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It was a bright golden morning, sun washing in through the gauzy drapes, painting the room. Lily cooed happily on the monitor. The tendrils of the nightmare clung, pulling Rain back into the gloom.
She took a few breaths to calm herself. That place. That dog. Why was she back there? Never mind, scratch that. She knew why.
The bed beside her was cold and empty. Greg had left a note: “Thought it was better for you two to sleep. Rough night.”
It was nearly 9 a.m., an epic sleep-in by current standards. It had been a rough night, Lily waking twice, emitting suddenly and inexplicably that high-pitched wail perfected by babies everywhere to fry each nerve ending in their exhausted mothers’ bodies. Rain had nursed Lily back to sleep once, then paced the hallway for what seemed like hours after the baby woke a second time. Teething? Who knew? There’d been some late-night (or was it early morning) lovemaking—or was it just a dream? Did women dream about making love to their husbands? Maybe not. Her head throbbed.
“Maamaa,” Lily sang over the monitor. “Ahhh. Ohhh.”
It took an hour to get herself together, about fifty-six minutes longer than it used to take. She showered with Lily in the bouncy seat, found a pair of jeans she could squeeze into, a button-down shirt that didn’t gape over her boobs, dressed, dug out the messenger bag she used to carry with her everywhere, packed the camera and the portable digital recorder, a fresh Moleskine and package of Pilot V5 pens. Ready. Then Lily—fed, changed, diaper bag stocked, snacks, toys, strapped into her car seat. Okay.
Sitting in the driver’s seat and looking at Lily, red hair glinting gold in the morning light, Rain briefly wondered about the wisdom of bringing a baby to a crime scene. A crime scene that, with the help of Henry, and her willingness to break rules and sometimes laws, she and Gillian planned to enter.
But what else was she going to do? She hadn’t left Lily with a sitter yet, though Mitzi kept offering. She wasn’t about to start on a whim. This was a whim, wasn’t it? The beginning of a story no one had asked her to cover? She’d just have to make it all work, right? When the road isn’t laid clear before you, her mother always said, forge your own path.
Admittedly, this probably wasn’t what she had in mind.
The drive went quickly, traffic light, the day clear. She knew the way. She’d been where she was going before, too many times.
She and Gillian had stood among the throng of reporters always gathered outside the Markham house during Laney’s disappearance, then when she was found. Sweltering afternoons, and long nights, emotions high. She remembered so clearly the feel of it—the dread, the fatigue, the intensity of every new piece of information, the tragic unfolding of the story. They’d lived it—barely going home, eating and sometimes sleeping in the news van. Her life, Greg especially, sorely neglected.
No crowds today as she approached; the Markham house had an air of desertion and the street was quiet, the overgrown and neglected yard edged with black-and-yellow crime scene tape. An empty squad car sat in the driveway, and a dark sedan blocked the property from street access. The message was clear: stay away.
Halloween decorations abounded on neighboring houses—striking a different tenor than those on her own street. Here, lawns had been turned into graveyards, skeletons hung from trees. As she pulled up the block, a grim reaper stood sentry by a tilting mailbox, a giant inflatable spider dominated another small yard.
Rain parked past the house, something tingling. A strange déjà vu, as if she’d played this scene out already, an odd sense of unease. She went around to the back to unpack Lily and put her in the sling.
Diaper bag over one shoulder, work satchel over the other, she approached the familiar white van. Gillian and their longtime driver, Josh, were in the cab, bent over something Rain couldn’t see, Gillian talking, Josh nodding. They looked up as she approached, and both started waving.
Gillian emerged, svelte in a white pencil skirt, and blue silk blouse, heels. She tossed her honey hair, gazed at herself in the side mirror, leaning in close to examine her skin. Gillian out in front, Rain behind the scenes. That’s how it had always been, and how they both liked it.
“Oh, wow,” Gillian said, eyes falling on Lily. “You brought Lily.”
Rain shrugged, looking at Lily, who gazed up at the falling leaves, pointing. “I don’t have a sitter.”
“Of course,” said Gillian, giving her a serious, thoughtful frown. “Right.”
How was this going to work? She hadn’t exactly thought it through.
But Gillian was already cooing, lifting the baby from the sling, Lily kicking her legs with happiness. And Rain was greeting Josh, a big man with a full, prematurely white beard and glittery blue eyes. Jeans, flannel shirt, faded denims—he was rough and ready just like always.
“I had a feeling you’d be back sooner rather than later.”
Why did everyone keep saying that? He pulled her into a bear hug, which she gratefully returned. This was one of the things she missed most about work—her friends.
“I’m not back,” she said. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“Oh, sure.”
“So how are we going to do this?” asked Gillian, balancing Lily on her slender hip. She and Rain locked eyes, mind-melded, then looked at Josh.
He raised his eyebrows. Late forties, father of three, the man you called in any crisis, always awake, always at the wheel and ready to go before anyone else.
“Toys, books, snacks?” he asked, regarding the baby. Rain handed over the diaper bag, which he easily slung over his shoulder.
“All right, Miss Lily,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
And of course, Lily, the effortlessly friendly little spirit that she was, happily went to her new friend, grabbing ahold of his beard. Hard.
“They always do that,” said Josh, wincing and carrying her to the cab.
Gil ducked under the tape and Rain followed, moving quickly, with purpose, as if they belonged there. That was key, always look like you knew where you were going—even when you were essentially breaking and entering. Good girls don’t get answers.
Gillian knocked on the door, just to be sure the house was empty. And it was, just as Henry had promised.
“Crime scene techs are done,” he’d told her. “According to my source, FBI left this morning. They’ll have a patrol car there tonight, just to keep away any lookie-loos. My guy can leave the side door open for you.”
“Thanks, Henry.”
“Don’t get caught,” he warned. “And if you do, don’t mention me.”
“Come on.”
“What are you looking
