not seen her since the festival.”
Taggart pulled in a slow, steady breath. “Okay. Show him in.” He rose and straightened his tie. The man who appeared at his door was tall, lean, and fit. He had thick brown hair and faint lines feathering from his eyes.
Taggart came around his desk and extended his hand. Fletcher’s grip was firm, but his gaze darted down and then back up. Fletcher looked like the kind of guy who didn’t like to make waves.
“Mr. Fletcher? You’re here about your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Have a seat, and I can get the details from you.” He motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk. Both men sat. “Do you have a picture of your daughter?”
“I do.” His hand shook as he removed a photograph from his front coat pocket.
Taggart studied the image. This girl had a sweet smile and bright, expressive eyes. The Tristan he’d seen at the festival was seductive and edgy. “I remember Tristan from the concert. She’s a dancer.”
“That’s right. She’s a great kid. Loves to dance. Loves music.”
His impression of her had not been as positive. “And she went to the music festival?”
“I think now that she did.”
