“I might. Right now, I need the two of you to come to the station with me.”
“For what?” Irene cried.
“To see if you recognize the suitcase or the panties. We need to figure out who they might’ve belonged to.”
“You don’t think they could be mine,” Madeline said. When Irene slipped one arm around her, she realized her voice had gone shrill, but the idea of her panties, or those of anyone else she knew, being in that suitcase was too horrible to contemplate.
“I have no idea,” Pontiff said. “But I’d like to find out. And it makes sense to begin with the family.”
It did make sense; it was just that his discovery was so revolting.
“That’ll be too upsetting for her,” Irene said. “I’ll do it.”
Madeline put up a hand. “No, of course I’ll come, too. We both will.”
“Good.”
Madeline caught his elbow. “You know what this confirms, don’t you?”
He didn’t seem to know at all. “What?”
“The Vincellis and everyone who’s supported them are wrong.” A lump rose in her throat as she spoke, surprising even her. “It wasn’t Clay.”
“Maddy—” he started, but she refused to let him interrupt her.
“My stepbrother might seem dark and remote to you, to lots of people, but he’d sacrifice his own life before he’d ever hurt a child.”
Sympathy softened Pontiff’s features. “Folks aren’t always what they seem, Maddy.”
Madeline wouldn’t let it go. “I’d bet my own life that he’d never touch a child in an inappropriate manner,” she said fiercely. “He’s angry and he’s determined and he’s—” she searched for the right word to describe her stepbrother “—tough. But he’s not sick.”
“He had a hard childhood,” Pontiff said gently. “That can scar a person.”
It was the first time she’d heard Toby speak with any compassion for Clay. Clay was too capable, too strong to evoke sympathy from most people, despite his background.
“He has his scars,” she said. “But he’s always protected those who are smaller, weaker and more vulnerable than himself. Surely you’ve seen how much his stepdaughter adores him.”
Pontiff put his hand over hers. “The fact that he has a stepdaughter means I can’t take your word for what Clay is or isn’t, Maddy. I have to look at the facts. You understand.”
What she understood was that it was time to exonerate Clay and expose the real killer. Maybe the facts hadn’t stood in his favor before. But she was more certain than ever that now they would. And if the police weren’t capable of solving the case, she’d make sure Hunter Solozano did the job for them.
Madeline sat in the police station with her stepmother, waiting for Grace to arrive. The rain had finally stopped, but the cloud-darkened sky threatened more bad weather.
The heater rattled as it pumped out hot air. Officer Radcliffe, who stood at the filing cabinet in the corner, bore a sheen of sweat on his forehead—proof that the heater was working. But Madeline couldn’t get warm. Not since she’d seen what the police had found in her father’s trunk.
“Are you sure, Maddy?” Irene whispered.
Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy, but she forced it to work. “I’m sure.”
“But I don’t remember them. And lots of young girls wore bikini underwear.”
It wasn’t the fact that they were bikinis that made them identifiable; it was the picture of an island with a monkey climbing a palm tree on the back. Madeline suspected Irene recognized them, too. Her stepmother didn’t want to face what it might mean, preferred to think they were dealing with some kind of coincidence or mistake. “I’m positive.”
She’d meant to speak gently, but she couldn’t conceal her impatience. Irene was getting older and didn’t have the coping skills she’d once possessed. But Madeline was so exhausted and confused, she lacked the reserves to shelter her right now.
Why were Grace’s first pair of bikini underwear—the ones Madeline had bought her for Christmas—in a strange suitcase with some rope and a dildo? Grace was only thirteen when that car went missing.
“If you’re sure about the…the panties, there’s no need to have Grace come down here,” Irene said.
“Mom, please,” Madeline snapped.
Chief Pontiff looked up from his desk and met Madeline’s eyes. When she scowled and turned away, he bent over his work again, and she was grateful to him for giving her some space instead of getting up to offer her a drink or something. She knew he’d seen the instant recognition on her face as he’d carefully arranged each item for her view.
It wasn’t just the panties that upset her. The dildo had been there, too, grotesque in its size.
She dropped her head in her hands. The possibility that a sexual predator had had any contact with Grace at the age she’d been when she was wearing those panties sickened Madeline.
“God help us,” she whispered and began to rub her temples. Her head hurt, but not as badly as her heart. She knew Grace had problems as a teenager. Had they started because she’d been molested—or worse, raped—by some demented creep?
No. She would’ve said something…
But deep down Madeline knew that wasn’t true. Girls who’d been molested were often too ashamed afterwards to reveal their terrible secret.
“Whoever it was better not have touched her,” she muttered.
Her stepmother jumped to her feet. “I want to call Clay.”
Startled, Madeline blinked. “You want him to see this?” She waved at the panties on the table. The giant dildo sat front and center. Not that Madeline could look at it.
“I—I need him,” Irene said.
Her slightly hysterical tone made Madeline feel guilty for being so impatient a moment before. She owed her stepmother more sensitivity than she’d just shown her. Irene was the one who’d provided the love and attention Madeline had needed as a young teen. Madeline couldn’t imagine what life would’ve been like without her.
“We’re okay,” she whispered, hoping to comfort her. “We can take care of this ourselves, right?”
“No.” Irene shook her head adamantly.
“But you know Clay. He’ll go nuts if he sees this. And we wouldn’t want to humiliate Grace any more than necessary. Obviously, if something terrible happened, she chose not to share it with us. It won’t be easy for her to walk in here, especially with an audience, and admit it now.”