Authors: Meira Pentermann
“The question is, what are
you
doing with it? Unless your real name is Brent, I’m guessing this doesn’t belong to you.”
Amy sat down on the edge of the mattress.
Sam was only getting started. “‘Brent,’” he read from the inside cover. “‘It’s been awesome, dude. Have a great summer.’”
He flipped to another page. “‘Brent. Stay cool.’”
Back cover. “‘Dude. That touchdown was mag-nan-ee-mus.’ Interesting spelling. It’d be a miracle if he knew the meaning of the word.”
Then he turned to the senior picture of Emma Foster, marched across the room, and held the book inches from Amy’s face. “‘Love you Brent!’” Sam spat out the words with sardonic emphasis on each syllable. “Where did you get this book?”
Amy put her head in her hand.
Sam flipped a couple of pages. “There are two Brents in senior year. One was a member of the chess team. The other was a running back.” He turned the book back toward Amy’s face, with his finger pointing to a picture of Brent Richardson. “Now unless you’ve had serious cosmetic surgery, Amy, this book doesn’t belong to you. I want to know where you got it.” He threw the book on the floor and walked across the room. He refused to face her.
The shouting and the slamming made Amy’s head pound. Thankfully, there was nothing in her stomach, because she was overcome by nausea again. Amy stared at Sam’s back for a moment. He quivered in anger. He wasn’t the soft, kind, lost guy she had met the night before. He was a man possessed. He turned slowly and Amy drew in a sharp breath. His face was red with tears, not anger. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“Who is Brent?”
“I… uh—”
“Amy, please.”
“Foster,” she whispered, suddenly remembering his name. “You’re Sam
Foster
.”
“I know who I am.”
“Are you related to Emma Foster, the girl in the photo?”
Sam slumped back into the chair near the bed. When he spoke, the anger had melted into resignation. “She’s my sister. She’s been gone fifteen years.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. She’s beautiful.”
“She was, inside and out.” He smiled faintly. “I called her ‘my Celtic sister’. The rest of us, Mom, Dad and I, have mousy brown hair and light brown eyes. There are some Irish ancestors that made themselves known through Emma. But she liked the ‘Celtic sister’ nickname. It seemed more mysterious.”
“It’s enchanting.”
Sam picked up the article and waved it slowly through the air. “She disappeared one week after graduation and was never heard from again. No note. Nothing.” He recaptured Amy’s eyes and held them in an intent, merciless gaze. “Now I find her handwriting in the yearbook of Brent Richardson, a guy I’ve never heard of, and I want to know who he is. Who is he, Amy?”
“He’s Beaumont Richardson’s son. You know?
The
Richardsons.”
Sam’s face contorted with confusion. “A Richardson Richardson?”
Amy nodded.
“Then why do you have his yearbook?”
Amy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling. The pause lingered. Finally, Amy released her breath and said, “He’s my husband. Brent Richardson is my husband.”
“What? You’re a Richardson?”
Amy pouted. “I’m a Martin. I never should have married him. He’s a brute.”
“I don’t want to sound rude, but after last night and this dingy motel room, I wouldn’t guess you—” He seemed flustered.
“You wouldn’t guess I’d travel in the Richardsons’ circles?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. You’re right. I’m entirely out of their league. I think that’s why Brent was so hell-bent on marrying me. It pissed off his father.”
“Oh, Amy.”
She looked down. “I suppose I made him feel powerful.”
“You’re talking in the past tense. Is he dead?” Sam sounded anxious.
“No, unfortunately. That would be too easy.” She chuckled, a dark laugh. “I left him.”
“When? Is he still in town?”
“Almost two weeks ago, and of course he’s still in town. His family owns a Congressman. He’s not going anywhere. That’s why I’m lying drunk in a motel in a room adjacent to the garbage dumpster. There’s nowhere for me to go.”
“Where does he live?”
Amy rattled off the address. “Or maybe he’s at his parents’ house. They live in Cherry Creek.” She rattled off another address.
Sam scribbled them down on the motel notepad. “Does he work during the day?”
“From home. He has a home office.”
“Perfect. Take me to him.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I can’t just come unannounced, pound on his door, and ask, ‘What did you do to my sister?’”
“You most certainly can. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do because I’m not going to go near that man. He’ll call the police.”
Sam cocked his head. “Why? This isn’t the Middle Ages. The police don’t drag wives home.”
Amy looked away.
“What did you do, Amy?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing.”
“What did you do?”
“I stole money from our fire safe.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Amy knew full well Brent was going to pursue this illegal abortion nonsense. She simply did not have the emotional fortitude to explain the situation to Sam.
“You stole money? To sneak away to this lovely paradise?”
“To run away. In the middle of the night.”
Sam frowned. “Why? Did he hurt you?” He moved closer to her and examined her face.
“Just leave it.”
“I can’t leave it, can I? I need to know if he is capable of hurting a woman. Would he…” Sam stopped himself short.
“Would he kill her?” Amy proposed.
Sam looked like a broken boy. She pictured the young man who dropped out of college for a decade before trying to start again.
“CSI. That’s why you’re studying CSI. You want to solve the mystery no one else could.”
“
Would
he kill her, Amy?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” she admitted.
“Then why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I… I only just found this yearbook and… and the article. I didn’t even know there was an Emma Foster two weeks ago.”
Sam paced the room, pulling his hand through his hair and mumbling. He looked up at the ceiling. “You told me she was okay.”
Amy was about to respond to the curious remark when she realized he was chastising God. It seemed silly, and she was embarrassed for him.
When Sam returned to Amy’s side, he knelt down on the floor and took her hands in his. “I don’t want to be insensitive, but I need to know how he hurt you. How…
badly
he hurt you. I need to know.”
“He pushed me down the stairs. I don’t know that he is capable of murder, but he has a bad temper.”
He murdered our baby!
Amy tried to chase away the images forming in her head.
“A bad temper, huh? Very euphemistic.”
Amy sighed. “So you understand? Why I can’t go?”
“No, actually,” Sam said. “You’re coming. It’ll be good for you.”
“Seriously?”
Sam gazed at her, his eyes intense and determined. “Amy, what are the odds you and I would run into one another by happenstance? Two random strangers in a bar? One of them searching for his sister. The other one in possession of a yearbook containing her handwriting. It’s Twilight Zone crazy. The only explanation is that it’s meant to be.”
“Meant to be?”
“Exactly. No other explanation.” He crossed to the dresser and rattled through the drawers. He turned to her in exasperation. “Are these things you’re wearing, this shirt you vomited on, the only clothing you own?”
Amy examined herself. Raksha’s beautiful silk shirt was now streaked with stains. Her filthy sweat suit was in her locker at Banhi’s Grill. She didn’t have anything else.
“I was running away. I didn’t have time to pack a wardrobe.”
Sam looked at her thoughtfully. “Write down your sizes and I’ll run to the store, get you a couple of things.”
“No—”
“At least a clean T-shirt, for goodness’ sake.”
Amy looked down. She’d been embarrassed to ask Raksha for anything else, and she hadn’t had time to shop. Although she hated to be a charity case, she felt desperate. She nodded, wrote down her sizes on a scrap of paper, and handed it to Sam without looking into his eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” he said as he slipped out the door.
Amy made a pot of coffee and headed for the bathroom. By the time Sam returned, she had showered, consumed two cups of coffee, styled her hair, and applied a little makeup.
Sam knocked on the door.
Still wrapped in a towel, Amy held the door open just far enough to peek out. He handed her several plastic bags filled with clothing.
She blushed. “Thank you.”
“No worries.”
His entire demeanor had changed. He wasn’t the quirky medical school dropout or the brother possessed. He was simply a man looking out for a wounded creature. Amy momentarily let go of her embarrassment and was grateful for his kindness.
“So I’ll just hang out in the parking lot while you get dressed,” he said. “Will you still come with me?”
Further proof Sam had changed his perspective on the situation, he no longer demanded she come. He asked. This development gave Amy courage.
“Sure,” she said, before she fully digested exactly what their mission would entail.
The car ride gave her a chance to reflect upon what they were about to do. She was going to knock on the door of the man who threw her down the stairs, killed their baby, and threatened to take her to the police. As the hangover wore off, Amy became more and more edgy.
Why did I agree to this?
“What are we going to say?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Please don’t ask me to lead this.”
He touched her hand briefly. “No. Of course not. Just be with me.”
“In Brent’s eyes, I won’t make you look invincible. You realize that.”
“I’m not concerned about his perspective,” Sam said. “I’ll just feel stronger if I’m not standing alone.”
Amy nodded. “Okay.”
They approached the door as a team. A few minutes after Sam knocked, Brent yanked the door open and took a step back. Unshaven with disheveled hair, he looked somewhat vulnerable.
Sam pulled a worn photo of Emma out of his wallet. It was not the same one from the yearbook, but it was similar, perhaps taken during the same senior photo shoot. He held the photo in Brent’s face.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Brent looked from Amy to Sam and back again. He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know who I am?” Then he smirked. “Better yet, do you know who
she
is?”
Sam glanced in Amy’s direction.
“She’s my wife, asshole.” Brent grabbed Amy’s arm.
Sam knocked Brent’s elbow, causing him to lose his grip. Amy stepped away. Sam shielded her while he readdressed Brent. “What do you know about the disappearance of Emma Foster?”
“I’m calling our lawyers. Get a restraining order on this bitch and whoever you are.”
“Samuel Foster.”
Brent was caught off guard for a moment. Amy saw a glimpse of the fear she had witnessed in the doctor’s office. Then the door slammed swiftly in their faces.
Sam stood staring at the door for several seconds before turning and running down the stairs. Amy caught up with him at the car.
He threw his hands in the air. “Clearly he knows something. I’m calling the detective who worked on this case. O’Malley, I think it was.” He looked up to the sky. “I thought she was okay.” The rest of his words seemed like babbling. “Is this Brent monster really that connected? Could he thwart justice? Wait, Detective O’Hara, maybe… This can’t be happening. She ran away. No one hurt her… O’Hara. I’m sure it was O’Hara. I’ve got my notes at home.” Sam paced, grumbled, and despaired. Random statements flew from his mouth. From Amy’s perspective, he appeared to be grappling with an old puzzle, one that never had all the pieces. Clearly he found a piece this morning, and his brain was in overdrive trying to locate the rest of the puzzle, the dusty fragments he stored somewhere in case they might one day again be useful.
Amy closed the distance between them and touched his arm. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered, surprised at her use of the pronoun
we.
“We’ll find her.”
Chapter Seven
They rode in silence as they made their way back to the Shanti Motel. Amy had a headache, and she shielded her eyes from the sun. Sam had a broken heart, perhaps a broken soul. Amy glanced at him every once in a while, but she couldn’t get a read on his mood.
“Let’s have lunch,” he said.
“Okay.”
They pulled into the parking lot of a Mexican place. Amy immediately craved a margarita. She chastised herself.
Really? Last night wasn’t enough? On the other hand,
she thought,
this morning has really sucked so far.
She reviewed the events in her mind – waking up with a strange man in her motel room glaring at her, discussing the plight of Emma Foster who has haunted Amy since she found the yearbook, and confronting Brent. She wasn’t sure which was worse – standing in Brent’s presence or stepping onto the property where the nightmare had taken place. She shuddered.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. It’s just been quite a day.”
Sam nodded. Amy could only imagine the thoughts racing through his brain.
They settled into a booth in a corner of the restaurant. Sam buried himself in the menu. When the waiter arrived, he ordered a margarita.
“On the rocks, with salt.”
Amy raised her eyebrows.
“You want one?” he offered.
“Yeah, but uh—”
“We deserve it.”
“Right.” Amy turned to the waiter. “Yes, I’ll have the same. Rocks, salt, et cetera.”
“Absolutely, amigos. I’ll be right back.” Then he slipped away, whistling.
“So…” Amy placed her hands on the table. “What now?”
“I’ll talk to the detective and see if he’ll reopen the investigation. At least he can tell me if they ever interviewed Brent. The detective was really good to us, you know. He’ll probably share the notes from the interview if he can slip them to me. I can’t imagine they’d let political connections thwart justice.” He was silent for a moment. Amy considered the idea that political connections enabled people to circumvent justice all the time.