Cold Death Mary Stone (most read books TXT) 📖

he knew to hold his excitement in check. “Any idea when that was?”

A slow shake of his head. “No, afraid not. A couple months ago? Maybe longer?”

Clay thanked the man with a smile and moved on. Every soup kitchen so far had resulted in similar stories. At each location, a handful of people recognized Caraleigh, or at least claimed to, but none of them could recall when.

As upsetting as the response was, Clay tamped down his frustration. Being houseless led to a transient lifestyle, where people were forced to move around a lot based on external factors beyond their control, including weather, food access, police activity, changing safety, and so on. Clay could hardly blame them.

Once he finished with the people in line, he meandered through the tables. A couple of people agreed that she looked familiar, but nobody remembered when they’d spotted her.

His feet were dragging by the time he reached the wizened old lady with hair so thin her scalp showed through. A dowager’s hump rose between her frail shoulders. She pursed her lips as she studied the sketch. “Why, yes, I do recall seeing her. Hard to forget a face as pretty as that.”

Clay refused to let himself get excited. “Do you remember when you last saw her?”

The woman lifted a bony shoulder, and the sad smile on her face answered first. “I’m sorry, dearie, I can’t say that I do. Pretty girl like that, I imagine she moves around more than the rest of us to keep safe. It’s hard to be a single woman alone, you know.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Clay clutched the sketch to his chest as he turned away, hopelessness weighing down every step. Pretty soon, they’d have hit all the soup kitchens, and then what? Would he be forced to throw in the towel and admit defeat?

He fumbled in his pocket for his phone and keyed in Ellie’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Clay?”

The plaintive hitch at the end of his name was enough for Clay to shove his own worries aside. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my mom. Kingsley took her. She’s been missing since this morning.”

Before she could finish, Clay was striding out the entrance, dipping his shoulders against a gust of chilly wind as he hurried back to the SUV. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

31

More moonlight than usual trickled between the cracks in the boarded window, enough that Bethany could make out the nice lady who sat beside her on the bed. Bethany missed the moon, and the stars, and the sun. It felt like she hadn’t played outside forever or breathed in fresh air.

But at least she wasn’t alone anymore in this tiny, sad room. She was glad for the company. Especially tonight. The woman helped keep her mind from wandering off.

Crack. Thump.

Like that. Bethany whimpered and hugged her knees tight to her chest, shivering.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’re okay for now, sweetheart. Here, let’s cover you up.”

Bethany let the woman pull the blanket over her legs and tuck the scratchy material around her waist. “Thank you.” She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, though. Or reliving those awful moments.

The sharp crack when the bad man twisted the fancy blonde lady’s head and the ugly thump when she hit the floor. How after that, the lady’s neck was funny and bent too far to the side, and she stared at everything and nothing at all. They were dead and glassy, like one of Bethany’s old baby dolls.

Crack. Thump. Those awful, empty eyes.

The woman patted the covers until she found Bethany’s hand and squeezed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Bethany clung to the woman’s hand. Don’t think about that other lady. Talk to this one. She’s nice. “Bethany.”

“Bethany? That’s such a beautiful name. And how old are you, Ms. Bethany?”

A small, surprised giggle flew from her mouth. “Not Mizz Bethany, silly. Just Bethany. And I’m eight.”

“Eight years old? Why, you could have fooled me. You act so grown up, I thought you were at least twelve, maybe thirteen.”

Bethany puffed up. Her mama would like that, she bet. “Mama says that sometimes I’m eight going on eighteen, and other times, I’m as silly as a goose.”

“That sounds just about right to me. When my daughter was your age, she was exactly like that. Mature as could be one second, and the next, running through the house with dirty feet and shrieking like a girl half her age. Kept me on my toes, that’s for sure.”

As the woman talked, Bethany relaxed a little. She liked the sound of the woman’s voice. So warm and normal. Nothing like creepy Doctor Rotten. “Is being on your toes a good thing?”

The woman made a humming noise in her throat, like she thought Bethany was funny. “You know, that is a very smart question. I suppose it all depends on whether or not a person enjoys a good challenge.”

She continued to talk, but the words began running together, like the buzz of those giant bumblebees that used to fly from flower to flower outside Bethany’s old school. Lately, Bethany had a hard time concentrating for very long. Her head spun in circles even when she was sitting still, and her stomach ached all the time, like someone had drilled a hole inside.

Still, the woman’s voice was so soothing. So much better than being trapped in the bad man’s scary dark bedroom by herself. Bethany let the woman’s chatter wash over her like a warm breeze as she lifted her fingers to her nose and breathed in.

There. She could still smell the nutty sweetness of the peanut butter sandwich she’d come so close to eating. Bethany inhaled again and imagined the two perfect rectangles on that plate. She could almost feel the bread under her fingers when she picked one half up just before sinking her teeth into the soft, squishy bread and chewing.

She sniffed a third time while pretending to chew. If she tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself that she’d taken a bite.

Crack.