“I don’t know yet,” the detective replied honestly. “But we will. I know what you're going through. I've been there. My wife went missing not long after we met, and I still remember every awful second of those days. We found her, and we will find Summer and Hope.”
He took a little comfort in knowing that. He took a long, slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. “What else do you know?”
Detective Dawson nodded approvingly. “Hope and Chance’s car was missing.”
“So, whoever took them took it too?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps one of them took it and went off somewhere.”
“Have you been able to contact either of them?”
“No.”
“Then they’re missing too.”
“At least Hope.”
Raising an eyebrow. “You think Chance took them?”
“Three mugs on the floor in the lounge room at Hope and Chance’s, three had traces of Rohypnol. Summer, Aggie, and Hope’s DNA were found on the mugs.”
“Chance drugged them. He took them. Why? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really know him, I've met him a few times since he’s a friend of Aggie’s, but I've never really talked to him. Did you spend any time with him?”
“A little. Celebrating his and Hope’s engagement the day before last. But I didn’t really talk to him much. He seemed normal. He was excited about the new house and his engagement. He looked at Hope like she was the most precious thing on the planet. Do you think he was the one who shot at Summer’s house?”
“Maybe. Could he have been the man you saw with the gun?”
Luke considered this. “He could have been. I don’t get why he would do this.”
“I don’t have the answer to that.” Detective Dawson studied him. “I want to believe you're innocent, Luke. I really do. But I can't ignore the evidence, and right now it all points to you.”
“I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is finding Summer. She’s drugged, she could be hurt, or worse.” Right now, he couldn’t stomach thinking about just what worse might entail. Raped, mutilated, dead, he didn’t like any of those options.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but we will find her, just keep telling yourself that until you believe it.”
He believed it. What he wasn't sure of was whether they would find her alive. He was about to say something when a tiny memory niggled at him. Something Chance had done the other day. Something that at the time he hadn’t thought was important, hadn’t even paid any attention to it.
Chance had been whistlingHumpty Dumpty.
In and of itself not particularly interesting, but Chance was a grown man in his early thirties with no children, so a nursery rhyme wasn't what you would expect to hear him whistling.
“It’s him,” he whispered, turning terrified eyes to the detective. “It’s Chance.”
Chance was the Nursery Rhyme Killer.
And he had Summer.
* * * * *
10:22 P.M.
Was she awake?
Asleep?
She wasn't altogether sure.