Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)
“I told you two idiots to stay in your room!”
Both girls have the same wild black hair as their mother. But all likeness ends there. The girls are thin and pretty and seemingly undamaged by the environment in which they live. Watching them, I can’t help but to compare these kids to the girls at the King farm. Innocent girls whose lives are filled with promise but whose future will be determined by the guidance they receive from their parents and the vastly different worlds in which they reside.
I think of all the life lessons that lie ahead for these two girls, and I wonder if they’ll be able to count on either parent to guide them through it. I wonder if they’ll survive.
“Who are these people, Mama?” the taller of the two girls asks.
“This ain’t your concern, you nosy little shit.” Trina crosses to the sofa, picks up an empty soda can, and throws it at the girl. The can bounces off the wall and clangs against the floor. “Now go get your damn brother. Tell him the fuckin’ cops are here.”
Next to me, Tomasetti makes a sound of reprehension, and I know he’s on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. His face is devoid of emotion, but I know him well enough to recognize the anger burgeoning beneath the surface of all that calm, and I’m reminded that his own daughters were about the same age as these two girls when they were murdered.
“Let it go,” I whisper.
He doesn’t acknowledge the words, doesn’t even look at me. But he doesn’t make a move. I figure that’s the best I can hope for.
Unfazed by their mother’s mistreatment, eyeing us with far too much curiosity, the girls start across the living room. No one speaks, as if in deference to their presence. The things we’ll be discussing are not suited for young ears, despite the probability they’ve already heard far worse. They’re wearing shorts with T-shirts that are too tight and too revealing for such a tender age. That’s when I notice the Ace bandage on the taller girl’s left wrist. My eyes sweep lower and I notice a bruise the size of a fist on her left thigh, a second bruise on the back of her arm, and I wonder who put them there. I wonder how integral violence is to this family.
The back door slams. I look up, to see a tall, dark-haired young man appear in the kitchen doorway. I know immediately he’s Justin Treece. He’s nearly six feet tall. Skinny, the way so many young males are, but he’s got some sinew in his arms and the rangy look of a street fighter—one who knows how to fight dirty. He’s wearing baggy jeans with a drooping crotch—perfect for secreting a weapon—and a dirty T-shirt. Well-worn Doc Martens cover his feet. Newish-looking tats entwine both arms from shoulder to elbow. A single gold chain hangs around his neck, and he has gold hoops in both ears. He’s looking at us as if we’ve interrupted something important and he needs to get back to it ASAP.
“What’s going on?” he asks, wiping grease from his hands onto an orange shop towel.
Trina twists her head around to look at him. “I don’t know what you did, but these cops want to talk to you.”
“I didn’t do shit.” His gaze lingers on his mother, and for an instant I see a flash of raw hatred before he directs his attention to us. “What do you guys want?”
Justin Treece is not what I expected. He’s attractive, with dark, intelligent eyes that have the same cunning light as his mother’s. Someone less schooled in all the wicked ways of the human animal might presume he’s a decent, hardworking young man. But I’ve never put much weight in appearances, especially when I know they’re false.
Goddard doesn’t waste time on preliminaries. “When’s the last time you saw Annie King?”
An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in his eyes; then his expression goes hard. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”
Tomasetti flips out his identification, holds it up for Justin to see. “Why is that?”
Justin gives him a dismissive once-over. “When something bad happens around here, the cops come calling. I’m their go-to man.”
“When a girl goes missing, the boyfriend is usually one of the first people the police talk to,” Goddard tells him.
“That’s your problem,” Justin says.
Tomasetti never takes his eyes from the teen. “Stop acting like a dip-shit and answer the sheriff’s question.”
“I ain’t seen her in a couple days.” He shrugs a little too casually,
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