Annie rubbed her eyes. It took her a second to remember that Gardner was Francine’s aunt and uncle’s last name.
“So we staked out the house all night. The cops here are great. They relieved us at midnight. No one came home.”
“Could they be here? On the Vineyard?”
“I have no idea. But Linc’s checking every inn and hotel. We’ll stick around here another day unless we hear something different from him. He said he told you there weren’t any prints on the note. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
They fell into silence, the sounds of their breaths the only things passing between cell towers.
“They still might get something from the cottage.”
Annie might have felt hopeful if John hadn’t used the same words that Linc had texted, as if the pair had agreed on “how to tell Annie.”
“Right,” she replied. “We’ll see.” She could tell that her tone was as flat as John’s had become. Loss of hope, she thought, was an awful thing.
He promised he’d update her as soon as he knew anything. Then they rang off, and Annie sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if there was any way she could cancel her lunch with Taylor. When she decided that there wasn’t, she hauled herself up and wandered to her closet, trying to decide what to wear that day, not that, like everything else, it mattered anymore.
But she was doing okay or, rather, okay enough. Until her phone rang again.
As an innkeeper and a landlord, Annie knew it was important to answer every call. Even when, like this one, caller ID simply read UNKNOWN.
But she couldn’t deal with anything else right then. Later, she could always say she was sorry, that she’d been in the shower, that her battery had died, or something equally lame.
So she decided to ignore it. Until she felt a slight nudge on her arm. Which felt a lot as if it had come from Murphy.
On the third ring, Annie sighed. Then she picked up her phone.
The connection was snowy, reminding Annie of the old TV reception on the island back when she’d been a kid and had vacationed there with her parents. Snowy, crackly. She was about to hang up when she heard a small voice.
“Ammie?”
Her heart stopped, if that’s what hearts did when they went into shock.
“Ammie? Happy Cwistmas.”
A knife shot through her, CPRing her back to life.
“Bella?” Annie quaked. “Bella, honey? Is it you?”
Then the line crackled again. And disconnected.
* * *
Taylor picked her up at eleven thirty. She said she wanted to beat the Christmas-shopping crowd to the restaurant, even though it was a Tuesday. She suggested they eat at the Newes from America—the old, cozy pub that was close to the ferry. She also said she had a couple of gifts left to buy, so she wanted to take the truck off Chappy, maybe drive over to the shops in Oak Bluffs that weren’t yet closed for the season. She didn’t seem to notice that Annie was on the cusp of catatonia, that her only responses were silent nods.
They bumped along the snowy ruts of North Neck Road in Taylor’s old pickup and headed toward theOn Time. “Looks like snow again,” Taylor said.
She was right; the sky was gray, the ceiling low, and overall there was the kind of stillness that foretold an impending storm. At least when it snowed, it wasn’t bitterly cold.
“Let’s hope it isn’t too bad,” Annie forced herself to say. Her mind, however, was fixated on Bella. The little girl had sounded okay. Which told Annie that she was safe. Warm. And dry. Or maybe it had been Annie’s imagination, that she’d wanted—no, needed—to think those things.
She had almost called John.
She had almost texted Linc.
But Annie had been shaken, uncertain about what to do. Had there been a reason the call had come to Annie and not Francine? Or the police? Would Bella be in jeopardy if Annie reported it?
