He doesn’t need to complete the sentence, the reason clear: because it worked for Ella after Blockbuster.
“But she won’t talk with me or anyone else or let the doctors examine her. I hoped you could try before they’re forced to sedate her.”
“I’m not sure I have the—”
“You’re our best hope. And I won’t be able to hold them off for much longer.” Mr. Steadman directs his gaze to the man in the polo and jeans, a detective, she presumes, who undoubtedly is itching to interview the girl. A killer’s on the loose.
“What’s her name?”
“Jessica Duvall, but she goes by Jesse.”
“Where are her parents? Won’t she talk to them?”
“She’s in foster care. I’m not sure why. She’s new to my school, and they don’t give us much information.”
The murmuring from the huddle of cops grows louder. They’re looking at Ella.
She takes a deep breath and steps into the room.
CHAPTER 3
KELLER
Sarah Keller reaches for her phone, which is pinging on the nightstand. Three texts at 5:30 a.m. She’s been lying awake for an hour anyway. Feeling the two sets of feet inside her belly kicking wildly, fallout from the Thai food last night. She spent those sixty minutes listening to Bob snore. Worrying about keeping up with her job and money when the twins arrive. In their five-year marriage, she’s never known Bob to lie awake about anything. Not a worrier, her husband.
She reads the texts from her boss.
Locals need assistance.
Union County.
That’s unusual. The FBI usually doesn’t get involved with local law enforcement unless it’s something big—terrorism, kidnapping, or the like—and Keller’s still a relatively junior agent.
Another text pings. A link to a news story. She feels a flutter in her chest as she reads the details, which are still sketchy. A mass killing at an ice cream store in Linden, three dead. A possible survivor.
She taps out a return text.
Sure, need me there right now?
There’s a long delay as the dots pulse while he types. He likely thumbed out an annoyed response—of course, now—then erased it. A good boss deletes annoyed messages before sending them. And despite his cold, Swiss-banker demeanor, Stan Webb is a good boss.
As she struggles to get her giant, eight-month-pregnant body out of the bed, the text finally arrives.
Yes.
Always an economy of words with Stan. She’ll call him from the car.
After showering—a precarious endeavor of stepping into the tub without crashing to the floor—Keller puts on her maternity suit, one of two that still fits. She smells something coming from the kitchen. She’s not one to buy into old wives’ tales about pregnancy, but her senses really are heightened.
Bob’s out of bed and washing a pan in the sink. On the small kitchen table, he’s set a plate with scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes on a bagel. All month he’s been preparing recipes from a website catering to pregnant women.
“You didn’t have to get up,” she says.
“When Clarice Starling gets a text at five in the morning, I know I’d better cook or my bambinos will only get a PowerBar to keep ’em going.” He pulls back the chair for her to sit.
“I’ve gotta run. Stan needs me to—”
“Ah, ah, ah, when Stan has two humans in his belly he can tell you to hurry up.” Bob sits across from her. He has bags under his eyes and looks ragged.
“What time did you get home last night?” she asks. He’s a soundman at a recording studio, his schedule at the whim of the artists.
“Three or so,” he says. “A rowdy polka band,” he adds, as if that explains the late night. She doesn’t know if he’s kidding. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
“You shouldn’t have gotten up, I can get my own—”
“I almost forgot, I made you something.” He jumps out of his chair and retrieves a thermos from the counter.
“Please, not the pregnancy smoothie you’ve been going on about?”
He raises his eyebrows up and down.
When she finishes the bagel, Bob helps her out of the chair.
“I’m pregnant, not incapacitated, you know.”
Bob doesn’t reply. He kneels so he’s facing her belly. Looking down at his bald head—the dome surrounded by the doughnut of hair that is ironic without him intending it to be—Keller feels a surge of warmth run through her.
“Take care of your mama, little Feebies,” Bob tells her tummy.