her, Mom squeezed her hand, and Angie looked up into the detective’s steady gaze. Unexpected freckles dusted his cheekbones. “But …,” she offered, sensing he was leading up to “but.”
“But my job is to figure out whether we have a criminal case to pursue here. Especially if we have a fresh trail. Do you understand?”
Her throat suddenly got the “I’m about to throw up” feeling. She swallowed it down. “Criminal? Did I … Did I do something wrong?”
“Not you, Angie,” Mom burst out, her fingers accidentally digging into Angie’s palm. Angie flinched.
“Margie.” Brogan raised his eyebrows at Mom. “Sorry, Angela. There are just a few questions I need to ask you right now. Then we’ll move on to other procedures.”
“There are a few things I want to know too,” Dad interrupted. “How on earth did you find your way home, Angela? Did anyone help you? Did you walk the whole way?”
“Yes.” The single word escaped her lips, but it didn’t make any sense. From where? Angie had no idea.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mitch,” Mom said, shushing him. “It’s more than thirty miles to where she disappeared.”
“Downhill,” Angie whispered. No one heard her. Where had that thought come from?
“Besides,” Mom continued, “she could have been anywhere. Out of California entirely.”
Brogan stood up and began a slow pace across the room. Angie followed him with her eyes. He’d changed—not a comfortable guy in torn jeans anymore. The soft sympathy face was gone. He was a panther, hunting. A cop, patrolling. She put herself on guard.
His voice changed too—it was flatter, clipped. “Angela. Any idea how long you were gone? Any hint of location? Anything at all?”
“No! I … uh, no. No idea.” Angie gestured to her parents. “They say it was three years. But … I don’t know. That doesn’t seem right. It was just a couple of days.”
“Did you run away on purpose?”
Angie’s forehead wrinkled. “Run away? No. Of course not.”
“No trouble at home? At school? At church? You didn’t need a break? From something? Or someone?” His gaze was probing, encouraging, and scary, all at the same time. He paced and watched and listened.
“No. What are you talking about? Everything’s fine. Was. Fine.”
Mom slid an arm around her. Angie leaned into the hug to prove her point.
Brogan nodded. He spoke slowly and carefully. “Did you arrange to meet someone? Did you visit an internet site and become close to an interesting person?”
“I’m not an idiot! No and no.” What stupid questions. Exhaustion gripped her. What did she have to say to end all of this?
The detective shrugged. “Okay. We didn’t find a trace of that kind of history on the computers you use at home or at school. Still worth asking, though.”
Dad finally quit standing watch and dropped into the other armchair with a loud sigh of relief. What was he was thinking? That she would actually sneak off with someone?
Brogan caught Dad’s eye and gave him a “watch yourself here” look. It was easy to read the detective’s face. “Angela, have you ever experimented with alcohol or drugs? A lot of kids your age have. Answer honestly—we won’t be angry or shocked, and we can get you help.”
“You can tell us, hon,” Mom said. “We won’t judge. I swear.”
Dad looked like he might, though, his elbows grinding a hole in his knees.
Mom patted his arm and said in an obvious aside, “That could explain her fuzziness on the details.”
Angie groaned. “No, I haven’t. I’ve never drunk anything but Communion wine. I’ve never tried drugs. Just a cigarette. Which was completely gross, by the way.”
“May I see your hands?” Brogan asked. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
She rolled her eyes and wordlessly stuck her arms out. They were too long, too thin, too pale, and she imagined they were someone else’s arms stuck on her body. Brogan traced the unfamiliar scars on her wrists with a finger, flipped the hands over to examine the short, ragged nails, then back over to the dirty, rough palms. His finger explored the groove left by the ring on her middle finger, the cleaner, paler skin revealed.
He met her eyes with a question. “Know anything about this?”
A knifelike pain hit her behind the ear. She winced and shook her head, which he took to mean no. The ache drifted away. Her head cleared. It felt like fog lifting.
He pursed his lips. “Humor me a sec. Arm wrestle me.” He dropped into the chair again and set his elbow on the coffee table, thumb up.
“You’ll win. Your hands are huge,” Angie predicted. “Plus your arm is much longer than mine.”
One side of his mouth smiled. “Humor me. Please?”
Angie snorted. “Right.” She grasped his hand and pushed. Her smaller fingers disappeared in his grip, but his arm wavered. He pressed back. She met him with resistance, startled at the strength of her skinny arm. Lean muscle bulged. Without warning, his arm gave way and she flattened him. “You let me win,” she accused.
“Maybe a little. You’ve obviously been doing manual labor. For a long time. You’re very strong for your size.”
“Oh my God.” Mom erupted from her seat, hands twisting. “Manual labor? White slavery, do you think?”
How lame, Angie thought. But Brogan seemed to take the question seriously. “No, Margie. Not likely. She’s been relatively local.”
“Local? All this time?” Dad’s voice trembled oddly. “What makes you say that?”
“Her clothes smell of pine sap and wood smoke.”
Angie sniffed her sleeve. He was right. Well, of course, that made sense. Didn’t she make s’mores around the campfire only last night? Smells don’t linger for three years.
“Of course,” she said simply. “I was camping.”
“You remember nothing else?” Brogan asked.
This was getting exasperating. “Look,” she said. “I told you. All of you. I don’t remember anything else. I was camping. Then I was here. I don’t remember being driven home or dropped off or walking. Nothing. I was just here.”
“Angela, how tall are you?” The detective held his palms to her parents to keep them from jumping in.
“Five-one,” she answered without hesitation. In her side vision, Mom’s head shook slightly.
“And how much do you weigh?”
“That’s
