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“I’m sorry, I have to ask,” Santos said. “Is there any chance that Ethan Doyle may have reciprocated? Felt the same way about Becky?”
“Ethan Doyle is what? Sixteen years old?” Kevin asked with disgust. “What sixteen-year-old wants to hang out with a kid going into the eighth grade?”
“They don’t,” Margo said, her voice shaking. “Not any normal sixteen-year-old. Are you saying that Ethan Doyle did this? That he murdered his parents and took Becky?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Santos said. “But we have to look at all angles. All possibilities. I need to know if you have any knowledge of a relationship...any connections between Becky and Ethan beyond Ethan being her best friend’s brother.”
“No, nothing,” Kevin said immediately, but Santos was watching Margo. Her expression said something different.
“Mrs. Allen?” Santos prompted, but before she could respond, the deputy came into the room and pulled her aside.
“What?” Margo asked fearfully. “What is it?”
“I have to step out for a moment,” Santos said. “I’ll be back.”
“What happened?” Margo cried. “Did you find her? Oh, my God. Please, I can’t take this. You have to tell me.” Kevin crouched down next to Margo and put his arms around her. This time she didn’t pull away.
“I promise you, as soon as I learn any information that has been confirmed, I will share it with you,” Santos told them. “Lots of tips that come in end up being irrelevant. It’s our job to sift through them all. I know it’s hard, but please be patient. I will keep you informed. I promise.”
Agent Santos left the room with Margo Allen’s sobs trailing behind her and stepped outside to call Randolph.
“What’s going on?” Santos looked around to make sure she was out of earshot.
“Just got word that a truck matching the description of Ethan Doyle’s truck was spotted heading west on I-80 over in Nebraska,” Randolph said. “Still waiting for confirmation.”
“Got it,” Santos said. “I just need to ask the Allens a few more questions and then I’ll head over to the church.”
“This could be it,” Randolph said.
“Could be,” Santos murmured. “See you soon.” Finding the truck would be huge, but who they found inside the truck, that would be key.
Hopefully, Ethan Doyle and Becky Allen would be safe and the perpetrator apprehended. She prayed the two had nothing to do with the murders—Josie Doyle and both families needed a happier ending than that. But Santos knew that crimes as gruesome as this left behind more than just physical carnage. No matter what was found in that truck, the Doyles and the Allens would never be the same.
26
The girl peeked outside and could see the trees swaying in the wind, sweeping the gold and red and yellow leaves from branches. They scuttled across the grass, racing each other until they rested in piles in front of the window.
The room was chilly and the girl was restless. There was nothing on television and she was tired of drawing pictures. She eyed the box of books that sat in the corner next to the bed. She hadn’t touched them since the day her father had brought them. She was still angry that he hadn’t brought a dog like he promised. But now she was bored, and even a box of old books was better than just looking out her sliver of a window.
Once again, a moldy smell rose from inside the box when she opened it. Though she didn’t want to admit it, a flutter of excitement danced in her stomach. The girl liked books. Liked escaping into stories and pictures, and here was an entire box filled with books she’d never seen before. A bit of the iciness she felt toward her father melted.
“We’re almost out of food,” came her mother’s voice from across the room.
The girl continued to sort through the box. There were picture books. One with the illustration of a man holding an umbrella to cover his head while food fell from the sky and one with two hippos named George and Martha.
“This is it,” her mother said. “This is all that’s left. This and a little bit of peanut butter.”
The girl looked up from a book that showed a naughty little boy holding a purple crayon. Her mother held up a can of soup and a sleeve of crackers.
“He’ll come soon with more,” the little girl said. She wasn’t worried. Her father always came with groceries. She didn’t always like what he brought home, but they always had something to eat.
For supper they had the soup. Her mother let her open the can using the opener and pour it into the glass bowl and add the water. She even let her press the buttons on the small microwave to heat it up. “We’ll save the crackers for later,” her mother said.
They ate. The girl went back to the box of books.
The next morning, for breakfast, they each had three crackers. At lunchtime they each ate two with peanut butter. Still, the girl’s father didn’t come.
“Maybe he’s not coming back,” the girl said and took another drink of water. Her mother said it would help fill her stomach.
