Chapter Twenty

IT IS DRIZZLING WHEN CHELSEYparks outside the Blacks' house. Kat's car is missing from the driveway. Jimmy's truck, too.

Willa Adams. The name tears through Chelsey. A little girl. Only seven years old when she was taken, nine now, if she's still alive. Willa is missing, could still be out there. Urgent isn't a strong enough word for what Chelsey feels. Chaotic. Desperate. Electric with fear.

Chelsey swallows back the taste of metallic dread. She is in unprecedented territory. Ellie is a victim. But she might also be a witness to crimes against other girls. The words proceed with caution blink inside Chelsey's mind. Gabby is dead and gone. But Willa is still out there. Willa could still be alive. Willa could still have a chance. Everything has shifted for Chelsey now. Willa is riding in the front seat. Ellie in the back.

Inside Ellie's home, a light is on in the living room, the telltale glow of a television—through the crack in the curtains. Chelsey texts Ellie: I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU. I'M OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE. YOU HOME?

The light clicks off, the television, too. Well, then. Chelsey's phone chimes. A text from Ellie says: SORRY, NOT HOME. WITH MY MOM.

Why do people lie? The reasons are varied and wide. To protect someone. To protect themselves emotionally or physically. To win something, a reward of some type. To keep a secret. To avoid humiliation or embarrassment. To exert power or control. To earn admiration. Or to avoid punishment.

Chelsey fires up the car. Ellie might be withholding something on purpose. And it makes Chelsey suspicious. It makes Chelsey want to dig even faster. Faster and faster. Until the dirt has been wiped from these girls' eyes, purged from their mouths.

Over the years, Chelsey has uncovered many people's secrets. She has searched homes, mansions, and trailers; cleared out vehicles of all sorts, littered with garbage or polished with a cashmere cloth—all of it tells her something, but what tells her the most? Other people.

The sun is a pale slip battling storm clouds when she enters Dr. Cerise Fischer's office. She presses the button, alerting the therapist that someone is in her waiting room. A full five minutes pass, and Chelsey paces the small area. She's rubbing the leaf of a fake plant between her fingers when Dr. Fischer's office door finally opens.

"Detective Calhoun," Dr. Fischer says, surprise but also welcome in her voice.

"Sorry to barge in like this," Chelsey says.

"That's all right. I'm between clients. Come on in."

Chelsey follows Dr. Fischer into her office. It's an intimate-looking place. Soft couch. Breezy curtains. Subtle art.

"Do you mind if I eat while we chat?" Dr. Fischer pulls a salad in Tupperware from a small fridge.

"Of course not," Chelsey says.

"All right, then." Dr. Fischer sits behind her desk and drizzles dressing onto the green mess. Chelsey can't remember the last time she ate anything leafy. "So, what brings you here?"

"Elizabeth Black." Chelsey sits on Dr. Fischer's couch, perched on a lumpy edge.

Dr. Fischer's mouth tightens a fraction. "Chelsey."

"Cerise," Chelsey counters.

"I can't tell you anything—"

"Yes, I know, confidentiality." Chelsey waves it off.

Dr. Fischer arches a brow at Chelsey, spears some lettuce, and slips it into her mouth, chewing delicately. "I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing. I can't help you."

Chelsey considers her next move. The technique she might use. She opts for the truth, casting it out like a fishing line. Will Cerise bite? "I stopped by Ellie's house before coming here. I texted her to see if we could talk, and Ellie pretended that she wasn't home."

Dr. Fischer stills. "Oh?"

Chelsey nods slowly. She has Dr. Fischer's interest, notices something troubled in the doctor's gaze. "She doesn't want to participate in the investigation anymore."

"That's too bad." Dr. Fischer stabs at a piece of carrot. "But understandable, I suppose."

Chelsey nods. Lots of victims decline to help police. The criminal justice system is its own mountain to climb. For every one thousand cases of reported rape only seven lead to felony convictions. She gets it, she does, but… "Ellie's a bit of a cipher, isn't she?" Chelsey is missing something. A hunch again. She looks up at Cerise. "I can't put my finger on what it is. But something isn't right with Ellie."

Behind Dr. Fischer, the heat kicks on. Warm air stirs the room. "I wouldn't say that. I would say that she's a different person now. You cannot expect Ellie to be who she was before." Dr. Fischer's face is sympathetic. "Trauma changes people."

Chelsey glances down at her boots. She's tracked small bits of dirt onto the braided rug. She turns back to Dr. Fischer, showing some of her sorrow on purpose. Letting the worry darken her expression. The fan dance—that is what she is doing now. "There's been a recent development related to Ellie's case." Outside, there is the steady murmur of waves, of seagulls, of the coast. Ebbing and flowing. "The situation has become pressing. The sweatshirt Ellie was found in belonged to a girl who disappeared five years ago, Gabrielle Barlowe. Her body was discovered, strangled, about a year and a half ago." Dr. Fischer flinches. "There was blood on the sweatshirt. I assumed it was Gabrielle's, but it wasn't."

"It wasn't?" Dr. Fischer's expression becomes strained. Chelsey notes tiredness around the doctor's eyes, too. Chelsey isn't the only one worn down by her job. Why do women do this? Why are they conditioned to give and give and give? She thinks about those seven cases out of one thousand. Maybe one day it will be eight, then nine, then ten. Small bites are all she'll ever be able to take. And they will have to do. She'll never be full.

Chelsey shakes her head. She makes her voice as flat and smooth as polished wood. "No. The DNA isn't in yet but I strongly believe the blood belonged to another girl. A girl who is still missing. Her name is Willa Adams. She would now be nine years old."

Dr. Fischer's hand goes to her abdomen as if to calm herself, her swirling stomach.

"I believe Ellie has interacted with Willa. That she knows something about Willa and is hiding it, whether by fear or by design. Has Ellie mentioned other girls to you?"

Dr. Fischer glances at a file on her desk, the name ELIZABETH BLACK written on it. Chelsey can make out the edge of a paper inside, black crayon or charcoal scribbled on it. A drawing? "I hesitate to say anything, but in light of this news… She did draw something our last session…"

"Show me." Chelsey leans forward.

Dr. Fischer opens the folder and places the contents in front of Chelsey. She was right. They are drawings. Two of them. One of a field with holes in the ground. The other of four people. Girls, Chelsey thinks. One girl is smaller than the rest. Most likely Willa. "I'm sorry, I should have called you right away but I was going to discuss the drawing with Ellie next session and urge her to speak to you about it herself. If I'd known…" Dr. Fischer trailed off.

"It's okay," Chelsey says, but she keeps her eyes locked on the girls. On their open mouths. Locked in perpetual screams.