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“You think I’m making all this up.”
“No. I…”
Craig gave a half laugh that hurt her to hear. “I don’t even blame you. It’s crap. None of it explains a woman walking out on her kids without even saying goodbye.”
Robin felt a thrill of fear. “But…didn’t she?”
His expression changed. A mask seemed to close over his face. “Yeah. If you call what she told Brett saying goodbye.”
Robin didn’t know what Julie was supposed to have said; she’d heard rumors that Craig would have been arrested except for his son’s story.
He’d pulled back and now stood waiting, remote. “Will you call for Brett?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She passed him, but paused in the living-room doorway. Turning back to him, Robin said, “Craig, I…”
“Don’t lie. Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice sounded heavy, slow, wary. “Don’t say anything.”
Dear Reader,
As a writer and reader, I am fascinated less by the big dramatic scenes than I am by the aftermath. Someone survives a childhood trauma and most bystanders assume that the story is over. But is that really the end? I want to know what comes next.
I’m also fascinated by mystery, although like most of you, I really like to feel secure. The unknown is terrifying. So what happens to a man and his children when they are faced with a dreadful unknown: the disappearance of a wife and mother?
Of course, I don’t write about the drama of the disappearance, or the following days. I take up the story a year and a half later, when they have lived with this awful unknown for seemingly endless months.
Think about it. Your husband, your daughter, your mother, disappears. No blood, no clues, no goodbye notes. Did he choose to walk away? Was she abducted? Is she dead or alive? How do you live a normal life as you search for answers that may not be found? And what if finally you get an answer, but it’s not one you’ll ever fully understand or be able to explain to your children?
Can you fall in love in the midst of this turmoil, this anguish, this guilt and anger?
I hope you’ll be fascinated by this story and these characters.
Best,
Janice Kay Johnson
Mommy Said Goodbye
Janice Kay Johnson
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
A MAN SUSPECTED of murdering his wife can pretty well count on being left off guest lists.
Laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the shouts of children and the smell of barbecued beef drifted over the fence from the next-door neighbor’s.
Craig Lofgren stood on his back deck, the lid of his Weber kettle grill in his hand. Just like that, he was hit by a fist of anger and loss so powerful, he reeled back a step.
“Daddy?” His daughter tugged at his free hand. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
He swallowed and opened his eyes. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears. “Just taking a whiff. Smells good, doesn’t it?”
The anxiety on her face faded and she nodded. “You haven’t lit the charcoal yet.”
“I’m doing it, I’m doing it.” Somehow, he found a grin for her. “Hungry?”
Abby—who just turned nine—nodded, then gave a wistful look toward the fence. “They’re all there, aren’t they?”
There was no point in pretending. She knew as well as he did why they were excluded. “Sounds that way.”
Solemn, she nodded again. “I think I heard Brett putting his bike in the garage.”
“Yeah? Go ask him if the teacher lists were posted yet.”
The intense emotion had passed, leaving bitter resignation in its wake. He dumped charcoal in the kettle, making no effort to be quiet, poured on lighter fluid and flicked a match. To hell with it if he cast a pall on the block party. Let ’em whisper about him. Feel a tiny twinge of guilt, or at least pity, because they had made his innocent children pariahs with him.
Once he was sure the charcoal was burning, Craig went in the house and sought out his eleven-year-old son. Brett had ridden his bike to the school, where rumor had it the lists had been posted showing which classrooms kids would be in and who their teachers would be when school started next week. Abby was the one who’d worried all summer about whether she’d be in the same class with her friends. But Brett, who professed not to care about school at all, had been the one to leap on his bike the minute Abby said she’d heard the lists were up.
Craig headed upstairs when he heard his daughter’s squeal.
“Daddy!” She popped out into the hall from her brother’s bedroom. “I got Mrs. Jensen! She’s super nice!”
“Great.” He gave her a hug and went into Brett’s bedroom. As usual, it looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. “Who’d you get?”
Shoulders slumped, Brett sat on the edge of the bed. “Ms. McKinnon.”
Damn. Some of his earlier anger and tension gripped Craig again. He’d hoped for any other teacher for Brett.
Carefully, he said, “She’s supposed to be good.”
Brett nodded without looking up.
Craig hesitated, then stepped over piles of clothes, a soccer ball and God knew
