He acknowledged his sister before responding. “The family plane took my father home to Montana on Friday, as Matilda suggested. It returned this morningaftermy mother and Abigail probably disappeared. There’s nothing in the flight plan about the plane being anywhere else. So, they didn’t take that plane, at least.”
“So…?”
“If we call the police, they might be able to check commercial flights.”
The moment Monica had dreaded came.The police.
It made it all so real.
The family and staff were reinterrogated. Abigail’s room was cased for signs of a struggle, DNA, anything. Men in uniform and suits treated the whole of Warren Manor as a crime sceneand its occupants as suspects and nuisances. Isabella’s phone was confiscated as evidence. For once, Monica struggled to pull rank when it served her the most. She relied on Henry and Eva, both of whom had been raised with the kind of entitlement that allowed them to speak to police officers like,“What are you waiting for? Don’t you know who we are?”
The most infuriating thing wasn’t the gloved inspector poring over Abigail’s bed for DNA. Nor was it the detective questioning Matilda’s entire work history, as if Monica had lied on her nanny’s behalf. No, it was how little regarded Abigail’smotherwas in this entire process. Every time she attempted to assert herself, questions were redirected to Henry, who often answered without consulting his wife. Granted, they knew the same things… but Monica had to do something. Answer something. Getsomethingdone.
Yet nobody wanted to deal with her, because she was emotional. Because she was small. Because nobody treated Monica as arealperson in this debacle.
When she accepted this, she retreated to her room and sobbed on her sofa.
Nobody checked in on her until midnight, when most of the police had departed and only a couple of detectives remained. Eva knocked on the door and helped herself in. The first thing Monica wanted to ask about was Henry, but she could tell from the look on her sister-in-law’s face that there were no new revelations. Nobody had found Isabella. Nobody had foundAbigail.
“They’re sending local police to my parents’ ranch,” Eva said, politely looking away while Monica cleaned up her splotchy, swollen face. “To interrogate my dad. Considering how high profile we are and how small the state is… well, odds are good the FBI will get involved.”
“Fuck…”
Eva sat next to her. “We’re going to find her, okay? Something tells me Henry won’t sleep. I doubt I will, either. My mother… God, I knew something like this would happen. She took Abigail. Henry keeps rationalizing that this might be some gross misunderstanding, but he still doesn’t knowIsabella Warrenlike I do. Nadia agrees with me. Thissmells.”
“Thank you for your solidarity.” Monica wiped her nose with a tissue. “This does nothing to help me right now.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”
Monica folded her face in the crook of her arm. “Neither do I.”
They sat in silence for the better part of the night.
Part 2
Chapter 9
La Famille Oubilée
There was no stopping the news from hitting everyone they knew. Within twelve more hours, Monica received phone calls from Ethan, Judith, and even her lawyer, all expressing varying levels of sympathy. Ethan offered to come over if she needed anything from him, but Monica told him that this was being handled by the Warrens… and the police.
Still, she would take all the eyes and ears she could get.
“How could nobody know where she is yet?” Monica couldn’t eat the lunch staring her in the face. She had just received a report from Elson that Winchester Academy called and offered her help from within a school.Because that’s the last place I want to hear from.Monica didn’t want to think about how her daughter should be in school right now. Learning addition and subtraction. Four-letter words. Arts and crafts. Kicking a ball with her friends at recess…
She devolved into more tears at the dining table.
The interview with Gerald revealed nothing they didn’t already know. He didn’t know where his wife went, or that she was planning anything “nefarious.” He admitted that her phone being left behind and no signs of a struggle didn’t paint a lovely picture of Isabella. She didn’t want to be found or tracked for that matter.
Someone stopped by to pay their respects that evening. Or so Monica determined before she was informed that Damon Monroe had brought his daughter with him.
The girl was the spitting image of her father, with the same black hair, amber eyes, and penchant for long sleeves and wearing black. The eight-year-old who had a rambunctious relationship with Abigail looked as uncomfortable as a bee in a bonnet when she sat with her father in Henry’s office and was brought hot cocoa from the kitchen.
“I’d prefer that we keep the police out of this, for my family’s sake,” Damon said after settling into the couch with his daughter, whom he protectively shielded with most of his body. “I understand that this is unorthodox, but we want to help, and Clarise claims that she heard Abigail say something at school Friday.”
Monica perked up once she realized this was something tangible about Abigail. “What? Tell me everything you know, sweetie.”
Henry held up his hand. “Are yousurewe shouldn’t have the police here to take this down? What if it’s a solid lead that needs to be followed?”
