Baltimore 03 - Did You Miss Me? Page 6

Joseph was reluctantly impressed. Maynard was taking care of Daphne. That was good, right? Yeah, he thought glumly. Right. Then he shoved his mind back on track. Hunt Valley was a half hour northwest of her house. ‘Would Ford go to the farm?’

  ‘Probably not. Especially without a car. Did you check his dorm?’

  ‘Roommate says he never came back last night,’ Joseph said. ‘I need you to text all of Daphne’s addresses to my boss.’ He dialed Bo on his cell. ‘It’s Joseph. We need uniforms at the kids’ dorms and all of Miss Montgomery’s properties. Her security manager is texting you with the addresses. I want to preserve any evidence while we sort through all this.’

  ‘So it’s what you thought?’ Bo asked. ‘Abduction?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, December 3, 10.45 A.M.

  Daphne gripped the sides of the sink in the ladies’ room, grateful that it was deserted – at least she’d have a little privacy to clean up after losing what little she’d eaten for breakfast. And possibly last night’s dinner.

  She rinsed her mouth with a grimace. I’d kill for a toothbrush right about now. She shook some Tic-Tacs into her mouth, the minty burn making her feel human again.

  The adrenaline crash had hit five feet from the washroom door with violent trembling and nausea. She was still trembling, but the heaving had passed.

  She’d gotten accustomed to controlling her nausea during chemo using both medication and meditation, but this episode had caught her by surprise. There’d been no time to prepare. No time to get her zen going. Just . . . bleh.

  I look a fright. Her wig had stayed in place during her tussle with Cindy, but the post-fight worship of the porcelain goddess had knocked it askew. The sleek blond French twist was sliding halfway down her forehead, her real hair a tangled mess that defied every attempt to crimp, curl, or straighten it into submission.

  Seven years since chemo and her hair was still not smooth and silky like it had been before. It had been so lush and gorgeous – and stylable – once. It probably never would be again.

  Don’t worry! everyone had told her when it had all fallen out. It’ll grow back! And it had, which was the problem. At the beginning, the new growth made her a walking ad for salon perms – Just say no to home perms or this could be you! Over time the curls had become less coarse, but her hair wasn’t the same.

  Looking at herself in the mirror no longer brought tears to her eyes, but her hair was still an ongoing source of annoyance. She never knew which way the waves would choose to go. Taming it into anything remotely court appropriate would sap precious minutes from her morning routine. The wigs that had been a necessity during chemo had now become a time-saving, sanity-saving convenience.

  And a shield of sorts. She liked being able to choose which Daphne the world got to see. She liked being in control, having had so little of it in years past. She depended on appearing put-together and confident on the outside, even if on the inside she still fought panic attacks.

  They were a lot less frequent than they’d once been, but she never knew when one would hit. Sometimes they were triggered by one of those ubiquitous pink ribbons, a stark reminder that her cancer could sneak back. Every now and then an underground parking garage sent her into a mental spin, flinging her back into her fear of confined spaces and childhood terrors.

  When panic attacks took root, she relied on the façade, hiding behind it while she wrestled with her fears. The façade normally held firm.

  Unless she heard The Phrase. The four little words uttered in a mocking singsong still had the capability of reducing her to rubble inside, so absolutely that the outside façade crumbled, too. She’d trained her mind to block it if she heard someone start to say it. Did you—

  Stop. She frowned at herself in the mirror, yanking her mind back to safe ground. Fix your hair, Daphne. Repair the façade. It was a crutch, she knew. But fixing the façade kept her grounded and didn’t hurt anyone, so it was a crutch she embraced.

  She repositioned the wig, fixing it firmly into place. Then she pulled her real hair into the wig’s hairline, combing it until real blended with fake, the colors a perfect match. Nobody could tell she wore a wig except for hairdressers with a very good eye.

  Or bitches who tried to grab the wig off her head. She scowled. If Cindy Millhouse had touched her hair, she’d have been a dead woman. Guaranteed.

  With some measure of control returned, Daphne reapplied her makeup, cursing the TV cameras that caught every blemish. Briefly she considered escape through the back door of the justice building, but that would be letting Cindy win.

  She twisted the top off her mascara. Not today, baby. Except her hands still trembled, jerking when her cell phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She gave up on the mascara, checking her phone with a frown. She had a million voicemails.

  Reporters. She’d given up changing her phone number. It never seemed to even slow them down. Ignoring the voicemails, she checked her texts and smiled. One from Ford, sent while she’d waited for the jury. Good luck, Mom! He was such a good kid.

  She steadied her hands enough to type. Thx. Call me later. Love u.

  There were many texts from Paige. The first three were notes from yesterday’s meeting with the contractor they’d hired for their foundation’s newest project – the rehab of an abandoned school into a facility that would serve twenty single mothers undergoing chemotherapy. It had been one of Daphne’s dreams for years, ever since she herself had faced the big C as a newly divorced woman with a twelve-year-old son.

  Daphne’s mother had taken care of her and Ford, but the single moms who had no support system weren’t as lucky. Back then she’d vowed that someday she’d change that. With the help of Paige and a lot of other people, that someday had become today.

  Paige’s other messages were increasingly more urgent. She’d seen the news and heard about the courtroom drama. No one was releasing information and she hadn’t been able to reach Grayson. Poor kid, Daphne thought. She must be frantic.

  Grayson and I are fine, she typed. I’ll have him phone you asap.

  Unsurprisingly, there were a whole slew of messages from her mother, most of them in the last ten minutes. Daphne knew her mother – she’d have had the TV on in the shop and all of her customers would be watching.

  Working in a dress shop had been her mother’s dream when Daphne had been small and her mother had also been a single mom, cleaning hotel rooms for a living. Now her mother owned her own shop and it was her pride and joy.

  Both she and her mother had come a long way from the hills of West Virginia. Being a prosecutor had been Daphne’s goal since she was old enough to understand what ‘justice’ really meant. And what happened to victims when justice was denied.

  Think about that, Daphne. About the good you were able to do. Smell those roses. Today she’d felt the thrill of delivering justice. And it felt powerful. I feel powerful.

  Daphne dialed her mother’s number, knowing her mother would need to hear her voice, just like she needed to hear Ford’s. I’ll call him next.

  ‘Mama, it’s me,’ she said when her mother answered. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Daphne! I was so worried.’

  Daphne frowned. ‘Are you crying, Mama?’

  ‘’Course I’m not,’ her mother declared with an indignant huff.

  Of course she had been. But Simone Montgomery would never admit to tears, even on the rare occasions that she shed them in front of people. Especially on those occasions. ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Daphne said apologetically. ‘How silly of me.’

  ‘The news said someone got stabbed.’ This came from Maggie, her mama’s best friend. And my mentor, teacher, confidante. Savior. ‘Are you hurt, too?’

  ‘I’m all right, Maggie. I’m just a little rattled, but I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly, then her voice softened. ‘Should I leave the barn light on for you?’

  Daphne
let her mind drift until she could hear soft whinnies and smell sweet hay. When she was a little girl in West Virginia, when she was most upset, she went to the barn to brush Maggie’s horses, whispering her darkest secrets and deepest fears in their ears. They always listened and never told a soul. They never criticized or terrorized. She’d worked through many a panic attack by brushing a horse.

  When she’d gotten sick, her mother had moved to Baltimore to take care of her. Maggie had soon followed, bringing her horses. Now Maggie had a new barn not far from Daphne’s house and Daphne got out there as often as she could. She didn’t always ride, but she always brushed the horses.

  It hadn’t always been easy to get away to the quiet of the barn over the years, so she’d learned to go there in her mind. It was her own version of meditation and it had worked in hospital rooms, law school classrooms, and most recently at her desk in the SA’s office as her schedule became fuller and tighter.

  It was working now, her rocketing pulse having slowed to almost normal. Today she’d go to the barn in person. I’ve earned the respite.

  ‘It may be late, Maggie,’ Daphne said, ‘but I’ll be by.’

  ‘Good. Reese tolerates me riding her, but she’s been watching for you.’

  Reese was Daphne’s horse, a mare she and Maggie had rescued several years before. Healthy now, Reese loved a quiet trail ride. ‘Now that this case is finally over, I’ll have more time for her.’ And for myself. Daphne needed to store up some quality time before the next big case fell in her lap and her schedule became hectic once again.

  ‘We saw the verdict on the news,’ her mother said. ‘We’re all very proud of you.’ Her mother’s voice cracked slightly, her emotion making Daphne’s eyes sting in turn.

  ‘Thank you, Mama. Look, I have to finish putting my face on for the cameras and y’all are going to make me smear my mascara so I have to go. Love you. Bye.’

  She dropped the phone into her purse and reached for the mascara, tranquility restored. She’d brushed on the first coat when the washroom door creaked loudly.

  ‘Daphne?’ a male voice whispered loudly.

  Her cheeks flamed. ‘Grayson? Tell me you are not in this ladies’ room.’

  ‘Okay, I’m not. Not all the way, anyway. One foot’s still in the hall. I wanted to be sure that you’re all right.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asked.

  ‘Um, all the heaving?’ he asked and she closed her eyes.

  ‘You heard that?’

  ‘Kind of hard not to.’

  ‘God,’ she groaned. ‘This day just keeps sucking worse and worse.’

  ‘If it makes you feel better, no one else heard. This floor’s been evacuated.’

  It did help, a little. ‘I was wondering why I was all alone in here. I’m almost done.’ She slapped on lipstick and exited in the most dignified manner possible, under the circumstances. Grayson was holding her coat.

  ‘I figured you’d want to cover up Welch’s blood on your blouse,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Daphne shrugged into her coat. ‘Paige texted me. You need to call her.’

  He showed her his phone, the screen splintered. ‘Cindy’s boot. Phone’s dead. I called Paige from one of the offices. And I called my mother, too, so don’t nag me.’

  Daphne often nagged him about calling his mama, because she empathized with the woman. She checked her phone, frowning. ‘Ford hasn’t tried to call me.’

  ‘I’ll return the favor and nag him for you.’

  ‘Nah, you don’t have to do that. He’s a pretty good kid.’ Even though he got all absent-minded-professorish when he got involved in a project. ‘He’s probably gotten sucked into one of his experiments in the lab and lost track of time.’ She dialed Ford’s number, got his voicemail, and left him a message to call her when he got the chance.

  Grayson pushed the button for the elevator. ‘It better be one hell of an experiment not to call you after something like this hits the news.’

  ‘He’ll call. He always does. Eventually,’ she added with a wistful smile.

  ‘My mother wouldn’t be so magnanimous,’ Grayson said.

  Actually, Daphne was thrilled that Ford got so preoccupied with his studies and experiments these days because there had been a lot of years when he hadn’t allowed himself to. Days when she’d needed him to run errands, or make dinner, or pay the bills when she’d been too sick to write a check.

  He’d had to grow up far too quickly, which was exactly what she hadn’t wanted for him. She’d wanted him to be a child, to be secure and to feel safe. She’d wanted him to have a mother and a father. She vaguely remembered what that was like. Her father had left them when she was eight, but the years before that had been happy ones.

  After she was eight . . . not so happy. Her father had left them without saying goodbye. Not that she could blame him. He’d been ruined. Maligned. I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry. Wherever you are. She lifted her chin, rewinding her story to the part she could stand to remember. But before she’d been eight . . . We were happy.

  Daphne wanted that remembered stability for her son, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Her ex-husband had wealth and privilege, breeding and education. But Travis Elkhart was a selfish, cold man who’d given nothing of himself to his only son.

  Or to me. Pregnant at fifteen after a bewildering one night stand, Daphne had found herself in possession of something very valuable – the next Elkhart heir.

  And then she’d found herself the possession of the Elkharts. From the moment Travis’s mother had learned of her pregnancy, Daphne had been absorbed into their world, whether she’d wanted to be or not.

  From that day forward, Daphne had been keenly aware that she had very little control over her own life. Travis’s mother called the shots, forcing her son to marry a ‘provincial’ he didn’t love, then molding that provincial into someone who would bring no shame to the Elkhart name.

  Daphne had also been keenly aware that she wasn’t part of their world. She was an outsider looking in, merely tethered to the Elkhart family through Ford. She had not complained. How could she? She got an education, had her own room. Food, clothes.

  She had everything, but no one to call her own, except her son. She’d made a few friends on the estate and she still had her mama and Maggie, but they’d been back in West Virginia. They might as well have been on the moon.

  Daphne hadn’t been a prisoner, per se. She had been free to leave the Elkhart estate – with her mother-in-law’s permission and if accompanied by a bodyguard. Which was Elkhart-ese for a chaperone. She could leave on her own terms anytime she chose – but only if she left Ford behind. That was something she would not do.

  So she’d stuck it out for twelve years. Flanked by a cheating husband and a despotic mother-in-law, Daphne had been lonely every day of her marriage. If it hadn’t been for Ford, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done. Taking care of him, watching him grow, had made each day worth waking up to.

  Now he was a man nearly grown. He doesn’t need his mama anymore. And as thrilled as I am that he’s becoming independent, I’m as alone as I’ve ever been, with no prospects in sight.

  Prospects. Her mind seemed to go there often these days and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Her nest was empty and the years ahead were looming even emptier. The nights were starkly silent, the murmur of the television and the bark of her dog the only things separating her home from a tomb.

  But days were worse. Working with Grayson meant overhearing the phone calls with the woman he loved, the I-love-yous and the Bring-home-a-carton-of-milks. The phrases that, quilted together, made a life.

  A beautiful life. The kind of life she’d always wanted.

  I envy Paige. Daphne didn’t begrudge her friend an ounce of happiness, but seeing the joy in Paige’s dark eyes every time she spoke Grayson’s name . . . It shines a spotlight on my table for one.

  It wasn’t like she had no options at all. She’d had a numb
er of offers – most for no-string flings. Not interested. She wanted a man who could go the distance. A keeper. She wanted for richer and poorer. In sickness and in health. Dream on.

  Since her divorce, there had been a few men along the way who’d wanted the same. Nice guys. But there was no . . . spark. I want spark. I deserve some spark.

  She’d thought she found some spark, months ago. He’d made her eyes widen and her heart race. Still did, every time she’d seen him since. Which, as fate would have it, had become frequently. The brother of her boss and the future brother-in-law of her best friend, he’d become damn near unavoidable.

  At first she’d considered this a boon. She’d see him at fundraising events, the sight of him in a tux – all tall, dark, and dangerous – taking her breath away. In the past three months he’d become a regular at Paige’s karate school, watching his youngest sister, Holly, with a pride that had her eyes misting. Daphne would notice him. Always.

  But he never seemed to notice her. I guess he doesn’t find me as compelling as I find him. Because every time she ran into him at the karate school, he kept his distance. Like I’ve got the damn plague.

  Although it was far more likely that he found her too brash. Provincial. That was the word her ex-husband had used – often and with a sneer. She’d learned early in her marriage that ‘provincial’ was just an upper-crust way of saying ‘white trash’.

  She’d found as the years passed that no amount of polish could make her a true Elkhart, with their Mayflower pedigree and their refined manners. She’d go to her grave a ‘provincial’. So when the marriage was over, she’d embraced her provinciality.

  I’m me again. Love me or leave me. Beehive hair, bold colors, and a sassy twang had become her trademarks. She softened her image a bit when it came to court, but inside . . . I’m me and I’m not changing. Even for a man who set her heart pumping like a bat out of hell. Especially for him. Love me or leave me. Just the way that I am.

  She’d expected more of Joseph Carter. His family was lovely – giving, open and friendly. Down-to-earth, despite their wealth. And he was, too – with them. With me . . . well, there isn’t anything to comment on there. He ignored her. Like I don’t exist.