Cam almost bobbled the pot. “A few dates here or there but with work . . .”
“No one at work?” Bobby continued to dig, damn him.
“After Aidan and Jamie’s office romance, no.” It technically wasn’t a lie.
Bobby shrugged. “Worked out for them. Jamie looks happy.”
“He is, and I’m happy for him.”
“You deserve to be happy too, Cameron.”
The words and sentiment were so heartfelt, Bobby’s blue eyes so concerned, that Cam could tell this wasn’t the first time Bobby had had this conversation. For some reason, the matter of his love life, or lack thereof, was a family concern worth discussing. “Why’s everyone on my ass and not Keith’s?”
“’Cause he’s nothing but piss and vinegar. You’re more sweet and sour.” Bobby shot him a wink. “We have hope for you.”
Cam chuckled, but it petered out as he thought about his angry little brother. And the hand he’d played in making him that way. “I don’t want Keith to hate me more than he already does.”
“You bring Mom peace, he won’t.”
Cam feared the other possibility more. If he couldn’t solve his sister’s disappearance, all he would’ve brought any of them was more unrest.
Eleven
Jamie’s rainbow-colored file folders had seemed like a good idea when Cam first returned from the hospital. Cases had been color-coded by district, then organized by year and status. Everything else in the hotel suite’s shared living area had been a disaster—soda cans, Kit Kat wrappers, and scribbled-on notepads covered every surface—but the facts he’d needed were at his fingertips. Hours later, sitting on the hotel room floor surrounded by his own all-nighter detritus, the bright folders were more frustrating than anything. A reorganization of facts he’d been through a time or twenty before. Add to that the other loop running in his head, replaying over his talk with Bobby and his call with Nic, and it had all become a headache-inducing blur. Resting back against the couch, he laid his head on the cushions and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was to a rumpled Jamie in team sweats and an FBI tee standing over him. “Did you sleep?”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Your snoring woke me up.”
Cam righted himself and sure enough, it was at least an hour brighter in the room. “Okay, so maybe I slept a little.”
“I think you need to sleep some more.”
Cam waved him off, then waved at the folders. “Thanks for putting some order to this.”
Jamie sat on the couch next to his shoulder. “I see you’ve put more order to them.”
“Gut instinct, basically.” He pointed to the pile on the left. “Possibly related.” Then to the pile on the right. “Not likely related.” Unfortunately, the new names on his mother’s list had all fallen in the not-likely-related column.
“What are the possibly related factors?” Jamie asked.
“Age, description, neighborhood, and other similarities. The same thing that tagged them as related before.”
Jamie dropped onto the floor next to him and drew the possibly related stack closer. “Setting aside the first three, which I get, what other similarities?”
Cam opened the first folder and handed it to Jamie. “Brandi Maynard, abducted on the way home from the library.” He picked up the next two. “Two girls from the same middle school but not Erin’s.” The three after that were the same socioeconomic status as their family, blue-collar working class. The next had left behind a gemstone necklace—not a topaz like Erin’s but a ruby.
Jamie flipped through the folders, then set them aside. His baby blues were skeptical when he looked back over at Cam. “Those are rather disparate.”
“Which is why age and description are the better bet, plus one.” He took the folders back, tossed out two and added three more from the possibly related stack. “Eight disappearances over the past twenty years where the victim is between twelve and fourteen, with dark hair and dark eyes, from large families that are barely scraping by.”
Jamie nodded. “Same as Erin.”
“Eight cold cases spread over two decades. We could never tie them all together. Hell, two had brothers who also went missing.”
“So the girls were deemed runaways too.”
