“I thought she’d stopped seeing him? Do you even have his number?” Malik was a Supreme Court law clerk and six years older than Abby. The age difference hadn’t bothered Sean so much as the kid’s ambition and cockiness, not uncommon traits of the court’s clerks.
“They still date. I don’t have his number, though. Do you think someone at OSG would have it?”
Sean looked at his watch. “What am I supposed to do, call the SG or the Supreme Court and ask for the contact information for a law clerk because my adult daughter hasn’t checked in with me in the last day?” Sean watched his wife’s face harden.
“Em, I’m sorry. Let me go to her apartment. I’m sure she’s just studying and unplugged to escape distractions. You know how she is. While I’m gone maybe you can track down Malik’s number from one of Abby’s friends.”
Emily didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the iPhone, index finger tapping and sliding. Sean went downstairs, dug up the spare key to Abby’s apartment from the kitchen junk drawer, and walked out the side door to the SUV. Was he worried? He tried not to be. But as every parent knows, apprehension comes with the job. It’s a lifetime of disquieting moments—those few seconds you lose sight of them at the neighborhood swimming pool, when they don’t arrive home from school at their usual time, when they grow up and don’t check in. So, yeah, like thousands of other times, he was worried.
CHAPTER 8
Sean drove on winding Rock Creek Parkway, which mercifully had no traffic. It was dark and he kept telling himself to slow down since deer were common on this stretch of national parkland, which ran from his neighborhood in Chevy Chase, Maryland, to downtown D.C. As he slowed, a bottle on the passenger seat rolled forward and clunked onto the floor. Eyes fixed on the road, he reached down and placed it back on the seat. The bottle was filled with a gold liquid that looked like bourbon and had a ribbon tied around its neck. He hadn’t noticed the bottle earlier that night. On the face of the bottle, a note card was taped over its label that read CONGRATULATIONS ON THE NEW JOB! No signature. He was no liquor connoisseur, but he assumed it was expensive stuff.
He pressed the SUV’s voice recognition button and said, “Call home.”
Emily picked up on the first ring.
“It’s me,” Sean said. “I’m almost to her place. Any luck reaching anyone?”
Emily’s voice bellowed from the speakers over Sean’s head. “I just found Michelle’s number and texted her. No word yet. And still nothing from Abby.”
“Try not to worry. I know it’s hard, but I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll be at her place in about five minutes. I love you.”
“I love you too. I’m sorry I was crabby. I’m just really worried.”
“I know.” He added, “You can make it up to me when I get home, after we find her.” Emily clicked off without responding.
He curled around the road past the Washington Monument—“the giant pencil” as Abby called it when she was a little girl—and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. His gaze fixed on the Capitol dome, a glowing beacon ahead.
Sean turned onto Abby’s street, which was lined with historic town houses. With no spots open in front of Abby’s place, he had to double-park. He jumped out of the SUV, startling a woman walking her dog. He nodded hello, hurried along the brick path, then trekked down the stairwell that led to Abby’s English basement apartment.
No front light on. He’d have a word with Abby about that. The door had a window, covered in metal bars on the outside, a curtain inside. He cupped his hand and peered into the glass, but he couldn’t see inside. He knocked and waited a moment before sliding the key into the lock.
The door creaked open. It was pitch black. Sean felt along the wall until he found a light switch, and clicked it on. Panic swept through him. Abby’s apartment had been ransacked.
CHAPTER 9
Sean clutched his phone. Pick up. Please pick up. On the fifth ring, a groggy voice.
“Hel-lo.”
“Frank, it’s Sean Serrat, I’m so sorry to call you at this hour but it’s an emergency.” He and Frank Pacini were more neighbors than friends, but they always enjoyed one another’s company at neighborhood barbecues. And their daughters were close in age and friendly, if not friends. Their professional careers also crossed paths. Pacini, the deputy director of the FBI, would sometimes accompany agents to OSG if the government was working on a criminal appeal that was important to the Bureau. Sean had thought of calling 911, but he still didn’t think, or want to think, something had really happened to Abby. And besides, who wouldn’t choose a top FBI official over a D.C. cop on the night shift?
“Sean, of course, no problem, what’s going on?”
Sean could hear Pacini shushing his wife, Ginger, in the background.
“It’s Abby. She’s missing. We haven’t heard from her, which is unusual. She missed a family celebration dinner tonight, so Emily had me come to her apartment on the Hill. I’m inside right now. Abby’s not here and the place has been trashed.”