Page 138 of Cold, Cold Bones

A spoon clinked against china. I waited, knowing Skinny used at least two pints of sugar.

“Weight eighty-two pounds, height fifty-six inches. Mother, Sheila Lakin. Father, Dennis Lakin. He’s a pinstripe at Bank of America. She’s a receptionist at some old folks’ home down Park Road.”

“The Cypress?”

“Sounds right. The mother says the kid was wearing denim coveralls, a blue-and-white-polka-dot blouse, pink sneakers, a green puffer jacket, and a green wool cap.”

Two loud slurps.

“The sub carried or wore a navy and lavender Mackenzie unicorn backpack.”

I noticed that Skinny was doing the usual cop thing, depersonalizing by avoiding use of the child’s name. The kid. The sub.

“What now?” I asked.

“We keep looking.”

“Call with updates?”

“Why?”

“Because I care.”

“Eee-rrg.”

After disconnecting, Ryan and I climbed to the bedroom. Following an interlude during which my brain entertained only happythoughts and admitted no subliminal messages, Ryan fell asleep with dizzying speed.

I did not.

My mind played images of a pigtailed girl shivering in a cold February rain. Frightened. Alone.

Or worse, not alone.

I lay in the safety of my bed, familiar objects shaping the shadows around me, Ryan’s body lean and strong at my side. The warm cocoon wasn’t enough to relax me.

I tried one of those sleep mantras.

Nope.

I tried another.

I focused on Birdie’s purring. Ryan’s soft snoring.

Slowly, reluctantly, my mind yielded.

Then my eyes were wide open.

Joe Bean was crooning that I was the best.

I reached for my phone. The screensaver clock said four forty-nine. Ryan’s breathing suggested he was also awake. Of course, he was. Calls in the wee hours are never good news.

After much fumbling, I managed to answer.

Beside me, Ryan hiked his pillow to the headboard, sat up, and leaned against it. Again, I used speakerphone.

“Mm,” I said.

“You listening? Am I wasting my time here?” Slidell’s exhaustion was clear but saturated with some fiery new emotion. Fury? Bloodlust?