Annie wished he had expressed that differently.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I talked to Linc. He hopes to hear back today about prints on the note.”
“Good.”
“He said not much else is happening there.”
“Unless you care that I’ve eliminated two suspects from my short list. Rose Atkins and Rex Winsted. It’s a long story, but neither one is involved.”
“I do care about that. And I trust your judgment.”
“Thanks.”
There was a long, Martha’s Vineyard–to-Minnesota pause.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Okay. Fine. Grappling. We had snow yesterday morning, too. Power went out. Volunteers went home.”
He didn’t ask her to elaborate. She could have told him her concerns about Trish, but she, too, was mentally done in. Besides, she intended to investigate Trish on her own, because it might involve a blockbuster can of worms that John didn’t even know about yet. And it might affect Annie’s future if law enforcement showed up in Manhattan and banged on Trish’s door the way he was going to bang on Marty and Bill’s as soon as protocol allowed.
“Are my girls behaving?” he asked.
In truth, Annie knew he meant Abigail, because Lucy was never a problem, not where family was concerned.
“They are,” she said. Suddenly, she felt an urge to say good-bye. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him or wish he were there or that she did not want to marry him. She just did not want to talk about any of this anymore. Not to him, not to anyone. She wanted, she needed, to do something constructive to help find Bella. “I’m so glad you called,” she said, “but I’d better go. Our tenants have been out all morning on snowmobiles, looking for Bella. But you probably know that. I want to have lunch ready for them. Your dad convinced your mother to go back to the house and get some proper sleep.”
He told her he loved her and that he’d keep her posted. Then they rang off, and Annie stood in the kitchen, alone again, wondering what the heck to do next.
What you should do is stop procrastinating, Murphy said.Follow your gut. You know how to do that.
And, suddenly, Annie knew precisely what her old friend meant.
* * *
She hoped that, true to past history, Trish would not pick up her phone but would respond to Annie’s voice mail when she could. Annie had never begrudged her that; she knew that her editor juggled way more projects than Annie’s. Which was why she was startled to hear Trish’s real voice, not her recorded message.
“Annie!” Trish said after less than two rings. “You’re ahead of schedule. I hope this means you’re ready to say yes.”
Oh, God, Annie thought.The dealwas the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Not quite, but I’m getting there,” she replied. “First, I have another question.”
Trish groaned. “Fire away.”
“Okay. Are you in Manhattan?”
The pause wasn’t lengthy, but it was there. Annie knew she’d caught the woman off guard.
“Where else would I be?”
“Right. Well . . .” Her words formed slowly, surprising even her. “I can’t sign any kind of a deal right now. Bella—remember her? The baby who showed up on my doorstep a couple of years ago during a nor’easter? Well, Bella has gone missing. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t make a decision until I’m sure she’s safe. And home again.”
There, she thought. If Trish was involved in any way with Bella’s kidnapping—which, Annie had learned while doing research for one of her novels, was punishable in Massachusetts with up to fifteen years in prison because Bella was under sixteen—she would understand that Annie was serious, and would see to it that the girl was returned posthaste. If she’d moved her across state lines, the punishment might even be greater, but Annie didn’t know about that.
“I’m surprised,” Trish retorted. “I’m sure you know this is the deal of the century. It’s what you’ve been working so hard to achieve for your future. I’m sorry about the little girl, really I am, but I’m not sure the producers will take that into account. There are too many other authors out there these days who don’t let personal issues get in the way of their careers. But you no doubt know that.”
Personal issues? Had she really said that? Annie’s anxiety began to simmer into anger. Intellectually, she knew that Trish was using the best sales pitch she could muster. But Annie’s emotional response didn’t care about that. “Trish,” she said, “I’m sorry if my ‘personal issues’ don’t agree with your agenda. But we’re talking about a little girl. Someone I love very much.”
“But, Annie, darling,” Trish taunted in a lackluster tone, “it’s not as if the child is yours.”
