Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

Seventeen
    Friday, 6:30 A.M., Cherrystone, Washington
    Emily could not believe her ears. She was dripping wet from the shower and she risked an electric shock to turn up the volume on her bathroom radio. Candace Kane was reporting on the news that Jenna was on the run with a suspected killer. She didn’t use her name, but might as well have.
    “We’re not identifying the girl, because she’s a juvenile and out of respect for her mother, a county sheriff’s employee,” Kane said. “A source close to the investigation says that the girl disappeared the day after the Martin murders were discovered.”
    I’ll kill her Emily thought. Why is she reporting this? How does this help any of us?
    Water pooled where her feet were planted on the slippery ceramic tiles. Emily just stood there, frozen, taking in each word and growing angrier by the nanosecond.
    Candace went on, “Classmates at Cherrystone High said the girl and Nick Martin were close.”
    Static followed for a second, then the voice of a teenage boy came through the speaker.
    “Yeah, they were both artsy. He was kind of a Goth, I guess. She’s probably one of those goody goodies that like to hang with the bad boys. Pretty common knowledge around here they were seeing each other.”
    Another voice cut in. This time it was a girl.
    “It was like Romeo and Juliet. It was like both parents didn’t want them to date and maybe that’s why he offed his family.”
    Emily reached for a towel. Her body was shivering, but mentally she was numb with anger at Candace Kane and her so-called news station. Her daughter was not “on the run” and there would be no more “updates to come” As far as Emily knew, there had been no Romeo and Juliet love affair. Not on Jenna’s part. These kids were taking a tragedy and working it into some kind of overwrought teen romance. Jenna might care for the boy, but if she was in love with Nick Martin, she’d have told her mother. Just what was going on?
    The calls had been coming in all morning. They were stinging wasps that couldn’t be knocked away with a sledgehammer. One after another. Some were friends and family, worried about Jenna and where she was. Those came out of concern, but Emily Kenyon wished she’d been able to say more than, “Thank you for your concern, your love.” It felt so useless, so damned weak. But the vast majority of inquiries flooding every phone line at the sheriff’s office were from media jackals looking for a story. The story. Some got through to Kip and Jason, and by mid-morning the beleaguered dispatcher, Gloria, stopped patching anyone through. Lavender Post-it notes encircled the screen of Emily’s computer monitor like a feather boa. Call. Urgent. Third time. Important tip want to share. Emily made a stupid mistake on that last one, calling back only to find that the reporter wanted a tip, he didn’t have one.
    Thank you, Candace Kane, for your fantastic story, Emily thought. You’ve made my life even worse than it was. No small feat. Maybe you should be promoted to TV?
    Around noon, Gloria-the-dispatcher buzzed Emily on the intercom, a communications system so poor a shout down the hall would have worked better in most instances.
    “Call for you, Emily. Line three,” she said, her voice crackling under the strain of the failing speakers.
    Emily jabbed at the answer button. “Message please, Gloria. I can’t work with all this. Give the call to Kip or better yet, my detective in training, Jason.” Her tone was decidedly sarcastic, which she regretted right away. “Sorry. Just take a message.”
    “Trust me, you’ll want this one. Emily, I think it’s Jenna “
    Emily stared at the blinking white light on her phone. “Jenna?”
    Gloria’s usual cool demeanor (“gunshot vie on line two … incest perp calling again about computer … lawyer wants police report”) ratcheted up ten times to over-the-top excited. “I think so, Emily. Talk to her. Pick it up!”
    Emily pushed the flashing button and put the phone next to her ear. The room seemed suddenly small and dark. Closed in. The blinking light was now a solid glow. Just her and the phone, a lifeline to her daughter. Before she spoke, she heard Jenna’s breath against the mouthpiece. It was soft and sweet. A mother knows when her baby is close. But where was she?
    “Honey?”
    “Mom? I’m sorry!”
    “Jenna!”
    “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
    “Of course not,” Emily said, searching for a word that