Stolen Child (Coastal Fury Book 13) by Matt Lincoln (top books to read txt) 📕

“Yes, it does,” I agreed with a chuckle. “Only the one perp was at the mall, then? We know that for sure?”

“We’ve scoured all the tapes for any sign of the other guy,” Raskin said with a shrug. “Can’t say they’re great tapes, but I feel like we would’ve noticed him in that getup. Though he could’ve been dressed normally, then, and we never would’ve known the difference since we never got a look at his face.”

I nodded, considering this. It was possible that both had been there the second time, then.

“No sign of the boy, though?” Holm asked.

“Oh, no,” Raskin said, shaking his head for emphasis. “No way. That I’m sure of. If that kid was there, someone would’ve noticed him. His face is everywhere, and the crowd at the mall knew it. It’s why they were there in the first place.”

“Only one guy was seen on the boat, though?” I asked. “Do we know which one?”

“The Coast Guard guy picked the man with the face out of a photo lineup,” Raskin said, indicating a spot on his cheek that told me he was talking about the man with the acne scars. “So we’re guessing it’s him. We didn’t get a good description of the boat itself, though. It could’ve been the other guy was hiding in a cabin somewhere.”

“He had to have gone out there between the scuffle at the mall and when the Coast Guard saw him, then,” Holm mused, and I nodded.

“Alright, then, if there isn’t anything else, I think it’s high time we spoke with the parents,” I said.

9

Ethan

I’d been dreading this part since we’d caught the case. I didn’t want to have to look these parents in the eye and deal with their grief and pain, let alone question them about whether they could’ve had anything to do with their son’s disappearance.

We’d have to do that subtly. For obvious reasons, parents didn’t tend to respond well to that kind of questioning.

Raskin led Holm and me down a small hallway lined with interrogation rooms until we got to a waiting area at the back with a couch, a couple of comfy chairs, and a vending machine. A man and a woman I recognized as the boy’s parents from the news sat on the couch. The father was crying, and the woman had her arm around him. Another woman, who I also recognized from the news, leaned close to them in one of the chairs, her hands folded and resting gently on the edge of a coffee table between them. She was murmuring something to them.

Raskin cleared his throat when we were there, clearly embarrassed about interrupting.

“Sorry,” he muttered, staring down at his shoes. “The MBLIS agents are here.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” the woman told him, murmuring something else to the parents and then rising to greet Holm and me with her hand extended. “I’m Doctor Osborne. You can call me Ellie. I’m a psychologist with the FBI.”

She was who I’d imagined then when I saw the photographs.

“Ethan Marston, glad to meet you,” I said, taking her hand. “And this is my partner, Robbie Holm.”

She nodded to Holm and shook his hand, too.

“Why don’t we take a step out and chat for a few minutes?” she suggested, and I nodded.

“Y-you’re leaving?” the mother sputtered, looking like she might burst into tears just like her husband at this news.

“Just for a few minutes,” Osborne assured them. “I need to talk with these agents about your case.”

That seemed to abate the woman, who no doubt wanted everyone to get on with what needed to be done so we could find her son sooner, even if it made her uncomfortable. She nodded and gave me a weak smile as Holm and I followed Osborne toward one of the interrogation rooms.

“I’ll just sit with ‘em a minute,” Raskin said, looking like he would prefer to do anything else at that moment.

“Thank you,” Osborne said gratefully, and he walked over to take her place in the chair next to the coffee table.

In the interrogation room, Osborne shut and locked the door behind us and then sat down. Holm and I took our seats across from her.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “They’ve developed an attachment to me. It’s not uncommon in situations like these.”

“Do you work a lot of these cases?” I asked.

She was a stern-looking woman, probably in her early fifties, with streaks of gray running through her long hair, which was pulled back in a very tight ponytail.

“A fair number,” she said with a curt nod. “Well, considering how many there are, that is, and there aren’t all that many. I’d say I’ve worked about a dozen in my time. This is the most high profile one, though. That girl in Colorado came close, though.”

I vaguely remembered that case, enough to know that they’d found the kid. That gave me hope.

“Why don’t you tell us about the parents?” Holm suggested, folding his hands in his lap.

“The average American family, I’d say,” Osborne mused, her brow furrowed together in thought. “The mother works for the CDC in Atlanta, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Pretty high up, too. The father’s in advertising. No other children. Two dogs. No cats. Live in the suburbs. Cookie-cutter in a lot of ways, I like to call it.”

“Anything beneath the surface?” I asked.

“Oh, there always is,” she said, giving me a small, knowing smile. “I just haven’t found it yet. But then again, I’m sure you know that everyone’s more complicated than they seem, given your line of work.”

“A bit pessimistic,” Holm pointed out, and I had to agree.

“You misunderstand me,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not that I think every family has some dark secret. It’s just that no one’s as average as they seem. I just haven’t figured out what’s different about these people yet, though. In between the media coverage and keeping them somewhat composed—and sometimes medicated—over the past few hours, I haven’t had time for much else.”

“I think I understand