“It’s not legal.”
I grinned. “Trackers fall in a gray area.”
He grimaced. “Stick to the stoic face.”
I liked him. He didn’t judge me or try to change me.
“Why would Brian Fletcher report his daughter as missing if she wasn’t?” he asked.
“Taggart remembered Tristan at the festival. She wasn’t the prim and proper dancer in Brian’s images. She was darker and wilder. He chalked that up to kids and stupid choices. He never expressed any doubts about Brian Fletcher’s story in his notes.”
“Do you think Colton knew that Tristan was alive?”
“Very good question.”
“I’ll have Colton’s complete visitor logs tomorrow.”
“The pictures on Brian’s family room wall suggest he knows she’s alive.” Frustration tinted my words.
“You sound very convinced.”
“Even carrying such a terrible secret, Brian Fletcher couldn’t resist displaying both his daughters’ images.”
“The truth finds a way to leak out.” He studied me with sharp hawk eyes.
“Did Brian Fletcher have an insurance policy on Tristan?”
“I can check.”
I leaned forward a fraction. “I bet he did not. If he lied, he didn’t do it for money. His house is a memorial to his family.”
“Why lie?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“I’ll join you.”
I almost rejected the idea but considered his connections might be of help. “You’ll have to hold back. People tend to talk more when I don’t have a cop standing beside me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not a cop anymore.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, but you still look like one. That’s all that matters.” I was anxious to get on the road.
“You’re the boss.”
The drive took three hours. Grant drove and I scrolled my phone, searching for any trace of Susan Westbrook or Lannie Fletcher. Lannie didn’t hide herself from the world. But other than the one picture I’d seen of Susan at a fundraiser, she had no profile. Susan had owned the Dance Studio in Northern Virginia for nearly twenty years. Her studio had an excellent reputation and always had a waitlist. The publicity photo of Susan featured her lithe body dressed in a ballet skirt. Her blond hair was fashioned in a tight bun, and she stood straight and graceful in pointe shoes. But her face was turned from the camera, so anyone who looked at the image wouldn’t recognize Tristan Fletcher.
It was late afternoon when we arrived in Northern Virginia. Grant wound his way off the beltway toward the side street in Falls Church. He parked in front of the Dance Studio.
The white brick building had tall windows reflecting the outside world. The facade created an illusion of light and brightness while it blocked out the world. Smoke and mirrors.
A couple of vans parked out front, and two moms helped little girls dressed in pink leotards and tulle skirts. Each wore sneakers, and they all carried little matching bags. One of the mothers opened the front door, and both moms watched as the girls scurried toward the door. They were giggling, laughing at each other’s jokes. They vanished inside. For a moment, I saw shiny wood floors, a mirror, and barres. The door closed.
The girls’ joy was a curiosity to me. I’d felt accomplishment and sometimes contentment, but joy had always eluded me.
“Did you ever take dance classes?” Grant asked.
“Sara, my grandmother, enrolled me in a tap-dancing class when I was six. But I lasted two lessons.”
