The hamster wheel caught traction inside Mrs. Bennett's head. She said, "But who would leave that note?"

"I have no idea."

"We have to call the police, right now."

"I made Dave do it. They should be here soon."

"Good. Good," she said. She reached up, pinched the bridge of her nose. "We should've done it sooner."

"You couldn't have known."

"No, it's my responsibility. We should've called as soon as I put everybody inside on lockdown. But-but I didn't want to worry you. And I was being stupid and too pigheaded, trying to protect my own reputation. Not on my watch, right?"

Part of Sara wanted to say, d.a.m.n right, it was on your watch, but the other part, the half that realized that it wasn't Mrs. Bennett's fault, said, "Don't blame yourself, blame the a.s.shole who took them."

"I should've been more proactive," she said. Mrs. Bennett looked toward the back of the school, pointed. "The police are here. You go, we'll keep looking. And tell them they can find me back here when they're ready. I'm going to take full responsibility." She gave Sara another hug.

"That's not necess-"

"I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror. It's okay, Sara, really. Go on now. He's waving you over. Use my office if you need it."

CHAPTER 4.

SARA.

"Mrs. Winthrop-"

"Sara's fine," she said. "Two less syllables." She gave a nervous chuckle and then regretted saying it. There wasn't time for meaningless comments that required explanation. She'd been using the aside to dispense with formalities and as a conversation starter for years, and it was a hard habit to break.

Don't ask what it means, don't ask what it means...just get to the questions.

The real meaning behind it was a running joke between her and Brian that had never gone away, even in her life without him. They'd had an argument one night, about a week after they were married, over the most efficient way to load the dishwasher. It'd escalated into a notch below a screaming match. Brian had said, 'Efficiency is the soul of wit, Sara,' and she'd replied, 'It's brevity, ding-dong. Brevity is the soul of wit, and it's more efficient, because it's two less syllables.'

From that day on, whenever an impending disagreement was about to get out of hand, one of them would say, 'Two less syllables,' and it would diffuse the situation.

Detective Jonathan Johnson grinned at her and scribbled something on his notepad. "I know we're in a hurry here, but if it makes you more comfortable, you can call me 'DJ.' You know, for Detective Johnson. Or JonJon, if you're a four-year-old boy, like my nephew."

"That helps," she lied.

"I don't know why I tell people-"

Sara interrupted. "Can we get started? Sorry, I'm sure it's-time is sort of..." Anxious, she rubbed her damp palms on her pants.

His cheeks took on a light shade of pink. "Of course, of course."

They sat across from each other in Mrs. Bennett's office, uncomfortably perched on the straight-backed, hard-as-a-church-pew chairs used by parents, or unruly students as they were dealt their punishments.

Detective Johnson, DJ, was younger than she had expected. Younger than she'd hoped for, and she wondered how recently he'd been promoted to his position. With her children gone, her world exploding around her, she wanted the best. Someone with experience. Someone with more successful cases filed away in the 'Solved' drawer than ones gone cold. She wanted her own Dream Team with Michael and Magic and Larry.

Instead, sitting opposite of her was a mid-thirties guy who looked like he might have earned his detective's badge within the last six months.

Christ, they sent a Boy Scout to look for my kids. Unbelievable.

DJ leaned forward. "What're your children's names?"

"Lacey and Callie. They're twins. Ten years old. And then Jacob. He's five."

"Okay," he said, taking notes. "To the best of your knowledge, when did your children go missing, Sara?"

"Best guess, around nine o'clock this morning, based on what the princ.i.p.als told me. You have someone at Whitetree, don't you?" She squirmed in her seat, feeling guilty that she couldn't be in both places at the same time.

The young detective scribbled again on his notepad. "We do, we do. And they're in good hands over there with Detective Barker. He's been doing this longer-"

"And you've been doing it...how long?" Her heartbeat eased up at the thought of someone with experience, but she couldn't resist asking.

DJ smiled like he knew the question was coming. No doubt he'd gotten it before. "I know I look like I just started shaving yesterday," he said, "but I've been in Missing Persons for five years. All with Detective Barker. People call him Bloodhound, so you can trust me-"

"Did you have more questions, Detective?" Sara scooted forward to the edge of her seat. "I don't mean to interrupt, but my kids? Your questions?"

"Definitely. I'm in as much of a hurry as you are, so we'll get through these double-time, okay?"

"Yes, sorry, go on."

DJ cycled through the standard inquiries about how they had gone missing, had they ever run away before, any friends or immediate family who might be involved, any babysitters with less-than-stellar pasts, any enemies she might have, any strange vehicles in the neighborhood. She answered them all, being as detailed as possible, and before she could mention the cryptic note, the next question had more of an affect on her than she antic.i.p.ated.

"And their father? Where is he?"

"Gone," was all she could manage.

"Gone? As in, out of the picture gone, you're divorced gone...deceased gone?" He added the last bit with some trepidation.

"I guess not talking about it isn't an option, huh?"

"If you think he could be a person of interest, we need those details so we can explore every possible alternative."

Before she could realize how ridiculous the notion might be, the possibility of Brian being involved popped into her head.

Brian? No way...Brian?

"He wouldn't," she said.

"Ma'am?"

She didn't hear the confused question. What if it is Brian? They never found his body and people thought they saw him... Could he be involved? Could he have come back and picked the kids up? Is he on his way to the house right now, hoping to surprise me? G.o.d, that would be a cruel way to make an entrance. And after so long. I'll kick his a.s.s back to wherever he's been, if that's the case.

"Sara?"

"What?" Her eyes refocused, drawing her back to the present.

"Everything okay?"

"What-what was your question?"

"Your husband?"

"Right, right. Brian," she said, taking another couple of seconds to process, then added, "He couldn't be involved, Detective. He's been missing for two years."

"Missing? Do we have a file on him?"

"Two years ago, he left for the gym one morning and never came back. You guys found his car in a grocery store parking lot across from Hollywood Bowl. Said there weren't any signs of foul play, no blood, no strange DNA. No leads whatsoever. He just vanished."

"I remember that case. That was your husband?"

"Unfortunately."

"I feel like I'm doing nothing but apologizing, but I'm sorry to hear that." DJ took the opportunity to scribble on his notepad again. Cleared his throat. "I'll take a look at the files later, but right now, we really need to focus-"

A knock at the door interrupted him. "Come in," he said.

The door opened just far enough for Dave to poke his head inside. "There's a pho-"

Sara blurted out, "Did you find him?"

Dave shook his head. "Phone call for you on line two, Mrs. Winthrop."

"For me? Who is it?"

"Didn't say. Some woman. Said she needed to speak to you. You can pick it up there at Mrs. Bennett's desk."

Sara exchanged puzzled looks with the detective. "Should I answer it?"

"Yes ma'am. Could be good news."

"I hope you're right." She stood up, rushed over to the desk. "h.e.l.lo, this is Sara Winthrop."

The voice on the other end of the line wasn't female. It was deep. Electronic. Synthesized.

It said, "The game begins now. You have twenty minutes to get to the Rose Gardens. Alone. Park. Leave your keys in the ignition and the van running. Leave all personal belongings in it. You will be given further instructions. Don't tell the police where you're going. If you need proof that this is real, pay attention."

She almost fainted when she heard the single-word scream that followed.

In her van, driving, it played over and over in her mind.

"Mommy!"

The ensuing silence had signaled the end, and the beginning.

Sara had recognized Lacey's voice. She and Callie both sounded so much alike on the phone, but Lacey's voice was one note higher than her sister's. She was terrified, and in pain.

All of her children's voices took on a distinct tone whenever they were hurt. Call it a mother's bond, but she was able to tell the difference between the yelp of a stubbed toe and the wail of a broken arm across all three of them. Lacey's scream lay somewhere in between.

Sara's remorse bulged underneath the surface like a volcano moments before eruption.

She drove hard, taking every shortcut she could think of, dodging traffic, ducking across parking lots to avoid stoplights and long lines. She eased up on the gas pedal when she crossed paths with a police cruiser, and then floored it again when it was out of sight. She cursed the lack of acceleration in the hybrid, d.a.m.ning the peer pressure from her friends to go green.

Conservation had nothing to do with her circ.u.mstances, she knew, but she had to have some outlet for her rage or she risked exploding right there in her seat. With no idea as to who was behind this stupid game, she had nothing to focus her outbursts on, so taking it out on something she was aware of would have to suffice. For now.

At that point, she wasn't beyond choking the life out of whoever was doing this, but until that chance presented itself, cursing the environmentally conscious would suffice.

She took the Burnside Bridge and glanced down at the minivan's clock.

Ten minutes left. I'll never make it.

She wondered what Detective Johnson must be thinking or doing after her frenzied dash out of the office. She'd slammed down the receiver, the flush in her cheeks and flared nostrils revealing that the call wasn't the good news she'd been hoping for.

Before he'd been able to ask, she'd said, "I have to go. Do not follow me. But here's your first clue." She'd fished the note out of her purse and shoved it into his hands. "Find out where that came from. I'll call you when I can."

He'd tried to protest, but his words got lost in the rush of wind at her back.

And now, making her way across the bridge, she wished she'd had time to give him more information, to tell him what the voice had said, and to work out a plan so she wouldn't be driving into whatever was waiting for her in the Rose Gardens without backup.

Playing this so-called game on her own.

Sara thought about calling Miss Willow, just to hear a comforting voice, but there was no sense in frightening her and risk giving out too much information. But the voice had only said, "Don't tell the police." Should she risk letting someone else know?

No, not yet. Who knows what they'd do to the kids if they found out.

They.

Plural. Definitely more than just the person on the phone, given the timed coordination. Which meant she was up against a group of people. She could handle one person if she got the chance. Possibly.

Sara played it out in her mind. A well-placed kick to the b.a.l.l.s, or a forehead to the bridge of a nose, pouncing on him with a knee across his Adam's Apple, all of her weight pressing down. It was feasible. But a group of people? No way. She imagined standing in a circle, surrounded. Imagined throwing a punch at the nearest person and then getting swarmed by a hive of vicious, grinning henchman.

She took the exit ramp and pa.s.sed a young woman, bouncing lightly by on a mid-morning run.

A woman.

Why did the fact that it was a woman jogging by click in her subconscious? What was the trigger, and why did it seem important?

Dave said a woman was on the line for me.